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Megatron’s POV

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“Megatron! Iacon's forces are pulling out!” Starscream announced, his tone brimming with enthusiasm. “You’ve done it! They are cowering before your magnificence!”

Megatron’s optics narrowed. The news was certainly welcome—no more Iacon forces breathing down their necks—but it raised questions. What had changed? Why would Zeta Prime pull his fleet back so suddenly?

The Decepticon command center was in a frenzy, dispatching scouts to confirm the retreat and ensure no traps were lying in wait. Could this be some clever ruse? Or perhaps a secret coup was unfolding within their ranks?

Then, Soundwave entered, striding purposefully to Megatron before dropping to one knee.

“Lord Megatron. I bring news. Zeta Prime has been arrested by a new Prime,” he reported in his signature monotone.

“A new Prime?” Megatron’s optics flickered, his voice sharp with suspicion.

“Explanation: it occurred during the Senate Council meeting hours ago. The Matrix has chosen a new bearer—Optimus Prime,” Soundwave clarified with calculated precision.

Optimus Prime.

Silence fell in the room.

This was exactly why ‘Primes’ were such a hassle—nothing but power-mongering fools wrapped in self-righteousness. No doubt this new Prime would be just as corrupt as the last. Megatron’s frustration simmered, compounded by the lack of any information on this so-called Optimus Prime.

The Primacy as a whole was a farce.

“Under what charges?” Megatron asked, his tone laced with disdain as he sighed at the absurdity of the situation. A new leader in Iacon—what would that mean for them? Would this one spiral into madness like the others, hurling their armies into futile battles?

“For tampering with the Matrix to manipulate the Primacy’s results, as well as conducting illegal Cybertronian experimentation involving shadow-play,” Soundwave answered, his voice steady and unyielding.

Megatron’s optics snapped wide open at the revelation. He had long suspected the existence of secret agents—puppets molded through unspeakable methods, forced to carry out the Senate’s shadowy agenda. Dead-end assassins, once living mechs, turned into hollow instruments of death through brutal experimentation and relentless torture. Rumors of their existence had always swirled, but the Senate had consistently denied them, hiding their atrocities to keep their tools operational.

But this new Prime… he had made the charge public.

“Lord Megatron! Iacon Command is hailing us for comms,” Jetfire announced, his tone sharp with urgency.

Megatron rose from his throne, his imposing frame casting a long shadow across the room. Without a word, he moved to face the comms screen, arms crossing over his chest in a display of authority.

“Patch them through,” he ordered, his voice cold and unwavering.

A moment later, the screen flickered to life, revealing a black-and-white mech with a piercing red visor.

“Megatron of Tarn. I am Lieutenant Prowl. Our Prime has a proposition for you,” the mech stated, his voice cool and measured.

“Oh?” Megatron’s lips curled into a sharp smile as he fixed Prowl with an unrelenting glare. “Is this coming from the new Prime? We’ve heard the news. What does he want?”

Prowl’s expression darkened, his shoulders visibly stiffening under Megatron’s scrutiny.

“…Optimus Prime wishes to barter for energon supplies,” he said at last, the words clipped and deliberate.

Megatron raised a brow ridge, surprise flickering across his face. Of all the things he expected from this new Prime, a request to barter was not one of them. He had half-expected Optimus Prime to demand his surrender outright.

“Oh?” Megatron leaned forward slightly, his voice laced with intrigue. “And what would he offer in return?”

Prowl hesitated, his reluctance evident as his vents shuddered with a mechanical cough to clear his vocalizer. “…In return for energon supplies, Optimus Prime is willing to barter with alt-mode kits.”

The room erupted with shocked murmurs and excited chatter. Even Megatron struggled to maintain his composure, his optics narrowing as he processed the unexpected offer. Alt-mode kits—restricted technology hoarded by Iacon’s military elite—were never handed out freely, especially not to lower-caste citizens or outsiders like the Decepticons.

While the command staff buzzed with celebration, Megatron’s wariness only deepened. The deal was too good to be true. He had learned long ago to distrust Iacon’s generosity.

“I’m no fool,” Megatron said, his voice cutting through the commotion like a blade. “What’s the catch? Hmm?”

Prowl’s visor dimmed slightly as he let out a frustrated grumble. “We, of the Royal Forces, are equally baffled. But the Prime has spoken,” he said, his tone laced with irritation. “These are the terms…”

The enemy’s initial offer was 100 alt-mode kits for six months’ worth of energon supplies. The proposal ticked Megatron off—six months felt excessive for such a meager quantity of those highly coveted kits. He voiced his dissatisfaction sharply, prompting Prowl to unexpectedly open the floor to negotiation. That surprise gave Megatron an edge, one he immediately seized upon.

By the end of the bartering, the terms were set: 300 alt-mode kits in exchange for three months’ worth of energon, delivered to Iacon in manageable weekly shipments. A more favorable deal, though Megatron was still weighing its hidden costs.

“With this trade settled, we also ask for a temporary truce,” Prowl added, his tone firm but measured.

Megatron’s optics narrowed in response. A truce. It was a logical request, one Megatron found himself reluctantly needing as well. With three cities under his control, he was still struggling to stabilize them, let alone appoint competent managers to oversee their operations. His forces were also scraping for energon, and while the trade demanded sacrifice, the alt-mode kits would be a game changer. Military applications came first, of course, but their utility in work and infrastructure couldn’t be ignored.

Still, Megatron couldn’t afford to let the enemy see his need for this so-called truce. A smirk stretched across his faceplates, a calculated display of confidence and superiority.

“I suppose I could grant a bit of mercy,” he drawled, his tone dripping with mock benevolence. “But only until this trade is complete.”

“I’ll relay the message to my Prime,” Prowl said curtly. Without another word, he cut off communications.

A nano-click later, the Decepticon command center erupted in cheers and excited chatter.

“Can you believe it? They’re really sending us alt-mode kits!” Thundercracker exclaimed, his tone a mix of disbelief and amusement. “This new Prime must be out of his mind!”

“I wonder if we’ll get at least one!” Skywarp chimed in, his optics gleaming with curiosity.

Starscream turned on him with a sharp glare. “You idiot! We already have alt-modes. Why would Lord Megatron waste any of them on you?”

“I-I’m just saying!” Skywarp stammered, his voice defensive. “Sometimes I wish I could be a ground vehicle!”

The room buzzed with chatter, but Megatron raised a hand, gesturing for Jetfire to step closer. The mech obeyed without hesitation.

“What do you think of this, Jetfire?” Megatron asked, his voice calm but edged with curiosity.

Jetfire folded his arms, his optics narrowing in thought. “Honestly? I’m not sure. These alt-mode kits could significantly bolster our military strength. But Iacon isn’t really that desperate for energon. They’ve got enough reserves to last at least two or three mega-cycles with their strict rationing protocols.”

Megatron’s optics flickered as he processed Jetfire’s analysis. Then he turned to another trusted voice. “Soundwave?” he prompted, confident that the telepath had been monitoring every nuance of the conversation.

Soundwave stepped forward, coming to a halt beside Jetfire. “Speculation: Jetfire’s assessment is accurate. Iacon is not in immediate need of energon,” he intoned, his voice steady and precise.

“Maybe this new Prime, Optimus, is trying to get into your good graces?” Jetfire suggested, his tone speculative. “It could be a tactic to lower your guard.”

“Affirmative,” Soundwave interjected without hesitation, his monotone voice carrying an air of certainty. “Advice: tread with caution.”

“Hm.” Megatron leaned back in his throne, his optics dimming slightly as he mulled over their insights. Their opinions aligned with his own suspicions. This could very well be a clever trap—a ploy to lull him into a false sense of security, only for this new Prime to strike at the perfect moment.

“…If it is,” he said, his voice low but resolute, “then we’ll be ready for it. Nothing is going to stop me from taking over Cybertron and dismantling its pathetic Senate Council and the Primacy.”

Nothing.

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= = =

OP’s POV

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“You cannot be serious about shipping off 300 alt-mode kits all at once, can you?” Ultra Magnus questioned, his tone laced with disbelief.

“It’s a test,” I said, keeping my voice calm as I reviewed the datapad in my hands. The compiled crimes of Sentinel Prime, now deceased, and Zeta Prime, currently imprisoned, scrolled across the screen. Both were false Primes, their claims to the Matrix bolstered by fabricated witness statements—a lie perpetuated by corrupt Senate members.

Without looking up, I continued speaking to Magnus. “Honestly, the deal is good. I expected Megatron to push for 500 alt-mode kits, but Prowl did an excellent job with negotiations. Please make sure to pass on my thanks to him.”

Even as I spoke, I could feel Magnus’s unease. His concern wasn’t misplaced.

“Five hundred?” Magnus rasped, his voice nearly cracking as he reeled from the number I had been willing to consider. “…What is this test for?”

“There are several, actually,” I replied, gesturing toward one of my recently hired secretaries—an archivist named Codex. “This one is to see if he can actually keep his word.”

I turned back to Codex, handing him the datapad. “Make at least five copies of this and store the original in the restricted section of the Hall of Records. Please and thank you.”

“Right away, My Prime!” Codex replied, clutching the datapad to his chest plates as though his very spark depended on it. Without hesitation, he spun on his heel and briskly walked away, nearly breaking into a jog.

I rose from my desk, striding purposefully toward the exit with Magnus close on my heels.

“Where are you off to now?” Magnus called after me, his tone teetering between exasperation and urgency. “We still have much to discuss—”

“Then discuss while you walk,” I replied, glancing over my shoulder. “I need to make a trip outside to the Praxian Research Center.”

Magnus froze mid-step, his optics widening. “You—wait. No. Absolutely not. Any time you leave the Senate Building, we require preparation. Do you have any idea how big a security risk this is? You can’t just go outside without a guard, Optimus!”

I raised an optic ridge, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at my expression. “I have you, don’t I?”

Magnus shook his head, his tone firm but tinged with frustration. “It’s not enough. Please, just give me one hour, My Prime. I’ll have a guard assembled, and I’ll even notify the Praxian Research Center to expect your arrival.”

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

I stopped and stared at Magnus for a moment. Seeing how frazzled he was, my spark gave out to him.

“Alright, Magnus. I’ll wait, but not one hour longer.”

Magnus sighed in relief, uttering a quiet thanks as he hurried off to make the preparations.

Primus… I wonder when was the last time this mech took a vacation?

Half an hour later, Magnus had assembled a small escort to accompany me, including himself, as we boarded the train to the Praxian Research Center. The entire cable car had been reserved for me and my guard alone, though that didn’t stop civilians in adjacent cars from taking snapshots with their optics. I could tell by the way their optics flickered, quickly dimming and brightening—an unmistakable sign of image capture. It reminded me that I, too, could do the same, storing pictures directly into my neural network.

Perhaps it was an echo of Orion Pax’s archivist nature, but I found myself marveling at my own data storage capabilities. Even the largest volumes of information could be compressed to one-eighth of their original size, though it often felt unnecessary given the sheer scale of storage at my disposal. Orion’s system was near limitless, able to hold the entirety of Iacon’s Hall of Records and still utilize only a fraction of its capacity—barely one-sixth. It was staggering. I could seamlessly observe and stream through an unimaginable wealth of information with a single thought, my mind functioning as a living library.

“Why didn’t we take the Tempest—”

“Shh!”

Two of the mechs assigned to guard me whispered loudly, earning a sharp glare from Magnus that silenced them immediately.

I suppose this was partly my fault. We were on a train because I’d insisted on it, claiming the people needed to see me—the new Prime. The real reason, however, was far more personal: I wanted to see the city for myself.

Iacon was undeniably grand, its sprawling skyline and intricate architecture rivaling the human city of Dubai in my mind. The comparison lingered as I gazed out the window, captivated by the interplay of light reflecting off Cybertronian metals and towering structures.

The Tempest, of course, was the official flight carrier traditionally used by Primes. But honestly, I’d rather be aboard the Ark if it still existed. The thought crossed my mind briefly, a faint curiosity. Huh. I wonder where the Ark was.

We arrived at our station soon enough, and as we stepped off the train, we were immediately surrounded by reporters. Their voices overlapped in a chaotic din, cameras and recorders thrust forward in a desperate bid for attention. Magnus, walking beside me, didn’t look particularly thrilled. Still, he didn’t complain; after all, this was nothing new. Both Sentinel and Zeta had often courted the media, and I knew Magnus was no stranger to dealing with them.

One reporter, more persistent than the rest, managed to wriggle halfway through the barrier formed by my guards. He waved a rod-like device—what I assumed was the Cybertronian equivalent of a microphone—toward me, his voice nearly frantic.

“Optimus Prime! Optimus Prime! Is it true that you are submitting to Megatron’s tyrannical demands? We have sources claiming you’ve ordered the Iacon Royal Forces to pull back—”

I stepped forward, gently taking the mic from his grasp. It had a bit of grime on it, so I wiped it clean with my thumb before tucking it back into the small pocket on his chest plate. The reporter blinked at me, startled by the gesture.

“Primus bless you,” I said warmly, giving him a light pat on the head before continuing on my way. Magnus fell into step beside me, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as we moved past the sea of media.

“That was… tactful,” Magnus remarked, his tone carrying a hint of genuine admiration.

“Mm-hmm,” I replied simply, continuing forward. Our progress was steady, though we stopped briefly at intervals as I spread the word of Primus. Drawing from the archives within my mind library, I recited hymns and prayers penned by the Primacy Brotherhood of Old, their words steeped in reverence. Occasionally, I found myself channeling prayers from the Matrix itself, whispered by the voices of older Primes whose devotion to Primus had been absolute.

I suppose I was crafting a particular image for the public—a holy, priestly figure who sought unity, not war. This wasn’t the image of a Prime eager to wage battles or escalate conflict, and I wondered how Megatron would perceive it. No doubt, he’d have his own thoughts about this public display of faith.

There were things I could say about Megatron, things I wanted to address. But not now. The media would twist my words into something else entirely, and I couldn’t afford to let them control the narrative

It took nearly over an hour before we finally reached the Praxian Research Center.

At the steps of the entrance, a small gathering of mechs awaited us, their heads bowing in respect as we approached.

“Optimus Prime, it is an honor to have you visit our facilities,” the first mech greeted, his tone polished and precise. His teal and magenta frame stood out against the muted colors of the structure behind him. “My name is Perceptor, and I am the Head Director of the Praxian Research Center.”

As he spoke, memories drifted back to me, soft and gentle like falling rain. I recognized him instantly and couldn’t help but smile warmly.

“You can relax, Perceptor,” I said, my tone reassuring. “I may have changed a lot, but I still remember our conversations.”

I turned my gaze toward another familiar face standing behind Perceptor, a mech predominantly white with red and green embellishments. “You too, Wheeljack.”

At this, the gathered mechs visibly relaxed, the tension in their frames easing as a few chuckles rippled through the group.

Perceptor offered me a small smile. “We weren’t sure. There were rumors that you were… different.”

“Different?” I echoed, hesitating slightly. It was true—I wasn’t the same Orion Pax they had once chatted with whenever Alpha Trion visited this place. “I suppose so…,” I admitted, my tone careful. “There’s a project I need your team to work on immediately. I apologize for dropping in so suddenly, but may I borrow a good portion of your time to discuss it?”

“Certainly, My Prime,” Perceptor replied, his tone as courteous as ever, a reflection of the hierarchy now standing between us. I could see the curiosity in his optics, however, shining through his formality. Whatever I had to say, he was already intrigued.

Wheeljack smiled at me, but I could see the tension in his frame. His movements were stiff, his unease likely stemming from my presence—or perhaps from the guards that flanked me on every side.

We were led inside without delay, Perceptor guiding us directly to a conference room. There was no need for a tour; I already knew this place. And yet, as we walked through its halls, it felt distant, like a memory glimpsed in a dream.

Upon entering the conference room, I was escorted to the head seat—the place where Perceptor or Alpha Trion would usually sit. I hesitated for a moment, feeling slightly abashed, but quickly reminded myself: I was a Prime now. Status demanded I take my place.

As I sat, Perceptor took the chair to my right, and Magnus settled on my left. Wheeljack chose the empty seat next to Perceptor, his optics darting briefly to me before focusing forward. The others filed in around the table while my guards remained standing along the walls, their postures rigid and alert.

“So, how can we, the Praxian Research Center, assist you with this project, Optimus Prime?” Perceptor asked, his tone polite yet curious.

Leaning forward, I rested my elbows on the desk, intertwining my fingers as I spoke. “I’d like you to assemble a team to reopen and refurbish the old Energon Refinery Treatment facilities. I intend to revive the Energon Aqueducts.”

My request startled everyone in the room. Perceptor’s optics widened slightly, and Wheeljack shifted in his seat, his unease clear. Even Magnus glanced at me, his expression briefly flickering with surprise before returning to its usual stoicism.

Long ago—a very, very long time ago—there were rivers upon rivers of pure energon. Energon, in its original state, was liquid, flowing freely across the land. But one day, without warning, the rivers dried up.

It happened around the same time Quintus Prime successfully drove the Quintessons away. The river stopped flowing, and mining for energon became the new reality. That was millions of years ago. Since then, the Energon Aqueducts have become little more than national monuments, relics of a forgotten past.

After a moment of stunned silence, a startled laugh escaped Perceptor.

“That is… whatever for, Optimus Prime?” Perceptor asked, his tone laced with incredulity. “The Energon Aqueducts are nothing more than integral pieces of the past. Not a drop of energon has been sighted from them in ages… unless… you’ve found some way…?”

Horror settled on his faceplates as I simply smiled.

“Perhaps. But I need the refineries in working order first.”

Magnus let out a shuddering gasp, his vents trembling as he looked at me in disbelief. “Do you really mean that, Optimus? You… you could bring back the Fluxstream?”

I racked my neural circuits, trying to calculate just how old Magnus might be.

“Were you there when it was still running?” I asked, curiosity driving the question.

Magnus nodded slowly, a faraway look settling over his optics. “Yes. I was just a newspark… The war with the Quintessons had just ended when the Fluxstream dried up. It happened in a matter of cycles. One moment it was there, flowing as it always had, and then… gone.”

He paused, his tone growing reflective. “I remember Quintus Prime addressing us all, saying we needed to mine energon to survive. Back then, the Primacy was revered, held in the highest regard. To mine energon was considered a desecration—a defacement of Primus himself. But Quintus Prime… he convinced everyone it was permissible. That Primus would allow it.”

My optics flickered briefly before I nodded to him. “Yes… Primus did allow it. He didn’t want his children to starve.”

Magnus inhaled sharply, clearly rattled by my response, and the others followed suit. They looked at me with a mixture of disbelief, uncertainty, fear, and perhaps even remorse. I understood why. For countless generations, the reverence for Primacy had waned, thanks in no small part to the actions of Sentinel and Zeta. To many, it had become little more than a hollow tradition.

That shift in perspective had led many to doubt Primus’s very existence.

Pity. That needed to change. They didn’t need to worship him—not as a religion—but Primus deserved to be remembered. To be known.

Something else nudged at my consciousness, a fragment of valuable information surfacing within me.

Quintus Prime had purposely stopped the flow of the energon rivers during the war against the Quintessons. The tides of battle were turning against us, and in a desperate move, Quintus shut off the main valve, cutting off the planet’s energon supply. The Quintessons, believing the source of energon to be completely depleted, abandoned Cybertron. To them, the planet had become worthless.

It was after their departure that a new system emerged—a grand, idealistic plan where every bot became part of a greater cog. A functionalist system meant to ensure that energon would be available to all who needed it. Quintus’s intentions had been noble, but he could never have foreseen how deeply that system would be corrupted over time.

I could feel his regrets churning in my tanks, an ache that lingered in the wake of his choices.

“Ahem. Anyway, I could bring it back now,” I said, cutting through the tension.

“If… if that’s true, then how come it was never brought back before?” Wheeljack asked, his voice tinged with curiosity and disbelief. “I mean, I get it was tied to Quintus Prime, but why didn’t Sentinel Prime or Zeta Prime do it? Everyone knows energon mining is finite. The resource is depleting here on Cybertron, and that’s why we’ve spent recent years traveling to the stars to mine.”

“That is not for you to question, mech. Not here,” Magnus interjected sharply, his tone scolding.

I raised a hand, stopping him. “It’s all right,” I said calmly, glancing at Wheeljack. “He has a right to ask.”

I turned to Wheeljack, meeting his gaze as I spoke. “In truth, Sentinel and Zeta were false Primes. They carried and integrated internal components of Quintus Prime into their bodies, enabling them to hold the Matrix. But they were never truly attuned to it—let alone accepted by it.”

The room fell deathly silent as my words sank in.

And I didn’t stop there. “To get Quintus Prime’s components, Sentinel murdered him and took the throne.”

Magnus shot to his pedes, stepping back as if recoiling from the revelation, horror etched into his features. I glanced around the room; even my guards, trained to mask their emotions, were struggling to keep their expressions neutral.

Perceptor buried his face in his servos. “Oh, Primus… after all this time…” he anguished, his voice muffled. “…This is…”

“I do plan to reveal all of this information soon,” I said, my tone steady, “but the energon aqueducts need to remain under wraps for now.”

Lowering my voice slightly, I continued, addressing him directly. “So let me ask you, Perceptor—will you help me restore the Energon Treatment Refineries? Most of the equipment will likely need upgrades, and you have the best and brightest minds on all of Cybertron here at your disposal. The Iacon Treasury will also be fully open to you, so long as the purchases are reasonable. Whatever resources you require to make this a reality, you’ll have them.”

Then I leaned forward, meeting his optics.

“So… can I count on you to make it happen, Perceptor?”

It took a few nano-clicks before Perceptor responded. He nodded several times, his movements deliberate as if solidifying his resolve. “Yes… Yes, I will do this. We will do this for you, My Prime.”

The way he said my title carried a shift—no longer tinged with the nervous hesitation he had shown earlier. Now, there was reverence and gratitude in his voice, as though he had finally accepted that I truly was a Prime.

There was no telling yet how long it would take to get those refineries operational, but Perceptor was adamant. He insisted they halt all current projects and head to the site immediately. While I suggested they wait until tomorrow, Perceptor remained resolute, stating he would leave with a small team right away. Once they conducted a preliminary survey of the facility, he promised to send me an estimate of the time required for restoration.

With that, the meeting came to an end. Perceptor and the other scientists filed out, but not before Magnus had them swear an oath of secrecy regarding the project and everything discussed. The weight of what was shared would remain within this room until the time was right to make it public.

As the others departed, Wheeljack lingered behind, casting uncertain glances in my direction. It was clear he wanted to say something but struggled to find the words.

For his sake, I rose from my seat and walked over to him. Placing my servos on his shoulders, I gave the plating a firm squeeze, a silent gesture of reassurance. His vents shuddered as he exhaled, and I could feel the tension in his frame easing slightly under my touch.

“Are you alright, Wheeljack?” I asked, my tone gentle.

He stared at me as though I were otherworldly. “It’s just… you’re so different. Are you… are you still…?”

“Orion Pax?” My optics lowered as a faint, bitter smile tugged at my faceplates. “Sort of… It’s hard to explain, but I still remember you, Wheeljack. And if time permits later, we can still talk about your, uh, unique inventions. Just… make sure it doesn’t blow up in front of me, okay?”

His jaw dropped, and then he burst into laughter. “Hey, hey! I’ve improved since last time!”

“Sure you have,” I teased, a smirk forming.

His jaw dropped even further, his expression aghast, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

“You doubt me, Prime?” he shot back, mock-indignant. “Just you watch—you’re gonna see my next amazing invention—”

“Wheeljack!! Quit bothering Optimus Prime and get over here! We need you!” one of his coworkers yelled from the hall.

“Slag! Give me a few clicks, will ya?!” he called back, his tone frustrated but playful.

I laughed, a sense of relief washing over me as I realized nothing had changed too much between us.

“I’ll see you around, Wheeljack. And I’ll make sure to visit you all to check on your progress.”

“Hey, we won’t disappoint you,” he said, his tone more confident now, the earlier nervousness gone. “I’ll see you around, Optimus.”

“Good luck to you and the Praxian Research Team, Wheeljack,” I replied, offering him a final nod of encouragement.

Now that I thought about it, there was one more person I needed to check on. But seeing Magnus and the guards looking so drained—both mentally and emotionally—from the information I’d just shared, I decided we’d head back for now. They needed time to process everything.

On the train ride home, Magnus sat hunched over, silent and lost in thought. His shoulders sagged with an uncharacteristic heaviness.

“…A penny for your thoughts, Magnus?” I asked gently.

His optic ridges furrowed as he glanced up at me, his expression puzzled. “Penny…?”

Ah, right. Oops.

“What I mean is…would you like to share your thoughts?” I offered, softening my tone. But even as I said it, I had an inkling of what weighed on him—almost as if I could…sense it. “…You know there was nothing you could have done at the time, right?”

Magnus shook his head, his fists clenching tight, trembling with barely contained rage. “That’s not true. If I had seen Sentinel for what he truly was—if I hadn’t been so blind—he didn’t even grieve for more than a cycle before parading around with the Matrix in his servos—!”

“Quintus Prime doesn’t blame you, Magnus,” I said, my voice steady but firm.

He turned away sharply, his shoulders tense. “You couldn’t know that—”

Before he could retreat any further, I reached out, grabbing his tightly clenched servos in both of mine. I held them firmly, grounding him, as my gaze locked onto his optics.

“Quintus Prime never blamed you.”

Carefully, I uncurled his fist and brought it to my chest where the Matrix lay dormant. His servos trembled slightly, and his optics flickered and widened as he realized what I was trying to convey—what Quintus Prime was currently conveying.

“He… he can hear us?” he asked quietly, shaken. “…You can hear him?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Sort of. I don’t hear voices, Magnus, but…I can tell he adored you. Very much.”

Magnus lowered his head, his optics closing. His frame seemed to sag a bit, silently grieving. Meanwhile, I noticed my guards had turned their backs on us, giving us privacy and pretending they hadn’t heard a single thing. How considerate of them toward their commander.

We made it back to the Citadel. Once I was safely in my quarters, Magnus excused himself and the guards were dismissed for today.

Ah well, since I couldn’t visit Ratchet today, I’ll just have to send him a message then, to see how he was doing.

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= = =