Chapter Text
Will you let me tell you a story, my dear one?
It has traveled far and wide, enough that I believe it must have reached even your deaf audials. Enough so that even I — despite how… Shall we say, scattered? I have been — have heard it repeated once or twice on my worldly ventures. And I could hardly help it — pardon my own meddling. It has just been so long since the gale reached us on our perch. I fear I cannot restrain myself from this pleasure — will you lend me your spark again for just this moment?
Let us speak on our audiences’ terms — I am sure that we are not the only ones finding ourselves bewitched. Perhaps you will find yourself charmed by the way these ephemeral lives express themselves? If not, let just my poor impression amuse you.
Shall we begin in a common fashion? Once upon a time, as my children like to say, deep within the masterless wilds of Cybertron, a newspark came online.
He painstakingly crawled his way out of the hot spot he had been forged from, right into the sparklands of the Sea of Rust. Headed simply for Hadean, his only compass — oh, how I wish you and I could have seen him on his new, little pedes, so bravely marching forward. That is how I made them to be!
Now, the Sea of Rust is not for the faint of heart, and even less for those unequipped — which, as I have to be oft reminded, does not include many. They have forged many paths around it — once, it was for not wanting to traverse it, but there are easier ways now. Something which I hadn’t anticipated: just as painstakingly as this newspark carves his path through it, I have carved every crevice in the stone.
But I digress.
He was unequipped, indeed, but not faint of heart — no, no, he was special, well and truly, unlike any other! But I am sure I must not tell you — you held him close to your spark yourself, after all. You even gave him his designation! For a moment I believed my optics deceived me — but he truly wore the choice you uttered with pride. May I say it truly suited him?
Special he was, indeed, and every one of his minutes in the perilous wilds proved it. Like calls to like, does it not? This little newspark, freshly forged and all alone, deep within the wilderness, let out a squalling wail that echoed wide through the silence, pulling the gazes of many to witness. I hear this is what newsparks are wont to do, but having never had any of my own — rather, I should amend: not any that I have personally tended to — I cannot be quite sure.
Nevertheless, like calls to like. And as this little newspark screamed, something answered.
Something other. Something more than mech. A blessing of the divine.
It made itself at home in the little newspark’s chestplates, despite the newspark being rather small for his age. It recognised him, I believe, this marker of divinity. I am not surprised, for I, too, recognised him. How could I forget, when I cradled his still protoform in my servos, once, so very long ago? You were not the only one to attend his wonder, my dear.
He spent his early cycles romping around the Wastes along with the mechanimals, more animal than mech. He killed only when hungry, sunk his — abnormally sharp, I am told, for his frame type — dentae into petrorabbits and feasted upon the spilt energon. Yet he did not waste their remains and said thanks when he was done, because they had died to sate his hunger and were deserving of respect. He knew honor and grace without ever having seen it. Is he not the most wondrous of my mesh?
The untamed sea tempered his spirits, the beauty and the viciousness of nature in equal terms, many things that the cityfolk have long forgotten and denied. Tattered and bruised from its unrelenting ruthlessness, that he was, but he was never broken. Does this story sound familiar yet? It should…
Ah, there it is, I see it in your optics. Recognition.
After all, you, my dear one, like many others, are very familiar with young Orion Pax.
His first memory is of darkness.
As quickly as it arrives, however, it disappears. Fades until he can only see it peripherally, little tendrils dissolving into the corners of his vision. He shutters his optics to disperse them.
And then — light. Blinding, brilliant. A blue so pure it registers as white, wrapping around him like an embrace. It shoots upwards, the light. Up and up and up, illuminating the darkness. When he cranes his head to see, there is a faint glow. Almost out of reach, but not quite.
There is something, some pull, deep inside him. It insists he follow the light.
He does not know anything. He does not know where he is. He does not know his designation. But he knows, with certainty, that he must follow the light. He must, he must, he must.
First, he takes stock: he sits at the bottom of a deep well. There are no exits. The only way out is up.
But he knew that already. There is an insistent tugging, like something hooked deep inside, spooling out as though intending to guide him to his freedom. It follows the light. And so, reason demands, must he.
His claws dig into the stone.
It will not be an easy climb. Yet nothing worthwhile is ever easy, is it? And he knows that the end result will be worthwhile. It has to be. He has to follow the light. He has to.
His claws dig into the stone. It hurts, the first push. The wall crumbles, but it is not weak. He has to exert a considerable amount of effort, and there is an ache that settles at the base of his wrist from the pressure. He ignores it, even though it is painful — because up he goes. Up and up and up.
Scraping against the blunt rock leaves blue trails behind, where his claws are being ground down to dull nubs. It drips from him and falls back into the darkness, which is gaping an open wound.
He dares not look back.
If he did, he would be able justify burying his head in the sand. Because he knows the darkness is a maw, waiting to swallow him up. It feeds on fear. And he has already come so far, has he not?
So — onwards he goes. Up and up and up.
He cannot stop, even if it hurts. Especially if it hurts. When more blue dribbles out of his digits, and the claw-tips are sanded down by brute force, he swallows down the taste of pain, and keeps moving.
Now, it is not the claws. He is digging into the rock with the scraped-up ends of his digits, split and shredded by the force. Keep moving. The pain will stop soon, but the curiosity will always linger. He would rather have this temporary agony, than be stuck forever thinking about what ifs.
Up and up and up.
Up and up and up.
Up and up and up.
The light gets closer…or so he thinks. He does not know how long he has been climbing, this desperate attempt at freedom, but he knows he cannot stop partway. He must see this until the end.
Up and up and up.
Up and up and up.
Up and up and up.
All he has to guide him is the light — and the feeling. Something in him yearns for the light, and what it brings with it. There is something beckoning to him, and he is helpless to answer its summons.
Up and up and up.
Up and up and up.
Up and up and up.
He breaks through the surface and collapses from exhaustion. Freedom at last! He onlines his optics, seeking information, only to be dazzled by the sheer brightness. It is different to the light in the well — that was the blue-white of a neutron star. This is the orange-gold of heat and rust.
He can taste something metallic in his intake.
He rolls over to spit it out, and it is the same blue that weeps from his digits. Sticky and cloying, mixing with the reddish shimmers of sand he lies upon. Everything hurts. Freedom, yes, but at a cost.
Still, he has survived. He climbed out of the well. The light is here, surrounding him. He can feel it, thrumming just faintly under his still-soft outer armour. He forces himself to look up at the fever-bright sky, and screams: a long, wordless cry of defiance. A tribute to his courage, and a call to action.
Somewhere, far beyond the confines of this place, it answers.
The world warps and twists and he feels it, whatever it is, slamming into his chestplates with a force that drives all the air from his vents, burrowing deep beneath his protoform, seeking closeness.
Something in him settles, then, as it clicks into place. It feels like warmth and safety.
It feels like being cradled by servos that love him.
It feels like home.
Say what you will about him, but he is a quick learner.
The world waits for none, and he is no more special than any other. If he rolls over and exposes the vulnerable protomesh of his throat, he is weak and deserving of the death that comes for him.
But he has never been one to give up so easily.
He wanders, at first. All that roams is wary of him, uncertain of what he is. He, too, is uncertain, but he hopes it does not show. Curiosity is a compelling motivator, after all.
Hunger is even more so.
The rumbling in his tanks goes unsatisfied. He feels constantly empty, resorting to nibbling at pieces of wilted fauna to sate the everpresent gnawing. His body demands to be fed, but he does not know how to appease it. Energon is necessary for survival, yes. Where does it come from? Where will he find it?
Though he is young, he is witty — yet hunger makes him stupid. It makes him desperate.
He tries the less wilted plants. Some are okay. Not filling, but just enough to line his tank. Enough to keep him going until the next day, where he tries, once more, in vain to find fuel.
Others, however, are less so. One sees him hunched over, purging his tanks, spitting out a viscous mess of energon and internal liquid. Starved as he is, there is barely any blue in the mess; just half-digested leaves. The experience is not one he cares to repeat. He decides to stick to the plants he knows.
Ultimately, hunger overrides his caution.
He trails the turbofoxes. At some point, they begin to accept him, though not without caution. He copies their movements, shifting from two pedes to four, learning the terrain the same way they do.
He watches as two of them work in tandem to bring down a lone petrorabbit. The kill is swift. His jowls ache as they devour it, leaving nothing but scraps behind. And yet, he eats those scraps all the same; licks spilt energon off of the ground. It does not fill him much, but it does something.
What a powerful motivator hunger is. His processor spins, already thinking. If he hunts, he will be able to catch prey. If he catches prey, he can eat his fill. If he eats, he will never go hungry.
And so, he must hunt.
Once more, he watches the turbofoxes. They prowl the long grass, scenting for prey. Once they have spotted their quarry, they stay low to the ground, tails flat, ears pricked. Silently, carefully, they stalk closer, muzzle level with the ground. And then, as soon as they are in range — they pounce.
A swift bite, right to the vulnerable throatcabling, and it is over.
He has seen cyberpanthers hunt, and it is nothing like this. Cyberpanthers are the undisputed apex predators, because of their size. They do not rely on cover, not when they can force submission.
He is small, like a turbofox. He must use his size to his advantage, just like they do.
And so, he practices. His memory is good. He has seen enough turbofoxes in hunt that the image appears quick, whenever he wants. Though his body is not as compact as theirs, he adjusts.
He hadn’t noticed before, but his steps generate less sound; the rubbery pads give him a naturally lighter walking pattern. Practice makes perfect, and he adapts until he can walk as silently as any predator. He matches the step of the young cyberpanthers, very near sneaking up on them too.
He gets clawed for his troubles but he proves that he can, and that is all that matters.
He practices posture and movement. Slow and steady. He uses the turbofoxes as his guide, watches how they track their prey. The way their muzzles point upwards, tasting the very air.
Scents leave markers, and they linger. It is complicated — hard to differentiate. He forces himself to learn to isolate, to pick out the subtle differences. Turbofoxes are musky and heavy. Cyberpanthers are wispy and pungent. Gyrodeer are leafy and cloying. Petrorabbits are subtle and slightly sweet.
Eventually, it becomes almost second nature to him.
He learns. Learns how to track certain scents. Learns how to scent-mingle until he becomes a part of the ecosystem. Learns the nuances — what is warning, and what is welcome. What marks danger, and what says meal. He scents the air every morning; marks his territory with lubricant and energon.
He practices. And practices. And practices.
And practices. And practices. And practices.
And practices. And practices. And practices.
And then he tries his servo at a hunt. Predictably, it fails. Quite catastrophically too. He is left with nothing but the barest scraps of energon, which he laps up from the ground. More practice is required.
He tries again. And again. And again.
The fourth time ends in failure, as do the fifth, and the sixth, and the seventh. He loses count of all his failures, but determination burns in him, and he will not stop until he succeeds, or dies from starvation.
And again. And again. And again.
And again. And again. And again.
Catch a scent. Body low to the ground, finials flicked with alertness. He does not have a tail but, if he did, it would be lashing with anticipation. Optics zeroing in on the faintest rustles in the tall grass.
Until, finally — a success!
Granted, the petrorabbit had an injured leg; it was too slow to escape once he had pounced. He got lucky. Regardless, his sharp dentae close around that delicate throat and press down with a snap.
The warm rush of energon fills his intake, and it is the most delicious thing he has ever tasted.
He bows his helm in silent gratitude. The petrorabbit had to die so he could live. He will honour that sacrifice by making sure no scraps are left behind. Waste is a foreign concept to him.
He drags his kill to his den — a scraped out rock hollow that he filled with leaves and fur scraps, pushed together in what could be generously called a nest. It is a rudimentary replication of a turbofox den, but he does not have the skill to make anything more complicated. Nevertheless, it is his; it keeps him warm when the nightly frost sets in, and the harsh breeze rarely penetrates the cover of stone. He is proud of it.
The mesh is chewy and tough when he tries to rip through it, but he perseveres. To him, it tastes of victory. Ocular lubricant drips down his face. Tonight, he will be able to recharge with a full tank.
Waste not, want not; the fur is repurposed for his nest, while the mesh and energon sate his hunger. The bones he uses to keep his dentae and claws sharp… after he scoops out all the delicacy inside, of course.
His glossa swipes at his jaws, enjoying the residual taste, digging out the pieces of mesh wedged in.
Today, he made his first kill.
Tomorrow? Hopefully, he will make his second.
Perhaps the petrorabbit has made him cocky. Or maybe it has just proven to him what, exactly, he is capable of. He is a hunter, same as the turbofoxes and cyberpanthers. He is a step up on the food chain.
Maybe the lingering scent of fresh kill clings to him, and that is why the other beasts get braver.
They do not offer him invitations — the scent of worry and suspicion wafts whenever he nears — but they accept his presence. He is akin to them: he kills only when hungry, fights only to defend his territory. They trust that he will not intrude past his boundary, and he extends them the same courtesy.
He lives and hunts, the same as them. He is only one, while they are many, so he requires less fuel. He is careful not to poach from their territory, and always pays his dues.
Once, he catches a petrorabbit on the borders of turbofox territory. He splits his kill, a show of acquiescence. A brave turbofox kit licks him, purring gratitude and joy. It warms him down to his core.
They are individual hunters, but they care for their young. It is possible that his young-scent catches their attention — they become less distrustful, as the cycles pass. He is a unique species to them. While originally unsure, he is just wild enough that they feel some sense of kinship towards him.
It is with the turbofoxes that he learns language, or something close to it. When their scents are strong enough, they give impressions of emotions like extensions of themselves. With it, he can converse.
He finds he can do the same with his own, learns how to send basic impressions: calm and respect for when he happens upon wary turbofoxes. Not-a-threat and submission when he encounters lone cyberpanthers in search of their next meal. Peace and relaxation when he sees a gyrodeer, finicky and skittish.
It is complicated, but he enjoys it. He learns balance — learns how to become one with the ecosystem, learns how to be accepted by it. Learns how to embody the beauty of the wilderness.
His home, he discovers, is called the Sea of Rust. Sea like big, expansive, full-of-things. Rust like energon, sand, slipping-through. It is larger than anything he’d ever thought possible, expanding outwards in every direction. Even if he walked in a random direction, he would never escape it — or so they say.
The collective name for the roaming fauna is mechanimals.
Mecha, for their form, mesh-and-armour, two-in-tandem. It makes sense. But ‘animal’ he does not quite get. Four-legged, less-than. What are they less than? In this grand cycle of nature, they exist.
There is no greater, no lesser. There just is.
He cuts his way through the lush, in search of his latest prey. The mechanimals have it much easier than him, on all four of their legs or with their sprawling wings. But, unlike them, he has a useful extra digit.
This part is densely-packed foliage, sheltering the budding flora from the acid rain and the rust-storms. It makes for good coverage, but makes it harder to find prey: too many scents in tandem. He’s good, but not as good as the hunters that are forged for it. There is only so much his rudimentary olfactory sensor can pick out in this mess. His finials flick as vines tickle them. They’re sensitive.
Pushing away the stems and rods impeding his path, he drags his pedes through the concoction of liquid and ground — it sticks to his soles as though it wants to swallow him. The winding roots catch on him, as though they don’t want to let him go. He forces his way onwards, through the thicket.
Rustle. Rustle. Click.
The leaves catch on something metal. He halts in his steps, crouching into the high grass and scanning his surroundings carefully. Three signs of life are hidden in the lush. Prey does not burrow like this — and prey dares not sit still like this. The rustling continues, and just before his optics, he can see black stripes wind through the greenery. No steps reach his audials, no engine whirr, no venting.
Cyberpanthers. When they are on the prowl, he knows that a big bounty is near.
He ducks lower. There is another blink of life nearby; he assumes it to be a gyrodeer by the grassy scent and the pittering, anxious steps. His finials flick, distracted by the movement.
Rustle. Rustle. Prrrrrrrr.
A little snout pokes out of the grass right in front of him — a cub! He gasps. It pads toward him slowly and lifts its olfactory into the air, taking in his scent. He shies away, then tips backwards clumsily. He rarely encounters cyberpanthers, much less cubs, and their reputation is not exactly stainless.
He thinks it might be the same for the cub; he has not seen any mechanimal that looks like himself either. It slinks towards him carefully and, at first, he tries to scuttle away, but finds himself too curious.
He lifts his servo slowly toward the mechanimal. And slowly, slowly, it inches closer, until his palm and its snout is a mere leaf-length away. Close enough that he can feel the warmth of its exvents against his hypersensitive pads. Then its audials press back and it is but a moment before nature takes its course.
The pain comes before his optics can process what is happening.
His servo is still extended toward the cub, but it disappears back where it came from in just a blink. He counts on his digits the three streaks of searing pain that center on his throat. Quick and lethal, as cyberpanthers are — leaving no sign of the perpetrator, not a single stripe in the greenery.
At the mercy of nature, he finds his situation much less pleasant; his hope for a meal dwindling. Could he ever hope to eat like them? Are some beings, perhaps, born better equipped than others?
He sinks down onto his haunches, curling up into a ball; baser coding demands it of him.
His throat cabling hurts. He tries to purr, a vocalisation, anything — but no sound emerges. Thick rivulets of energon bubble up from the wound and, try as he might, he cannot shove them back inside.
Oh, dear spark of my spark. This is quite the mess you have gotten yourself into. The voice is soothing and calm — it sounds like how he imagines the mechacondors would, regal and unfettered by the ground. He cycles his optics, but the figure does not become any clearer. Dark spots fill his vision.
Open your optics for me, dear spark, the voice croons. You cannot recharge, lest you never wake up.
He is not recharching, he wants to say. He is dying.
He knows how delicate the throat is, one of the most vulnerable parts of the body. Once cut, it cannot be mended. He has seen far too many mechanimals die this way to be able to delude himself.
You will not die.
It is not a request so much as it is a command, said by one who is far too used to having the world bend to their whims. He doesn’t want to die either, but it is already too late for him.
You will not die. Not today. Not here. A gentle touch curls against the side of his faceplate, affectionate and loving. He leans into it, feeling peaceful. White and gold fills his slowly-darkening vision. It brings to mind the comfort of the well, before he clawed his way out of it. Will he return there? He wonders.
Before his optics shutter, he swears he feels a lick upon his forehelm — like turbofoxes grooming.
You are still needed, sleek digits rest against the slash-marks on his throat. How terrible it is, to be so vulnerable. How horrible it is, to be prey. Not even the courtesy of a quick death. Rise, Orion Pax.
He awakens with a harsh exvent.
Rolling over, he gags, spitting up the internal fluid that pools in his intake. His throat cabling hurts, and he reaches up to touch it, expecting to feel deep, still-weeping gouges — but it’s…sealed?
You tried quite hard to offline, dear spark, a voice chides. But it was not your time, as I said.
He shutters his optics up at the figure: tall, lithe, coloured in shades of white and gold. Shiny. Beautiful. They stand out in the dull foliage; easily spotted by predators. Even his paint is chipped now, more grey than the blue and red he was forged with. It helps him blend in and makes him a better hunter.
Common sense tells him he should be feeling anxious, so close to an unfamiliar form. He has no way of knowing if they are a threat. His finials press back and he whines, submission and don’t-hurt-me.
Nothing like that, a swift digit presses against his olfactory, startling him. I don’t intend you harm.
For some reason, he believes them. Deep inside his core, he can sense a connection, a longing desire to be held in the servos of this newcomer. Perhaps the desire makes him foolish. Or maybe it is just instinct.
If he had to describe it, he would liken it to a pack bond — he sees it often, in the wilds. The skulks of turbofoxes, the herds of gyrodeer, and the warrens of petrorabbits. The mate-bonds, and that of creator-and-youngling. As…unique as he is, though, he has never been bonded to pack.
It is a lonely life that he lives. No one to share prey with, no one to groom. No one to understand. He tries not to let it bother him, but it is hard when he returns to his solitary nest at the end of each cycle.
Yet he feels safe in the presence of this newcomer. He feels…loved.
Of course I love you. Don’t be silly. My dear Orion, they say, so decadently affectionate that he feels almost embarrassed to be the one hearing it. Does he really deserve this? All of this care, is it for him to take? You were made of me and mine. Now, why don’t you lead me to your nest?
Caution escapes him. His nest is something he is proud of, and he cannot wait to show it to the newcomer! They will see what a good hunter he is, and they will decide that he is worthy of being pack!
An indulgent chuckle can be heard. I am excited to see what you have to share with me, dear spark.
The newcomer does not have a designation — at least, not one that he can pronounce. But they watch over him all the same. And so, taking cues from the cyberpanther younglings, he decides: Caretaker.
For some reason, Caretaker understands him beyond what is limited by his lack of speech. He has never needed to talk the way they do; he uses vocalisations, like all the other mechanimals in the Sea. He purrs to signify contentment, hisses to showcase displeasure, and snarls when threatened.
He speaks with his scent, does not bother trying to form glyphs on his clumsy glossa. They tease him for his mannerisms, but do not try to force him. They always know what he is trying to communicate.
Caretaker calls him Orion Pax. It is his designation, Caretaker says.
The glyphs are loaded with sub-glyphs, and he’s not quite sure how he knows that, but he does. This is a language he is unfamiliar with; it is what Caretaker — perhaps the only one of their kind — uses.
Orion, like set-of-stars, hunter. Hearing it fills him with pride, because it means that Caretaker believes he is strong, and a good hunter, and worthy of being pack!
Pax, like equilibrium, balance-for-all. He can be rather distractible, but even he has realised there is a gravity to it. It is rare that both are said in tandem but, when they are, Caretaker’s voice goes deep, as though they are making a proclamation. It means something to them — something more.
They do not explain. Maybe he is just too foolish to understand.
As far as Orion knows, life is the Sea.
It is the deadly and mercurial weather patterns — clear and calm skies one moment, a shower of acid rain the next. It is the lush and thriving plant life, some safe for consumption and others offering a slow death by poison. It is the protective and territorial predators, who roam in search of their next meal.
Orion is a better hunter, a better fighter. He will not be prey.
You are growing into a fine young mech, dear spark of my spark, says Caretaker. Orion’s finials prick — Caretaker uses such strange glyphs sometimes, loaded with subglyphs that his developing processor cannot hope to interpret just yet. But the tone? The tone is easy enough to understand.
Caretaker is feeling affectionate.
Orion purrs throatily, the way the cyberpanthers do with their young, unfurling his EM field, emitting care and gratitude and happiness so that Caretaker knows that he loves them.
No, dear spark, Caretaker chides. Try again. Like we practiced.
Glyphs are hard. Orion grumbles, feeling snuffed. There is no one here to converse with! The other beasts speak the same way he does — by marking minute shifts in the frame. Audials pinned backwards means threat or fear. Tails lashing means anticipation. A bent spinal strut means submission. Simple, and instinctive, the language of the Sea. This? This is completely nonsensical!
Caretaker is still watching as Orion snorts and snarls, gesturing rapidly at the empty air. His claw-tipped digits rake across the muzzles of imaginary enemies, as though he could fight the concept of language.
There is amusement in their expression, indulgence at its finest. Still, they wait.
“Th… Thaa-aaan kyuuuu…” He tries, a facsimile of speech; maneuvering his glossa around the sharp jut of his dentae is hard. Until now, the only use it saw was lapping energon from the wounds of his bounty and himself. As soon as the glyphs leave him, he wrinkles his olfactory and shakes his helm in disgust.
Very good, Caretaker praises. You’ve gotten much better.
Pride fills Orion. He is the best! Ignoring Caretaker’s chuckles, he rolls over onto his back, finials flicking excitedly, enjoying the warmth of Hadean on his metalmesh.
He is also strange, a creature not meant for the Sea. There are none like him. Once, he saw his reflection in a shiny piece of discarded metal: his features are smooth and sculpted, so unlike the defined harshness of the turbofoxes that he hunts alongside. Is this cause for his separation? His difference in appearance?
The thought never concerned him all too much — his servos and dentae serve their purpose well enough — until he saw Caretaker, and that made him wonder. Their dentae are sharp, but not stained; their claws are too, but not the slightest bit chipped. They look like him, but…different. Shinier.
The other mechanimals have accepted him as one of their own; they believe he is a beast. Caretaker disagrees, but Caretaker is always gone before nightfall, which is when the distinction truly matters.
At the end of their visits, Orion is always left in the greenery, staring at their departing back until the leaves swallow their form whole. Alone. It’s dangerous so far out in the Sea, where he cannot protect what is his. He often wonders where they are going, but they never tell.
Perhaps someone as grand as the Caretaker had no need for a pack like him. He tried to track them, once. It led nowhere. He was left alone in the sands, far away from his nest and cold down to his struts.
Orion extends his clawed servos above his helm where he lies, feeling the rays of the heat-wamrth sift between the gaps in his digits. It warms his palms like the lapping tongues of the affectionate turbofoxes — a gentle goodbye before the night’s cold would make home in his joints.
Next to Hadean, Caretaker’s figure rises into view. They peer down at him with those unreadable optics, casting a crescent of shadow over him with their cape like the night. Laying at the equinox of the day and the night, Orion cannot help but wonder. Why, he thinks. Why do you keep returning to me?
The only picture in which he can conjure is the starving scavenger mechanimals picking at the fresh dirt under which he had buried his bounty. He, too, had sometimes given them designations in his thoughts.
Caretaker’s helm suddenly snaps up, and he can see the tense ridges underneath it. Orion follows their gaze into the lush green, but there is nothing there, not even a rustle. When he looks at them again in question, they are back to watching him with boundless affection. Oh, t’is nothing but the gale, they say.
A wave of comfort washes over him, and all his struts lose their tension again. Under their watchful optics, under the protection of their mantle, his systems slowly begin to wind down.
His shutters begin to descend, blurring the lines between the light and the dark. In the shadow, their two gentle and blue optics, and in the light of Hadean: they prance in repetitive, hypnotising circles, until all three of them slowly melt into a comforting minty color.
It is like the well took him back into its embrace — that consoling, ethereal dream where warm, loving servos smoothed down his faceplates and along his scarred throat, before it made a home for itself in the overcrowded cavity of his chest. It creates additional space there, and suddenly all the pressure from it dissipates into his dream, then down his pauldrons, then to his fingertips.
It is not his usual type of recharge flux — it makes him wonder if this is the fate that awaits his prey when he catches them. And he would be happy if it were. Would Caretaker bury him now?
Before the light fades completely, he can see the blue fade from the ring of colors — leaving only one yellow spot where Hadean was. He is so tired. Hadean’s warmth lulls him into a dreamless recharge, the kindest he has ever had. It prickles his plating, and he imagines that that would be the feeling of the sand on the beach pouring over him.
Orion had not gone to recharge with the expectation of awakening.
Instead of the sand weighing down on him, the frost has burrowed itself into every joint and seam in his plating. His torso remains warm, courtesy of that strange affliction in his chest, but the tips of his digits have frosted over and will not budge on his first attempt. The waves of the Sea had swept such a cold onto the shore — he could feel every ebb and flood of the breeze brushing over his frame.
When the first of his digits bend, he regains feeling in his shutters also. The lonely night sky utters its greetings in a blanket of twinkles. It is not complete, however, for he had thought that one of his optics was not working quite right, and blinked again and again to get it back to proper functioning.
When his vision cleared from all of his disbelieving shuttering, he saw that two of those sparkles hovering by his side were not stars, but blue optics. “Keir… tak-uhhh…?” He rasps.
It is not Caretaker’s soothing voice that responds. The new figure kneels over him, obscuring the entrance of his den from his view. They exude that same air as Caretaker, one that projects strength and reliability — but the smell of dust skirts his olfactory sensor. The newcomer is aseptic, like a wound that has been licked clean. That should be cause for alarm; new things are rarely trustworthy.
And yet, for some inexplicable reason, Orion knows he need not howl for his pack, feeling oddly safe in the stranger’s shadow. The same feeling he gets from Caretaker’s loving touch.
“At last,” The voice says, deep and grand. “I found you.”