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Maccadam’s Old Oil House is unusually active this early into the cycle. The sun has yet to climb far above the horizon, but even so, the establishment tucked away in the heart of Iacon is already in full service.
Mornings are usually busy for medical bots like Ratchet, especially now, with his final examinations fast approaching. While he is still nothing more than a student working toward the permit that will finally allow him to practice as a medical professional here in Iacon, Ratchet has always allowed himself to dream bigger than his caste would permit. Beyond being merely a nurse or surgeon bot.
Truthfully, he isn't even sure what he wants from his life. Not entirely. Yet he clings to those quiet dreams hidden deep within his processors, feeding his determination with them one cycle at a time. Not that he would ever dare voice them aloud.
Not until he met him, at least.
Their first meeting was... less ceremonious than either of them would care to admit. Even so, the memory never fails to bring a fond smile to Ratchet's derma whenever it resurfaces.
Ironically enough, it was here, in Maccadam’s Old Oil House, that he first met the red-and-blue bot.
Orion Pax.
A soft-spoken archivist with a bright smile and optimism that seemed almost infectious.
If someone were to ask Ratchet whether he believed in love at first sight, he would wave them off with a scoff, dismissing the very notion as sentimental nonsense.
But if he were truly honest with himself...
The way his spark had fluttered as he helped Orion Pax up from the floor, steadying the taller bot before guiding him outside into the cool night air.
The way Orion had stumbled the entire way, barely able to keep himself upright on his pedes, while the laughter of his friends echoed from inside Maccadam’s, just as unsteady as the archivist himself.
The way Ratchet’s processor seemed to hang as they finally sat down, his digits brushing against the archivist's back while he rubbed slow, soothing circles between his shoulder pauldrons.
The way Orion, seemingly unbothered by the comfort of a complete stranger, simply leaned into him, whining about "never touching high-grade again" while cursing some-bot designated "Jazz" for convincing him to try it in the first place.
The way Ratchet's faceplate had warmed, baby blue dusting beneath his optics as those bright blue optics met his own aqua ones.
And the way a small, shaky smile had found its way onto the archivist's derma as he thanked him so quietly, his words still slurred through the haze of high-grade.
'Th-Thank you, friend... My designation is Orion Pax... I-'
Ratchet chooses to forget the rest of that conversation, seeing as Pax had purged his fuel tanks all over the steps outside Maccadam’s not even a klik later. It makes the memory just a little less romantic.
Still...
That was the cycle Ratchet fell for the archivist.
Fully. Entirely. And with all of his spark.
So naturally, all it took for Ratchet to drop the datapad he had been using to rehearse his coursework in his habsuite and speed all the way down to the Oil House was for Jazz to mention that :: ...Pax's here too ;) ::
A little pathetic? Yes.
But Ratchet couldn't be bothered to care.
It had been stellar cycles since he and Orion had become friends after their fateful first meeting. Over time, Ratchet-more of a loner by nature- had slowly found himself integrated into Orion's little friend group.
It had taken no small amount of encouragement from the archivist, but there was something about Orion's natural charisma and relentless enthusiasm to include the medical bot in everything he did that eventually wore Ratchet down. Beforelong, the ambulance had become a cornerstone of the little ragtag group of bots.
Orion Pax, the archivist.
Jazz, the cultural investigator.
Prowl, the police cadet.
Ironhide the engineer.
And Ratchet the medical student.
It was always the five of them. And, as far as Ratchet was concerned, it always would be. He liked it that way. A nice, even friend group.
Until it all started to change.
Ratchet isn't entirely sure when it began to shift. When Orion stopped talking about the endless stream of data files he had to sort through, file, and archive. The little nothings. Information. Stories. Myths.
For the Pit's sake- that one time Orion had spent groons rambling about the construction history of space bridges because he had stumbled across a particularly interesting archive file earlier that cycle.
Not all of them had listened with quite as much enthusiasm as Ratchet had. (Granted, the medical bot had been far more enamored with the way Orion's optics seemed to sparkle, and the way he gestured so wildly with his servos whenever he got excited, than with the actual words leaving his derma...)
Still.
The four of them would have gladly listened to Orion ramble on about ancient infrastructure for another dozen cycles if it meant they didn't have to hear about this new fascination he had thrown himself knee-joint deep into instead.
"-Can you believe it? Megatronus had never even been to Iacon! He told me that's the very first thing he wants to do once he finally has the time- to come visit! He's such a busy bot... which is a little ironic, considering he doesn't really work within his caste anymore…- But Megatronus has always dreamed big, and-"
Megatronus this.
Megatronus that.
Megatronus. Megatronus. Megatronus.
Ratchet swears to Primus himself that if he hears that cursed designation one more time, he is going to throw himself straight out the window to his left.
It's all Orion talks about anymore.
That...Megatronus. Kaon. Gladiator fights.
And those fascinating conversations he keeps having with the ex-miner about changing Cybertron for the better.
Ratchet misses hearing about ancient data files. About forgotten myths of the 13 Primes, obscure construction records, and whatever strange little fact Orion had unearthed that cycle.
Instead, every conversation somehow circles back to Megatronus.
Every. Single. Fragging. Time.
Orion used to talk about freedom. About a united Cybertron without castes. About dreaming big- with Ratchet. With his friends.
And now? Now all that's on the archivist's processor is that cursed gladiator.
Ratchet is not jealous. Of course he is not.
Because that would be pathetic.
This isn't about another bot occupying Orion's processor. It's about the influence Megatronus has over him. About how that brute drags Orion down to Kaon, down into the Pits, has him lingering around criminals, and fills his processor with stories of glory and dangerously anarchistic ideals. (Ratchet had heard one of his speeches before when Orion proudly shared them on a data-pad he snuck out of the archives...)
Truly, this Megatronus has Orion wrapped around his clawed digit.
And Ratchet hates it.
Usually, he's better at masking his frustration. But this cycle, Ratchet fears he hasn't done his best job judging by the way Jazz, sitting across from him, is giggling into his servo.
Before Ratchet can even muster a glare in response, Jazz leans back in his seat and rolls his helm to the side, a playful smirk tugging at his derma as he looks over at Orion.
"Come visit? Oh, mech- I better get my paint job redone if I'm going to meet the Megatronus. Slayer of Mini-Cons and governments, diminisher of castes... and future conjunx of Orion Pax himself!"
Orion, the tallest of the three gathered around their regular booth this cycle, perks up in horror.
His cute little audial finials- at least, that's how Ratchet has always thought of them- pin flat against his helm as the archivist suddenly seems to shrink into himself, sliding lower into his seat.
His handsome silver faceplate blooms into a lovely shade of soft blue as he does his very best to hide behind his hunched shoulder pauldrons.
"J-Jazz...! Come on, that's not funny. We're-we're not close like that...!"
Orion mumbles, his lovely blue optics darting anywhere but toward either Ratchet or Jazz before settling on the view outside the window, stubbornly fixating on anything that might spare him from having to meet their gazes.
Maybe it's for the better.
This way, Orion won't have to bear witness to a glare fierce enough to send Unicron himself running the other way- a glare currently trained on the cultural investigator seated to the archivist's left, who is laughing heartily at both the death glare he's under and the reaction his teasing managed to coax out of Orion.
Jazz's shoulder pauldrons bounce up and down as he clutches one servo around his abdomen, the other wiping away an invisible tear from his visor. Then he glances over at Ratchet with a knowing smirk.
Ratchet's grip on the edge of their booth's table has grown so tight that the metal dents beneath his digits, his optics widening just a fraction as though he could kill Jazz through the sheer force of his glare alone.
Jazz tilts his helm ever so slightly, pursing his derma as the smirk curling around its edges gives him an almost cyber-cat-like look. Ratchet doesn't need to see beneath the tinted visor to know there's an amused optical ridge raised underneath.
He turns back to Orion and nudges the archivist's shoulder pauldron with his elbow-joint.
"I'm just joking, Pax. But you can't exactly blame me for it- the way you keep singing his praises, this Megatronus better be some kind of reincarnation of a Prime. Pits…! Or even Primus himself!"
Ratchet grunts and finally releases the poor table, resting his helm against one servo as he glances over at Orion.
The archivist, although still visibly flustered, relaxes just a little. Almost absentmindedly, he mirrors Ratchet's posture, his optics hazy, almost glazed over as they remain fixed on the view beyond the window, searching for... something.
A soft smile finds its way onto his derma as he lets out a quiet ex-vent.
"He's... amazing."
The word is so soft Ratchet almost misses it.
"I have nothing but admiration and respect for him." Orion says it wistfully.
And Ratchet suddenly feels sick to his tanks.
Orion finally turns back to them, first glancing at Jazz before his optics settle on Ratchet. His smile seems to warm ever so slightly as he looks at the medical bot.
Or maybe Ratchet just imagines it. A form of self-soothing. Or plain delusion, as Jazz would so delicately put it.
The archivist's audial finials perk back up as he finally offers the two of them a closed-optic smile. "I really think the future of Cybertron is in good servos with him."
And as much as Ratchet hates doubting Orion, he has trouble believing that. But he does not have the spark to tell him that, at least right now. Not when the archivist looks at him like that.
Ratchet lets out a quiet ex-vent of defeat before returning the smile, albeit a much smaller one, edged with the lingering remnants of not-jealousy and melancholy.
"...I just hope he doesn't get you into trouble."
His aqua optics drift away for only a moment before meeting Orion's once more.
"Kaon is dangerous. The Pits are dangerous."
Megatronus is dangerous, Ratchet thinks to himself. He pauses briefly, his faceplate warming beneath his optics as he closes them for a klik, carefully weighing his next words.
"I-... We worry about you, Orion."
Ratchet’s spark nearly jumps out of his chassis as he feels a servo slide across the metal table to rest over his own, giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze.
His vent hitches, optics flickering as they snap down to the silver-and-blue servo covering his.
For a moment, everything stops.
Then his gaze follows the arm upward- along the powerful red-and-blue chassis- up to that familiar, handsome faceplate. Orion smiles softly at Ratchet and tilts his helm slightly, audial finials twitching upward.
And Ratchet swears he might just offline from his processor overheating at the sight.
“There is no need to worry for me, dear friend. I truly believe Megatronus’ cause is good- good for all of us.”
Orion begins, his voice soft, his derma curling ever so slightly as his beautiful optics seem to catch the light. He gives Ratchet’s servo another gentle squeeze.
“Don’t you have dreams beyond your caste, Ratchet? Something beyond your reach?”
Ratchet’s aqua optics flicker. His faceplate feels like it’s about to catch fire from the heat building beneath it, and at this point he could swear it’s shifted to a deep shade of blue instead of its usual white, all energon flooding beneath the surface. The little antennae mounted on his back twitch, curling into a shape dangerously close to a heart.
But he doesn’t care about how ridiculous he must look right now.
Not when Orion speaks to him so gently.
Not when the room seems to fade away, leaving only the two of them.
Ratchet squeezes his servo back and opens his derma, his chassis expanding as he draws a steady vent.
Yes. He will say it. You are that something, Orion Pax.
Or Ratchet would have, if not for that primus-damned Megatronus somehow managing to invade yet another conversation between himself and Orion.
That warm servo slips away from Ratchet’s as Orion moves to tap his twitching audial finial, answering an incoming comm-message. The soft smile he’d been giving Ratchet just kliks earlier now grows wider as the archivist realizes who is trying to reach him.
“Oh Megatr- oh, oh, what am I up to? I was just enjoying a morning energon cube with my friends, you know, the ones I- oh what? No, no, no, don’t worry, you’re never a bother.”
Ratchet would argue otherwise, but his frown fades as Orion’s gaze flickers back to him, offering an apologetic smile as he gestures faintly toward his finial, mouthing the word ‘Megatronus’.
As if it wasn’t already obvious who Orion is speaking to, given how he keeps getting cut off mid-sentence- or how his faceplate is turning blue all over again.
Orion averts his optics once more, optical ridges furrowing slightly as he nods along to whatever his idol is rambling about on the other end of the comm-link.
“Oh-no, of course. I can be there in a few breems, no problem. I’ll be there shortly.” Orion stands up then and scoots his way out of the booth.
He stumbles slightly as he manages to squeeze his larger frame into the hallway, already halfway out of Maccadam’s before he turns again. He offers Ratchet a small wave, along with one of his blinding smiles, before resuming his way out, rambling to Megatronus the entire time.
Ratchet’s aqua optics follow the red-and-blue mech as he rushes out of Maccadam’s and into the street, nearly walking straight through a red traffic light in his hurry to disappear from sight.
A heavy, wistful ex-vent leaves the medical bot’s derma as he retracts the servo that had unconsciously been reaching after Orion. It curls into a fist against his chassis, just above his spark chamber.
His faceplate is still faintly tinted blue as he stares down at that servo- the one Orion had held just kliks earlier. How gently it had been cradled. How much warmer and larger Orion’s servo had been compared to his own. How soft his voice had been. How bright those beautiful blue optics-
“You are so pathetic, Ratch.”
Oh.
Right.
Ratchet’s helm snaps up sharply.
Across from him, Jazz is still sitting there, having apparently been in stunned silence this entire time. Or maybe he had just busied himself with an order of rust-sticks Ratchet has no clue where he got them from.
Jazz brings another rust-stick up to his derma and bites down, crunching through it with obvious enthusiasm. Between bites- table manners apparently long abandoned in favor of humiliating Ratchet just a little more- he speaks up again.
“No offense, though.”
Ratchet drops his servo and leans back into his seat, crossing both arms over his chassis as he turns his glare toward the window with a scoff.
“Gee, thanks,” he grumbles sarcastically, aqua optics flickering with equal parts embarrassment and annoyance, his faceplate deepening a shade darker blue.
Jazz helps himself to another appetizer and points it at Ratchet, his helm tilting slightly as he tries to emphasize his indistinct raised optical ridge before popping the entire thing into his intake.
“I’m just sayin’. You could’ve asked Pax out stellar cycles ago, but instead you’re sitting around, twiddling your digits, just waiting for someone to sweep him off his pedes right in front of you,” Jazz mumbles around half-chewed rust-sticks.
The cultural investigator leans forward and nudges the snacks across the table toward Ratchet, wordlessly offering his friend a chance to share- and maybe snack his woes away.
Ratchet doesn’t fully turn back, but his optics flicker over to Jazz, then down to the rust-sticks, and back up again.
With a heavy ex-vent, he finally yields and sinks deeper into the cushioned booth seating.
He reaches out and pulls one rust-stick from the basket, staring at it for a moment before his gaze turns sour, as though it had personally seduced Orion itself before he pops it into his intake, angrily chewing on it.
Jazz shoves another one into his intake, resting his helm in one servo. His audial finials twitch backward as he frowns at Ratchet- an expression caught somewhere between pity and frustration.
“You know… as much as I pity your sorry aft-”
He takes a bite loud enough to make it impossible for Ratchet to interrupt.
“…no one is to blame for your predicament but yourself. You waited, and waited, and waited, and now you’re sitting here, kicking your pedes in jealousy like a sparkling over a scenario you could’ve prevented by just telling him.”
Ratchet's optical ridges furrow as he glares at his friend across the table. But the glare lacks the vigor and anger from before. It's tired and defeated.
And one Jazz is very far from taking seriously.
Not that Jazz has ever taken me seriously, the medical bot thinks bitterly.
Ratchet grumbles, his shoulder pauldrons slumping as he finally averts his aqua optics. His expression isn't unlike that of a pouting sparkling.
"Okay, first off..." He points the rust-stick accusingly at Jazz. "I'm not jealous."
Jazz rolls his helm to the side, his derma pursing as he silently- but very loudly- expresses his doubt. Ratchet's glare sharpens for just a klik before he takes another bite of the appetizer, his optics never leaving the other bot.
“And secondly... even if I was- which I’m not by the way- and even if I did tell him- what good would it do?”
“Oh, mech, Ratch. I don't know…- maybe stop this hopeless pining I have to witness every time you and Orion are in the same room?”
For the first time since the conversation began, Jazz's voice dips into something bordering on genuine annoyance.
He throws both servos into the air before gesturing emphatically toward Ratchet.
“Come on, Ratch. I may have a visor on but I’m not blind.”
The medical bot immediately averts his gaze, suddenly finding the basket of rust-sticks far more interesting than the black and white bot sitting across from him. His faceplate warms another shade of blue at Jazz's painfully blunt-and very public- exposure of his feelings for the archivist.
Ratchet ex-vents and leans forward, one servo reaching out to pull his abandoned cube of morning energon a little closer. He traces the rim absentmindedly with a digit before resting his helm in his other servo in quiet defeat.
He knows Jazz is right.
Not that he would ever utter those words out loud. There is no need to inflate an ego that large any further and give him that satisfaction. Especially when both he and Jazz already know who is right.
Ratchet's expression sours as he stares into the bright blue liquid.
It reminds him of Orion's optics. The thought is as bitter as it is wistful.
“What point is there in discussing it now...? Even if I told him, I could never compete with someone like... him.”
Ratchet can't even bring himself to take that designation upon his glossa. The mere thought of giving voice to Orion's feelings for the gladiator makes him sick to his tanks.
“I don't want to burden him with my feelings. He's got far more on his plate than worrying about how to reject me without hurting my pride too much.”
Ratchet lets out a quiet, defeated ex-vent. “He's just... a good mech like that…frag it all.”
The silence that follows is somehow more offensive than it is worrying.
Usually, whenever he and Jazz have this conversation, the other bot tries- key word: tries- to cheer him up. That's just in his nature.
Words of encouragement and maybe a little joke usually followed by a, ‘What's the worst that could happen?’ or ‘Just tell him! I'm sure he'll say yes. You know Pax! He’s a big ol’ softie!’
But now...It's just quiet.
Ratchet finally tears his gaze away from his cube of energon and looks up at Jazz.
The other mech still has his helm propped up in one servo, staring back at Ratchet with the same expression someone might wear after watching a bot slam their servo in a closing doorway.
He's cringing.
Very openly so.
Jazz sucks in a long, exaggerated vent through his denta before flopping back against the booth's backrest, both servos thrown dramatically into the air.
“Now that's pathetic, Ratch.”
Ratchet lets his helm fall into both servos with a defeated groan, burying his faceplate in his palms as the last of his resolve to argue with his friend finally gives out.
“…I know.”
“So let me get this straight.”
Prowl's sharp gaze flickers between Ratchet and Jazz, the two bots sitting across from him in their usual booth at Maccadam's.
It has been a while since the police cadet last found himself at the Oil House. Training to become one of Iacon's finest detectives and law enforcers doesn't come without sacrificing shared drinks with friends in favor of double shifts and overtime.
Not everyone-
Prowl's azure optics slide toward the bot lounging across from him, sprawled comfortably against the booth as though he didn't have a care in the world, in a posture far too relaxed for the gravity of the conversation at hand.
-has the liberty of lazying about on shift, getting paid good shanix to take joyrides to Six Lasers or bother Orion at his own job, all under the guise of ‘cultural investigation.’
If Prowl didn't know any better, he'd swear Jazz had somehow managed to convince the Council that ‘harassing archivists’ constituted legitimate fieldwork.
Prowl crosses his arms over his chassis, the silver badge fixed to it catching the low evening light spilling in through the window.
“You two knew Orion Pax was breaking the law by going down to Kaon, frequenting the Pits, and now buddying up with gladiators for the better part of an orbital cycle...”
His azure optics narrow. “…and neither of you thought that might be worth mentioning to me?”
Ratchet's optical ridges furrow as he bites the inside of his intake, fighting against the weight of the words he's about to say.
“Not just any gladiators...” he bitterly mutters under his vent, almost spitting the words out. “...I told him it was a bad idea…told him it was dangerous...but he just wouldn't listen.”
He hesitates, his gaze dropping to the table.
“I... I didn't have it in my spark to tell him just how stupid I really thought it was.”
Prowl raises one servo, cutting Ratchet off before the medical bot can continue. With the other, he rubs the bridge between his optics and lets out a long, weary ex-vent.
“No offense, Ratchet, but you having a soft spot for Orion Pax is hardly breaking news.”
The words come out with almost pitying matter-of-factness, but the tone doesn't last.
Prowl's optics snap toward Jazz. He flicks his servo in other’s direction with considerably more vigor.
“But you.”
Jazz's helm snaps up in surprise, almost looking offended that he'd been addressed so curtly. He opens his intake to protest, but Prowl cuts him off before he can get a word in.
“You, of all bots, should know how dangerous Kaon is. How dangerous the Pits are. Gladiatorial fights.” His voice sharpens with every sentence. “What in Primus' sake is he even doing down there? Have none of you bothered to ask him?!”
“Oh-kaaaay. Calm your processor, boss-bot.”
Jazz cuts him off, holding up both servos in a mock surrender while flashing Prowl the most disarming smile he can muster.
One Prowl absolutely despises.
Mostly because of how shamelessly mocking it is…and partly because, under the right circumstances it actually works. Just not this time.
Jazz continues, choosing to ignore Prowl's gritted denta and narrowed optics as he gestures first to Ratchet, then to himself.
“What kind of friends do you take us for? Of course we asked Pax. Well... not really. He told us pretty much out of the gate.”
He tilts his helm, pouting ever so slightly as he crosses his arms over his chassis, like a sparkling would.
“And what do you mean, me of all bots? You're acting as if I've been to the Pits.”
Prowl simply squints but says nothing.
Instead, he waits for Jazz's feigned confidence over his very obvious lie to crack beneath the weight of the stern bot’s trained stare.
It's a tactic that has served Prowl remarkably well. Under almost every circumstance.
Ratchet is the one to break the tension between the police cadet and cultural investigator, turning toward Jazz with a glare of his own as he points an accusatory digit at the bot sitting beside him. The medical bot's optics flicker faintly with poorly concealed irritation.
It's something Prowl had picked up on fairly early into their friendship.
Ratchet, try as he might, is remarkably easy to read. Far easier than most bots Prowl has ever met.
The twitch of the little antennae mounted on-top the medical pack on his back-plate. The way his digits fidget whenever he's deep in thought. The subtle flicker of his optics whenever his emotions threaten to overflow.
All telltale signs.
Signs that, if Prowl is judging the situation correctly...They're properly fragged.
“Oh, puh-lease, Jazz. As if it wasn't you who encouraged Orion to reach out to that... that brute. You were the first out of all of us to know, and you still encouraged Orion to reach out to Megatronus.”
Ratchet jabs an accusatory digit square into Jazz's chassis, his expression tightening as he gives the plating another emphatic tap to drive his point home. Jazz opens his intake to retort back but Ratchet is quick to shut him down once more.
“Eyip yip yip-! And on top of that, you were the one who snuck him down to Kaon in the first place!”
His voice finally loses its bite as he sinks back into the booth with a defeated ex-vent.
“...You know how gullible Orion can be. How idealistic... and hopelessly optimistic he is.” Ratchet shakes his helm, letting it fall into both servos, elbows resting against the cold metal table. “Him coming across that fanatic maniac was the worst thing that could've happened to him...”
Beside him, Jazz shoots Ratchet a half-hearted glare before looking down at his own chassis, inspecting the spot where Ratchet had been poking at him to make sure the plating hadn't been scratched.
Only then does he throw both servos up in surrender once more.
“Hey, mech, I was just trying to be a supportive friend. Just because you're jealous-”
“I told you I'm not jealous!”
Prowl finally cuts in, slamming both servos, palms flat, onto the metal table.
The sharp clang echoes through the entire Oil House, instantly silencing both Ratchet and Jazz, as well as the next three booths behind them.
The police cadet's azure gaze flickers between the two before sharpening as it settles squarely on Ratchet.
“Hold on just one klik...”
He pauses, drawing in a slow, measured vent.
“So you two are telling me Orion Pax is currently hooking up with THE Megatronus from Kaon?”
Prowl has to physically stop himself from saying anything further. His shoulder pauldrons tremble with barely restrained frustration, the door winglets along his back quivering in agitation.
“THE Megatronus from Kaon who's currently trying to start an anarchistic revolution and overthrow our High Council?”
Another vent.
“THE Megatronus whose brainless followers destroyed Six Lasers by having thirty-six mini-cons suicide bombing themselves right underneath the Plasma Curve?!”
A beat of silence.
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
Prowl lets himself fall back into his seat with a defeated ex-vent, staring at his friends across from him in disbelief. He then leans forward and covers his faceplate with both servos.
The police cadet’s azure optics flicker in irritation from between his digits, searching- hoping, even- praying to Primus that this is some kind of elaborate, badly executed joke.
But the punchline never comes.
Jazz finally breaks the silence, offering Prowl another attempt at one of his disarming smiles.
If it didn't work before, it most certainly doesn't now.
“Listen, I know it sounds real bad when you put it like that...”
Ratchet cuts in immediately, shooting Jazz a glare from the side, his antenna flicking almost like it’s wagging in irritation.
“Because it is, Jazz!”
Jazz flinches at the sheer volume of Ratchet’s words, his audial finials twitching downward as he scoots away from the medical bot. He rubs at one finial with a crunched-up, pained expression.
His free servo comes up in a placating gesture toward the white-and-orange bot beside him.
“Hey, hey- in their defense, Pax had told me that the cons weren’t connected to Megatronus! They did it in protest to the caste regulation on the park. Everyone just associates it with Megatronus!”
“Oh yeah, wonderful, Jazz. He didn’t orchestrate it, but enough bots got inspired to start violent protests in his designation because of his extremist tirades. That’s obviously so much better.”
Jazz scratches the back of his helm as he ponders for a moment before glancing over at Prowl for help.
Prowl stares right back, the lower half of his face still covered by one servo, optical ridges scrunched in deep thought over how to fix their situation.
Or, alternatively, how to permanently shut his best friend up and make it look like an accident.
He is still considering both options.
Jazz then finally seems to land on his next argument. He straightens slightly and sends both Ratchet and Prowl an encouraging smile.
It wavers- shaky at best- but given the circumstances, it’s the best he can muster to drive his point home.
“Listen, listen, listen! What I mean is- we should give ol’ Pax a bit more credit. The mech’s smart, Pits, probably smarter than the three of us combined.”
Prowl bites back a comment at that, but continues to listen, his posture along with Ratchet’s easing slightly at the hopeful tone in Jazz’s voice.
“I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before Pax figures out what’s really going on with Megatronus. I’m sure he’s already catching on as we speak.”
Silence.
A few kliks pass.
Jazz looks between Ratchet and Prowl, his smile slowly fading as he registers the lack of agreement- scratch that, the lack of any reaction at all.
Then Prowl lets his entire frame sink forward onto the table in a completely undignified collapse, so unlike the usually composed police cadet.
A long groan echoes into the booth.
“We are so fragged.”
It is a beautiful night, Ratchet thinks.
Here they are, standing in front of the High Council building in the heart of Iacon. It is truly a sight to behold- towering over the city, the tallest structure in this sector of Cybertron. Statues of the Thirteen Primes line the long approach, while streams of glowing energon illuminate the path like the veins of Primus himself through the dark.
The entire scene feels almost mythical beneath the star-strewn Cybertronian sky and the lustrous glow of the twin moons orbiting their home planet.
Despite it being already very late in the cycle, the approach is filled with bots of all castes making their way toward the High Council Building.
Tonight is the night.
It had taken many cycles, many conversations, and the intervention of Alpha Trion himself- the lead archivist of the Hall of Records- to make this evening happen.
Tonight, Orion Pax of Iacon and Megatron of Kaon would speak before the Council.
The goal: to clear Megatron’s designation and appeal to Cybertron’s highest leaders for change in Cybertronian society.
Much had already happened. One of the most significant events being the disappearance of Sentinel Prime following an attack on the Altihex Casino- carried out in the designation of Megatron’s Decepticons even if the latter still refuses accountability for it.
And through it all, all the horrific things that happened in Megatron’s designation, the violence and the energon spill, Orion had remained at the former gladiator’s side. Foolishly believing in the purity and genuinity of his intentions.
Ratchet sighs as he side-glances at the archivist walking beside him.
Jazz, Prowl, and Ironhide follow behind them, engaged in idle conversation. Well- mostly Jazz and Ironhide, who are busy commenting on how ridiculous the statues look from their angle, followed by the faint clank of a servo hitting metal and Jazz yelping in pain.
Prowl’s voice cuts in immediately after, scolding both of them to be more respectful.
Ratchet’s aqua optics flicker as he notices the tremble in Orion’s servo. He’s nervous, the medical bot realizes- Orion’s EM field tinged with anxiety and melancholy, a state he has been trying harder and harder to conceal lately.
More so than before.
Before he met that-
Ratchet doesn’t even dare finish the thought.
What use is there in bitterness now?
Orion needs him. His dear friend. Not the bitter, grouchy medical bot caught up in what-ifs.
Ratchet shifts a little closer to him, their shoulder pauldrons and arms brushing faintly. The ambulance’s antennae twitch at the spark of contact, subtle but immediate.
He swallows, optics flickering as he forces his expression into something softer.
“Are you okay, Orion?”
The archivist turns toward Ratchet, opening his intake as if to automatically deflect his friend’s worry- but he stops himself the moment he meets Ratchet’s raised optical ridge, silently daring him to try and lie.
Orion lets out a small, sheepish ex-vent instead, optics bright as he offers a faint smile.
“Nothing gets past you, Ratchet. You know me too well, I fear.”
He pauses, gaze drifting away from Ratchet’s worried optics to the twin moons overhead, his finials twitching backwards.
“I’m fine. Just a bit nervous- there are many things that could go wrong tonight afterall…” he admits, expression turning somber, almost frightened. His servos curl into loose fists at his sides. Ratchet remains silent as he continues to study Orion’s wavering composure slowly crack beneath his own anxiety.
“I’m worried that everything I’ve worked for...everything Megatronus -Megatron- has worked for might be for nothing. I’m worried that our goals might no longer align…I’m worried that this chance we’ve been given to bring about change might slip away because I dreamed too big...”
Orion turns back to Ratchet then, his expression softening as blue optics meet aqua.
“But having you here- you, Jazz, Prowl, Ironhide, and…Megatron- it makes me feel hopeful for our future. Many things could go wrong tonight, yes, but many things could also go right. I’m just…glad you’re here with me, whatever may happen. You being here with me helps me worry less...”
Ratchet swears to Primus he’s never seen Orion look as beautiful.
Here, before the Hall of the High Council, so close to his dreams becoming reality, beneath Cybertron’s twin moons and a sky full of stars, Orion smiles at Ratchet like he holds those very stars in the sky personally for the archivist.
And, in all honesty, Ratchet would do just that if Orion had asked him to.
It feels like all of Ratchet’s bitterness, all his anger and helplessness- of watching Orion grow more distant, more burdened, more exhausted over the last orbital cycles at the hands of that cursed Megatron- simply fades away.
Seeing that familiar sparkle in Orion’s optics makes him forget everything but the love he feels for the archivist, his friend, his Orion Pax, deep down in his spark.
But it doesn’t get a chance to last.
Because heavy pede-fall is quick to follow the thrum of Ratchet’s own spark.
And somehow, despite having never heard those pedesteps before, he knows exactly who they belong to.
“Orion Pax.”
The voice alone makes the sensors at the back of Ratchet’s helm and spinal strut send a shiver down his frame.
It is deep, gravelly- almost a growl- and it brings the entire group of bots to a dead stop.
Orion is the first to turn around, his expression tightening into a polite smile. The spark in his optics fades rapidly, replaced by a haze of worry. Only a sliver of hopefulness remains.
Ratchet feels it in Orion’s EM field.
The medical bot turns over his shoulder pauldrons slowly, carefully, as if any movement too fast might be his last in the mighty presence of Megatron of Kaon.
The first thing Ratchet notices is how incredibly tall Megatron is. Towering not only over him- which is no surprise, given Ratchet’s naturally stockier frame- but even over Ironhide and Orion, both above-average in stature.
His armor plating is sharp, almost spiked in silhouette, yet smooth and polished silver, gleaming under the moonlight above and the faint blue glow of energon rising from below.
He is an intimidating presence.
Sure, Ratchet had seen images of him before, but having him stand here in front of them, the medical bot begins to understand how so many Cybertronians end up throwing themselves at his pedes in submission.
Talk about being a competition to the former gladiator, Ratchet thinks to himself bitterly.
Jazz, Prowl, and Ironhide wordlessly make way for Megatron to pass through, staring up at the towering mech with widened optics and agape intakes. Around them, other bots react the same way- most quickly moving aside, trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and Megatron of Kaon.
Hushed whispers erupt through the crowd, but within this small pocket of space, the tension is thick enough to cut.
Megatron’s navy-blue optics narrow as they focus on Orion. Then they flicker briefly to Ratchet, their gazes meeting for a fraction of a klik.
Something in that silent exchange sends a jolt through Ratchet’s frame.
Fight-or-flight flares through his systems, nearly triggering his sirens in response. For a moment, he is a klik away from transforming into his alt-mode and fleeing entirely- because it feels as if Megatron is memorizing every detail of his faceplate, as though marking him for a hit-list, a name singled out for future pursuit. Just in case.
Then Megatron’s optics shift away with a disinterested flicker.
“I was hoping to find you before our audience with the Council. Come- walk with me, dear friend,” he says, his tone lighter than before, almost as if trying to soothe whatever worries flicker through Orion’s EM field.
He steps forward.
One servo reaches out to guide Orion by the waist, gently steering him past Ratchet and the others. The touch is featherlight- but it feels heavy all the same.
Orion follows without resistance, as if he knows refusing would be futile.
Still, he glances back at his friends one last time. His blue optics catch the light- bright and familiar- and Ratchet’s optical ridges tighten in something like helpless pity.
All he can do is force a small smile in return as Orion offers them a final, parting look.
It's quiet for a few kliks, the only sound being the steady pede-steps of bots passing around them as the group watches Orion and Megatron grow smaller and smaller in the distance.
At last, Jazz breaks the silence.
“Am I the only one with a real bad feeling about this...?”
Prowl hums, crossing his arms over his chassis as he leans on one leg. His optical ridges furrow in irritation and concern as he watches the gleam of Megatron's silver armor disappear into the crowd. His door winglets twitch restlessly and he taps his pede onto the ground repeatedly.
“No, I agree. This Megatron cannot be trusted.”
Ironhide lets out a low grunt, his heavier frame rumbling as his engine revs in agitation.
“If he so much as scratches ‘Rion's paint, I'll show him the Pits from six feet under. I swear to Primus.”
Prowl exhales through his intake and waves the threat aside, motioning for the others to keep walking.
“Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Ironhide. If anything, you'd be the one six feet under. We need to be smart about this.”
Ratchet barely registers the rest of the conversation as the two of them start moving again. He remains still.
His pedes feel too heavy, there’s too much running through his processor.
The way Megatron had glared at him.
The way Orion's EM field had tightened with worry and anxiety.
The way Orion had smiled at him through it all.
A servo settling on his shoulder pauldron snaps him out of his thoughts, and Ratchet quickly turns toward its owner.
Jazz offers him a small, genuine smile, his helm tilting ever so slightly. His visor catches the glow of the stars and Cybertron's twin moons, reflecting their light back at him.
“What's on your mind, Ratch?” he asks softly, giving the medic a gentle nudge forward until his pedes finally begin moving again.
Ratchet lets out a quiet ex-vent before returning the smile. His own is much smaller, tinged with bitter irony.
“I'm worried about Orion,” he admits.
He pauses for a moment before continuing.
“But just this once... I pray to Primus it's only my jealousy talking.”