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“Optimus Prime.”
Optimus opened his optics, willing his head to look up at Ultra Magnus. Both he and Blitzwing were stuck, stasis cuffed and made to kneel before the Magnus. Ultra Magnus’ face hardened, disappointment clear in his expression.
“You stand accused of treason, conspiring with the enemy, and attempting to illegally give Autobot energon reserves to them. Do you agree?”
Blitzwing’s helm dipped, pressing their lips together as they tried to control their shaking. Optimus knew the feeling. It was his fault they had ended up here, his greed that made the two of them be caught by the Elite Guard spy they’d sent to Earth without Optimus’ knowledge. If he had it his way, he’d be the only one suffering the consequences of his poor choices.
He knew he could throw Blitzwing under the bus here. He could try and claim that he was trying to get information from them, that he was trying to lure them in and show them the good truth of being an Autobot, to cripple Megatron’s inner circle. He could. There was a chance Ultra Magnus might choose to believe it.
“Yes, that’s true,” Optimus said without any hesitation. “I did everything you’re accusing me of.”
Ultra Magnus nodded, the face of a mech who’d had his suspicions confirmed. And he looked completely and utterly disappointed in everything Optimus was. “I once thought you could be a great hero, Optimus. But I suppose being a hero — much less an Autobot — was never in your programming.”
Optimus flinched, lowering his head. His optics snapped open when he heard Blitzwing snarl, just barely restraining themselves lest they get shocked by the stasis cuffs.
“I suppose we’re to be executed, then,” Optimus said. Ultra Magnus hummed.
“No. It was considered, but the council and I have come to a better solution.”
Blitzwing and Optimus could hardly resist as they were dragged away.
“I’m sorry.”
“Unless you yourself reported the two of us, I doubt apologies will do me any good,” Wings said, his voice lethal.
“I know,” Optimus said, directing his gaze to stare at the ceiling. He and Blitzwing had been placed in separate cells, but they were next to eachother. Maybe it was a sick joke meant to humiliate them. “I just… never wanted this to happen to either of us. I know you’re scared.”
Blitz’s tone was defensive, “and you’re not?”
“Of course I am,” Optimus said, “but I guess I feel like there’s not as much for me to fear if it’s my own faction. Silly, I know, but it’s the only thing keeping me stable at this point.”
Blitzwing scoffed. “The Autobots will rip us apart and melt down our scraps.”
“Maybe,” Optimus admitted, “but if it’s with you I can make peace with it.”
Blitzwing looked at him, surprised.
“I would’ve thought that you’d feel regret for ever consorting with us,” Wings said. “That you’d despise our very name for causing you to lose your position.”
“My own actions did that, Blitzwing. It’s not your fault.”
Silence.
“Your high command will make us suffer a fate worse than death,” Blitzwing finally said. “I hope you know that.”
Optimus’ face tightened. “I do.”
The two of them were eventually led from their cells and strapped down to two long metal slabs. Optimus recognized them from his brief visits to hospitals, and the occasional broadcast from the ministry of science showing what they had been working on. It sent dread curling in his tanks, but he didn’t allow himself to show fear. He wasn’t the worst one off in that situation– Blitzwing was. They had been muzzled, and the voltage for their cuffs was far higher than Optimus’.
Perceptor was typing on his computer without a care in the world, no concern for anything beyond what he was probably about to do to them. Optimus did not allow himself to feel fear. He steeled his composure and smiled for Blitzwing, hoping to appear as calm as he didn’t feel. A glance down at his stasis cuffs keeping him trapped to the slab confirmed that his digits were free. He and Blitzwing weren’t far apart, surprisingly– no, it was almost as if their slabs had been pushed together. Strange, but Optimus wouldn’t complain this once.
Slowly and carefully – so as to not set off the cuffs – he inched his pinkie toward Blitzwing’s servo, brushing against the warm, dark metal of their digits. Zing's optics lit up with realization, and though they were muzzled Optimus could see their smile. They curled their pinkie around Optimus’, both of their servos squeezing the other.
“I love you,” Optimus whispered, because he knew Blitzwing couldn’t.
Perceptor stepped around the table, typing something on his data pad before putting it down on a desk surrounded by… concerning-looking tools.
“What are you doing?” Optimus demanded, summoning authority he knew he didn’t have.
“That is no concern of yours,” Perceptor said, neither sassy or rude. Just stating a simple fact. “If you must know, I will admit we have all been curious regarding the nature of Blitzwing’s modifications– that which allow him to change into two completely different alt modes. It is fascinating. The council agreed with me that executing the two of you would be a waste of potential discoveries, one that will hopefully allow us to discover new modifications for our own Autobots.”
He turned towards the two of them with an EMP generator. “It will be more efficient for all of us if the two of you remain in semi-stasis. Good luck. If it is any consolation, for the sake of the Autobot’s advancement, I’d prefer it if you two lived.”
Optimus couldn’t formulate a retort before everything went quiet. He could only hope it was painless.
That’s–
who am I?
It hurts
IT HURTS!
STOP IT STOP IT
STOP IT STOP IT
STOP
…
LEAVE ME ALONE
GO AWAY
GO AWAY! GO AWAY!
STOP IT
GO AWAY!!!!!
…
…?
I will protect.
?
I will protect.
…
Okay.
I love you too.
They woke up with a jolt. Looking around, they saw the room was empty. How odd. Had Perceptor left? That seemed irresponsible. They slowly slid off the table, moving their joints experimentally. Nothing hurt. That was good.
They walked over to a long, floor length mirror, tilting their head at what greeted them.
It was Them, of course. But it didn’t look like how they remembered either way they looked at it. Their colors were too bright where they should be dull, and dull when they should be bright. The windows on their chassis were familiar, and so was the cockpit in the center. Their wings, too, even if they felt smaller and less… pointed. They were missing something, maybe cannons? But that didn’t make sense, those were just for tanks. They were a truck and a plane. Their helm felt familiar, if a tad too bare, with the goggles and long covering that reached their neck. They should have finials, but those were also gone. At least they still had their cap, and the wheels on their pedes. They felt familiar and too-foreign.
Blue optics stared into the mirror. Blue optics stared right back.
Oh, well. It was Them, so it didn’t feel too bad. They could get used to this.
Optimus? They thought, to no verbal answer. There were no words, internal or external. But there was a feeling, one that wrapped around them like a protective blanket. It was too intentional to be a coincidence. A feeling of undeniable warmth, of love and joy and hope.
“Optimism,” They said, then devolved into a fit of giggles. They felt a distinct sense of unimpressed amusement within themselves, things that should be conflicting but it felt so right even when they felt so wrong.
Affection and love flooded their systems, making them delirious with joy. They looked at their servos, then at their too-flat teeth. Gently, only enough to lightly dent it, they bit three circles into their left servo, then one on their right. A promise, of sorts. Somehow they knew intimately what it was for.
The door opened behind them. They turned around to find Perceptor and five other Autobots, all armed. The other Autobots bristled when they saw them, in their strange mismatched (but still beautiful, some part of them insisted) glory. They smiled, but it just made the Autobots more upset.
Perceptor regarded them with pure curiosity, fascination clear in the way he eyed each and every one of their movements.
“State your designation,” he commanded.
“I am Abutor,” they said. “I am an Autobot under the command of the Elite Guard, a part of their program to create flying Autobots.”
Perceptor nodded. “There is no reason for these Autobots to fear you, Abutor. Is that correct?”
We’ll get out of this. A fiery, passionate part of themselves said. It… confused them. Why would they want to get out of this? They were an Autobot, always had been.
That feeling of safety returned, soothing every last part of their processor. It felt familiar. A deep longing for freedom rooted itself in their processor, unable to be ripped out. The thought seemed to take that as an answer.
Abutor smiled, “there is not,” they agreed. “I’ll behave.”
They knew it was what they’d always done best.