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Optimus doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. Has his processor suffered a helm injury as of late? Maybe when Optimus fought Megatron a fusion cannon actually hit and he just forgot. He can’t really recall much of that battle anyway. Then again he’s had trouble recalling much of anything lately! More often his emotions are far less streamlined and simple than they used to be— too often it feels like someone else is shoving their feelings into his servos to deal with, tangling themselves up into his wiring.
It happened far too often whenever he fought Blitzwing, and now it’s happening again in cyberspace. Is this some strange sort of tactic by them?
No. If the Decepticons had some sort of technology to subliminally mess with processors, they would’ve used it to win instead of wasting it by having Blitzwing mess with him in small ways. Ways that were overall harmless, but still annoying and confusing. Too often Optimus feels like someone else is moving his body even when he’s in the proverbial pilot’s seat.
If it becomes a serious issue, he’ll just go see Ratchet. No big deal!
Optimus narrowly dodges a kick to the face from Blitz, grabbing their leg and pulling them forward and off their pedes, moving out of the way before they land on him. Fighting three mechs at once was difficult, but Blitzwing had offered and cyberspace was a good place to practice without getting seriously injured. It required a bit of set up and having a medic on standby to stop if anyone got hurt, but it was useful nonetheless. In a way, this could also count as fostering Autobot Decepticon relations. Probably.
“Aren’t you forward,” Zing giggles, their sharp denta flashing in the sun, “it’s quite rude to lead a mech on, you know!”
“What are you talking about?” Optimus demands, using his axe to block a strike from them and dodge an ice attack from Wings. “Also— I was just pulling you off your pedes, nothing forward about it!”
“Awh, you’re going to break my spark with talk like that,” Zing pouts, as if they have a spark.
Blitz jumps in, “don’t tell me you don’t remember all those times you responded to our advances!”
Optimus genuinely, truly has no idea what they’re talking about. Are they making things up? Or have they convinced themselves Optimus was returning their flirtations? Optimus doesn’t recall anything of that nature coming from him, but maybe he was misremembering.
“I think you’re just making things up now to throw me off,” Optimus deflects, masking his confusion with a grin. Zing and Blitz look genuinely incensed now— Wings appears displeased, but that’s just an educated guess.
“So I guess those dates meant nothing!” Blitz snaps, crossing his arms. Optimus briefly wonders why they’ve stopped attacking, but then his processor catches up with his sentence.
“Those what.”
Optimus jumps when Zing pokes his helm, suddenly appearing behind him. Optimus slams the blunt end of his axe into their cockpit, but Zing just laughs, grabbing his axe and taking advantage of Optimus’ grip on it to flip him over their body, slamming him onto the ground.
“Has someone suffered a processor injury?” They giggle, pressing their servos on either side of Optimus. He can’t tell if they’re trying to be seductive or intimidating— but either way, he feels extremely confused and off put.
“I know we’re fighting, but could you back off me?” Optimus requests. He watches Zing frown, thinking for a few moments before standing up and stepping back. Optimus sits up.
All of Blitzwing has stopped attacking him, actually. All of them look varying amounts of disappointed or upset. Optimus has no clue what they’re talking about— nowhere in his memory banks can he remember any dates. He doesn’t know why he would ever accept a date from a Decepticon— no offense intended to Blitzwing, but it wasn’t the smartest idea to accept a date from the enemy. Even if it wasn’t a trap, it was treasonous. Unless they were talking about a date that happened after the peace treaty had been drafted, but Optimus doesn’t know when either of them would have time for that.
His memory has been better since coming back to Cybertron, now that he thinks about it. He hadn’t noticed before, but whenever he thinks about his time on Earth there’s nothing. Nothing aside from a few brief flashes of… things. Like the Elite Guard visiting for the first time, looking for an errant Wasp with Sentinel, Blackarachnia…
Blitzwing is staring. All of them.
“Sorry,” Optimus clears his throat, suddenly self conscious. He feels extra uncomfortable knowing there’s at least one other mech watching this on a screen back in the real world. He’s not sure if it being Ratchet makes it better or worse. “I… I can’t remember anything you’re all talking about, but I can see I’ve hurt all of you somehow. I’m sorry.”
Wings narrows an optic, humming in thought.
“How much of Earth do you recall?” They question. Optimus blinks.
“Why do you ask?”
“Just answer the question, Optimus.”
Optimus has no idea when they were suddenly on a first name basis. “… Not much, I suppose. But a lot happened back there, so it’s not a huge surprise. Even a Cybertronian processor can’t remember everything.”
“Surely you’d recall accepting an invitation from us,” Wings says, suddenly closer. Their optic is trained on Optimus with increasing intensity, making Optimus take a step back. He’s aware of Zing and Blitz as well, looking equally curious. He wishes he knew what all of them were thinking— they seem to be on a similar wavelength. “Is it not odd that important memories escape your processor?”
“It’s not… that important,” Optimus says hesitantly. “Is it?”
Blitz huffs out smoke, but Zing pushes him back before he can (presumably) jump Optimus.
Wings hums, “it’s possible to create things in cyberspace with just the processor, correct?”
“Uh, yes,” Optimus startles at the sudden shift in topic, “I’m not an expert, but from what I know it’s difficult to do the less aware you are of the space. That shouldn’t be an issue with us, though.”
“Perfect.” Then, Wings suddenly launches forward and grabs Optimus’ servos, attempting to push him into the ground.
Optimus grunts. “What—?!”
“We’re curious about something,” Wings doesn’t elaborate, “just trust us.”
Optimus wants to laugh at the idea. Peace treaty or no, Blitzwing is a Decepticon. But, there was someone watching to turn off the program in case Blitzwing seriously tried to harm him. So, Optimus exvents and steels his expression, letting all the weight suddenly leave his body to catch Wings off guard, making them lose their footing and fall forward. Optimus untangles their servos and dodges before they can fall on top of him.
Blitz jumps at him from behind, and Optimus has to use his axe as a shield to block their fire blast, followed by them trying to rip the axe from his servos.
“Why are you in your Cybertronian form?” He demands.
Optimus tries to free his axe to no avail. “What does it matter to you?”
“Out there you’ve kept your Earth alt mode,” Blitz says, cannons steaming, “and so have we! But here you think of yourself with your Cybertronian mode. Why?"
“That’s just—“ Optimus fumbles, earning a punch to the grilles for his troubles. He grunts, clenching his denta as he dodges an attack from his own axe. “It’s just what I feel more comfortable in.”
“So why have you not switched back?” Zing questions, catching Optimus’ axe when Optimus dodges another throw of it. He swings it at the Autobot, who just barely dodges.
“I just… haven’t thought about it!”
“Why not?” Wings says, grabbing Optimus by the back and slamming him into the ground face first. He lowers his helm so Optimus can hear him better. “Is it that another part of you likes it more?”
Optimus shudders. There’s an uneasiness in his spark, like someone’s trying to pull it apart. It doesn’t quite hurt like one would think, but it feels wrong. But for some reason, staying as one feels wrong too. Is this an effect of cyberspace? Some kind of secret technique Blitzwing knows about that Optimus doesn’t.
“It’s interesting how differently you fight for seemingly no reason,” Wings muses, slowly easing off of Optimus but not letting him up. “Most solar cycles you fight in a way none of your allies do, in your own style. Yet now, you fight like an Autobot. It’s very predictable, you know— academy tactics, is it? I’ve fought against it before.”
“So?” Optimus snaps, confused and annoyed on where they’re going with this.
“It’s just interesting, is all,” Wings lies, clearly thinking more than just that. They let him up, even taking his servo and helping him back to his pedes. “Do you remember this at all?”
When they pull back their servo, Optimus realizes there’s a sculpture in his palm. It’s small, but detailed, a near perfect recreation of his alt mode. There’s even the detail of his axe strapped to the back, seemingly there for no reason other than aesthetic. Optimus recalls seeing this carving in his habsuite, but he’d never known where it came from. Not that he ever thought much about it— it was just an unremarkable fact of his life. There was a carving he couldn’t remember the origins of, and it hadn’t stood out to Optimus because he never thought to question it. It was like questioning where his grapplers came from.
That weird feeling returns. Optimus’ vision blurs for a few nanokliks, but it goes away when he resets his optics. He recalls a feeling, distant murmurs of affection and appreciation. He felt it in mild doses whenever he looked at the carving for too long, though he didn’t know why. It feels like Optimus’ entire body blurs at the edges, becomes fuzzy and hard to make out the exact details of. It’s…
“Oh! You remember this?” Optimus asks, smiling a bit. “I’m surprised you recreated it so accurately. Hasn’t it been a stellar cycle since you’ve seen this?”
Blitz perks up, “I don’t forget my work!” He says, passionate as ever.
“A bit random to suddenly give me this,” Optimus notes, amused. “It would be nice if I could bring it with me back to the real world. I left mine back on Earth.” It was a bit embarrassing, now that Optimus was realizing it. How had he forgotten it? It wasn’t the most important thing ever, sure, but it was a gift. A very thoughtful, time-consuming one.
“Your body’s changed!” Zing suddenly appears behind him, making Optimus startle a bit before he realizes it’s them.
“Has it?” Optimus looks at himself. He doesn’t think it did. It’s the same as it ever is— black windows, yellow headlights, silver grilles. The jetpack was a newer edition, but Optimus liked it so much he wanted to keep it in the simulation. He couldn’t wear it around Cybertron all the time — the planet’s infrastructure wasn’t exactly built for wings anymore, and technically the jetpack functioned as a weapon. But it feels right to have that weight on his back. “I—“
Suddenly, everything goes black. Optimus opens his optics, groggy, to find himself back in the real world. His processor is fuzzy on the details, but he’s pretty sure he was just talking with Blitzwing. Ratchet must have shut down the cyberspace and unplugged the two of them. But why…?
“Is everything alright, Prime?” Ratchet’s gruff voice appears beside him. Optimus nods.
“All good over here,” he says. “Is there something wrong?”
“Not necessarily,” Ratchet grunts, which isn’t particularly reassuring. He looks over to Blitzwing, who appears to have already been checked over. He’s staring at Optimus with an unusual intensity, optic narrowed in clear thought. “You’re all good, Blitzwing. You can head back to whatever it is you were doing before this.”
“That’s not necessary,” Wings tries to insist, walking over to Optimus. “We believe—“
“Have you never heard of patient confidentiality?” Ratchet shoos them away, not even flinching when Blitz hisses out smoke. “I know what you’re thinking. But I need to run a check up on Optimus, and I certainly won’t be doing so with you looming over him!”
Blitz huffs, looking at Ratchet like he wants to incinerate the medic-bot on the spot. He looks between him and Optimus, growls, then turns on his heel and storms off. Steam leaks from his cannons, marking his exit with black smog.
“Is everything okay?” Optimus frowns, face setting into a stern expression.
“Nothing’s necessarily wrong,” Ratchet says, helping Optimus back onto his pedes, “I just need to do an in-depth check up on you.”
“Why is that?”
Ratchet begins walking towards the medbay, gesturing for Optimus to follow. “I’m starting to see some things that may have flown under the radar with you, Prime.”
“Hm.”
“Is that a bad ‘hm?’” Optimus can’t help but comment. Ratchet doesn’t relax or crack a smile, but he doesn’t scoff at the quip, so Optimus considers it a success.
“Stop thinking about this in terms of ‘good’ or ‘bad,’” Ratchet snaps, closing Optimus’ helm and covering his processor back up. “There’s nothing wrong with your processor. It’s functioning how it’s supposed to.”
Optimus raises an optic.
Ratchet looks away, walking over to a computer. “It just functions a little differently from the norm. That’s all.”
“Sounds ominous,” Optimus says. “Am I cleared to sit up now?”
Ratchet waves a servo. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve figured out what’s going on now.” His voice is strange. It’s a mix of that classic, thorny professionalism Ratchet always has (unless the situation is truly dire) but it sounds a bit off. Awkward, maybe. Whatever he found must have caught him off guard.
Optimus sits up, but is blocked from standing up by an outstretched servo.
“I’ve got some questions for you, Prime,” Ratchet says, coming to sit across from Optimus with a data pad. Optimus frowns, setting his servos in his lap.
“Alright…"
“Do you have any trouble remembering things?” Ratchet asks. “Doesn’t have to be total amnesia either— just trouble recalling an event or how you felt during.”
“Uh,” how exactly is Optimus meant to remember not remembering? Not recalling every little detail and event was normal. “I mean, I barely remember my academy days and the early days of being a space bridge repairbot are kind of fuzzy, but that’s normal.”
“Do your academy days feel fuzzy, or is there nothing there at all?”
“I guess I have vague feelings? Mostly having to do with certain Autobots,” mostly Sentinel and Elita, “but I don’t really remember anything about them most of the time. Sometimes it feels like I know more about them, but I don’t remember any specifics.”
“Uhuh,” Ratchet grunts, scrolling through his data pads. “Do you ever hear any voices inside your helm?”
What kind of question is that? “Uh, no?”
This went on for a while. Mostly just Ratchet asking questions about Optimus’ memory and if he ever felt like there was someone else there with him in his head, and Optimus going ‘maybe, I can’t really remember, I don’t think so.’ It’s kind of hard to know what exactly you don’t know.
“Alright,” Ratchet sets down his data pad and sighs. “Look Prime, I’m going to be blunt with you: You’re a system. I’m not too sure what kind of dissociative disorder you have, but you definitely have at least two distinct alters to count for having dissociative identity.”
Optimus blinks. “What.”
“… I’ll be honest, it’s my fault for not noticing sooner. At least we figured it out during peace time,” Ratchet says as an attempt at consolation, but the effect is lost on Optimus. Ratchet sighs. “Prime, how much of this examination do you even remember?”
“Uh…” Optimus squints, “I remember sitting down and you opening up my processor, and you telling me to sit up, but most of the stuff in the middle is lost on me.” Optimus hadn’t really thought to question it until Ratchet pointed it out. Other than a mild helmache, there had been nothing out of the ordinary. And Optimus was kind of used to random helm aches by this point.
“Right. Well, when alters switch, we can see it in the processor as different parts of it light up in response. Your processor scans match up with others we have of other mechs who have switched while under monitoring.”
“That can’t be right,” Optimus denies. “I would’ve noticed by now.”
“The whole point of dissociative identity disorder is that you’re not supposed to know,” Ratchet says. “Besides, you’d be surprised how long mechs have gone without realizing. We’ve had mechs who We never knew were systems until we saw their processor post-mortem.”
“I—“ Optimus starts, then stops. He looks around, suddenly feeling alien in his own frame. “Is there a way to make it… stop?”
Ratchet snorts, “no, that ain’t how it works, Prime. You can’t stop it anymore than you can stop existing as a single identity. I know there’s medication to help with it, but that’s probably not what you’re talking about. There is fusion, but that’s not some sort of return to default or normalcy— it’s two alters combining to make one, and they can always split again. This is just how your processor copes, Optimus. Probably how it has coped for a while, and we all just missed it. It can be hard to notice if you’re not looking closely for it. Not many mechs jump to ‘that’s a system’ when they see another Cybertronian with memory issues or seemingly being erratic.”
Optimus stares at his pedes. “I need to go,” he says suddenly, standing up and brushing past the medic-bot. “Thank you, Ratchet.”
Ratchet’s expression loses some of its harshness. “Ignoring it ain’t gonna help.”
You’re one to talk, Optimus thinks but doesn’t say, because that would be incredibly cruel when he knows Ratchet is just trying to help. “I just need some time to myself. Please don’t tell anyone else about this for now— I don’t need anyone doubting my capabilities.”
“… Alright. But you need to come see me again tomorrow, because we need to talk more about this.”
Optimus crashes onto his berth, tempted to power off and forget everything. But he doesn’t. Admittedly, a part of him is paranoid that it won’t be him when he wakes up. There’s someone else in his processor— maybe multiple! He doesn’t know anything about them, except apparently one of them was kind of dating Blitzwing? Apparently?
He’s kind of questioning their taste right now. At least they weren’t going for Megatron.
He can barely remember anything Ratchet said. He knows the general gist of “Surprise! You’re not alone in your own helm!” But the details escape him.
It made those long gaps of memory make sense, at least. His time as a space bridge repairbot was always fuzzy and plagued with holes of memory, and what little he did remember never quite felt like him. His servos would move in ways he would never direct them to, his thoughts would feel like they belonged to someone else. It always felt normal— even when he could barely recall any details about Earth, or what Decepticons they were facing, or…
… Optimus hates that so many things are suddenly coming to mind now that Ratchet’s essentially diagnosed him. He hates that it makes sense. Before he’d never questioned or second guessed his memory, or the consistent feeling that it wasn’t him moving and speaking, but now that it’s been pointed out suddenly every little abnormal thing he thought was normal is flooding into his brain.
Is there anyone there? He can’t help but think, as if it’ll work. Nothing you want to say about this? Or talk to me, at all?!
It’s not fair. This is his body, his life— why does someone he doesn’t even know get to impose their wants and actions on it. Especially when one of those wants is ‘date a Decepticon.’
Is his name even Optimus, or is that someone else’s? The name Optimus hasn’t ever felt quite right, but that was normal. Or he thought it was, anyway. It’s confusing. It’s blurry. Optimus bangs his helm on the smooth metal of his berth.
Why can’t I just make this go away?
This is my life.
Why are you here? I don’t need you.
…
Why can’t you just go away? I don’t need another person to live my life for me. I can do this on my own.
…
Also, if you have to get a hobby that’s different from me, can it be something other than dating the dangerous war criminal?
…
Optimus zones out as he stares at his data pad. Ratchet had said that journaling could potentially help Optimus improve communication with his ‘headmates,’ as well as drawing out a map of each headmate and their individual memories. But Optimus had no clue where to start. He doesn’t know where he ends and someone else begins— especially when he knows nothing about that someone or if there’s more than one.
It feels cruel, in a way, to deny them existence. But— it’s his frame. His body. His name. Why do they get to have it? He didn’t ask for them. He could handle things on his own, he doesn’t need someone to step in and do the hard parts for him.
Optimus cycles his optics, suddenly more aware than he’d felt previously. With a glance at the chronometer he can see it’s been nearly a megacycle. Already? He glances down at his data pad.
That’s not his handwriting.
I was the one who managed our repair team in space and on Earth.
Do you think I had fun being present all the time, being Optimus all by myself while you got to look away? I didn’t get to look away whenever I felt tired or angry from what got stolen from me while every cycle I felt like I was wasting away.
If it’s anyone’s life, shouldn’t it be mine after I’ve done all the work living it for the past thousand stellar cycles?
Underneath the comment about Blitzwing is written:
They’re cute when they smile. You wouldn’t get it.
Optimus slumps, putting his helm in the palm of his servo.
“Who are you?”
Optimus doesn’t have to look behind him to know someone is there. He can feel their presence, both see it and not. He knows someone is there, he can see behind himself without looking. But he also can’t see anyone at all. It’s a fuzzy presence at his spinal struts, like someone is pressing their back to his.
“… What kind of question is that?” They say. “I’m you. Both of us are.”
Optimus doesn’t want them to be. He wants there to be just one Optimus. “I don’t know why you’re here. I didn’t ask for you.”
“I didn’t ask to be here either. But I am. Which one of us wallowed away while the other had to put in the effort to be Optimus Prime? You think I enjoy being Optimus all the time either? It’s… exhausting.”
“It is,” Optimus can’t help but agree. “It feels like every single moment I’m failing someone all over again.”
“It’s like nothing will ever be enough to make up for the fact that I’m alive when there are mechs who would deserve it more. I don’t know why we left Archa-7 unscathed. I’ve just been here trying to make sure it was worth something.”
Optimus looks up from his servos. “Is that when you formed?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t know much about me. I’m just here to be Optimus when you can’t be. Which has been quite often. At least until recently.”
“I guess coming back to Cybertron woke me out of some sort of daze,” Optimus says.
“…”
“So,” Optimus can’t help but feel awkward, “why Blitzwing?”
He feels slight embarrassment that’s not his as they begin to speak.
“They asked. And they’re pretty, so… I didn’t see why not. They’re funny. Handsome. Blitz is really good at carving.”
“I can’t believe you have one single hobby and that’s dating the enemy,” Optimus snorts.
Indignation flares. “I did nothing but be Optimus for thousands of stellar cycles. I never once felt like that name was really mine even when I was living in it every single day. I barely know anything about myself you didn’t lay out for me first. So yeah, maybe it’s my turn to decide who Optimus is.”
Silence.
“I’m sorry,” Optimus says. “I didn’t mean… okay, I was judging, but that was unfair of me. I still don’t get it, though.”
“That’s fine. Can you just stop denying I exist? Can we work together on being Optimus instead of you fighting me for it?”
“I can live with that,” Optimus sighs. “Not like we have any other choice, huh? I was never too attached to the name anyway.”
Silence. Then, tentatively, “do you want a different name then?”
“Maybe,” he says. “I don’t know. I think I need to come to terms with the system thing first before I relinquish my whole name. Unless you don’t want it?”
“No,” the reply is swift, “I like Optimus. I’ve just hated not having any control over being him. It’s like I have to follow what you are when you aren’t even there, because whenever anyone thinks of ‘Optimus’ they think of you.”
He blinks. “I don’t think that’s true,” he says, “I mean… you said yourself you were the one present for most of our tenure as a space bridge repairbot and when we were on Earth. Whenever Bumblebee, Bulkhead, Prowl or Sari think of ‘Optimus,’ I bet you’d come to mind. Even if they don’t know there’s any other version of Optimus to think about.” Loathe as he is to admit it, honestly. A part of him resents missing all that time, losing so much of himself to someone he barely knows.
Optimus is quiet. He hesitates.
“I hope that makes you happy at all?” He tries.
“It does,” Optimus assures. “So… is this you agreeing to stop trying to fight me?”
“I can’t promise it won’t ever happen,” he snorts, “I think that would be impossible. But yeah, I get what you mean. It would be counterproductive anyway.”
An image comes to mind, like someone has opened his processor up and projected an image of someone into it. It’s Optimus— earth form and all, accompanied by his wings his jetpack gives him.
“That’s me,” Optimus says. “You?”
“Oh, uh… nothing special, really,” he says. “I’ve always just thought of myself as my Cybertronian form. The earth one feels strange, but I don’t mind it enough to change it back.”
Relief comes from Optimus. “That’s good.”
“Right,” he thinks. “So… are there any other alters that want to come out? And other realizations either of us wants to come to before this is over? Like,” he fumbles for an example, “gender identity?”
Silence from Optimus. Sudden, contemplative silence.
“Oh.” Optimus says.
He withholds a startled laugh. “… I’ll let you deal with that one.”
“Like you leave me to deal with everything else?” Optimus says, but this time it’s lighthearted, as well as distracted. Understandably. “Look— could you just… try to refer to me with ‘her?’ Just— for now. I’m probably wrong."
“Yeah. It’s the least I can do.”
“Thank you.”
Optimus slowly crawls out of recharge, processor foggy. Who…?
He makes an attempt at referring to himself with his usual pronouns, then instantly jolts at the sheer wrongness of it. Okay, then.
… It feels nice. To have something that gives Optimus her own identity within the identity of ‘Optimus.’ That was probably going to get confusing, but she doesn’t really care all that much. Optimus is her name and she likes it. Optimus Prime. Perhaps it was a ‘pity title’ or whatever, but it’s hers and she’ll use it. She’s felt more confident in that name ever since she wielded the Magnus Hammer. Not deserving of it, but… getting there.
She checks her schedule for the day and finds it surprisingly empty. Right, Ratchet had all but forced her on a short medical leave. They’d have to inform high command eventually— one of their soldiers having a disorder wasn’t exactly something that could go ignored. Optimus isn’t looking forward to that, neither is she looking forward to Sentinel inevitably being a glitchhead about it.
In the meantime, though. Optimus is free to see Blitzwing again. They’d have questions, probably— almost certainly, in fact. She’s not really looking forward to that, but she can deal with it. She’ll probably have to get used to it once high command is informed.
Optimus exvents and exits her room. Even though she should technically be on berthrest right now, she can probably avoid Ratchet and anyone else who will tell him. She wants to see Blitzwing— it’s uncomfortable to leave things as they were a few solar cycles ago.
No matter what, it’s nice to feel like herself. It’s nice that Optimus is herself. Not someone else’s identity that she’s borrowing and wearing like a mask, but her.