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Op’s POV

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BOOOOOM!!

Channeling my control over gravity, I flung the device toward the high ceiling just as it detonated. Shattered fragments of the experimental contraption rained down in a chaotic shower, the remnants briefly hovering midair before scattering harmlessly to the floor.

I turned to Wheeljack, my tone steady despite the mess. “What was that supposed to be for?”

“…A plate buffer,” he admitted, a little too casually.

“…I see.”

Hot Rod let out a low whistle. “Uh… yeah, I don’t know how I’d feel about having that on my plate. Especially below—oof!”

Red Alert elbowed him sharply, his optics flashing. “Mind your words! You’re in front of a Prime!”

“O-oh, slag—sorry, My Prime,” Hot Rod stammered, his apology tangled with an unintended curse.

The day started with a visit to the Energon Refinery Treatment, where Perceptor and his team were hard at work on the restoration. I’d been here once before, just a day after assigning the project, and back then, it looked like a desolate relic from an apocalyptic era. The place had been untouched for ages, ever since the fluxstream dried up. But now? It was unrecognizable—pristine, almost brand new. Perceptor and his engineers had poured their hearts into this transformation, and it showed in every detail.

I hummed at the remnants of his device, the Matrix nudging me with crucial advice—a ‘voice’ brimming with ancient wisdom, aimed squarely at the ingenious inventor who carried so much potential.

“Wheeljack?” I prompted.

Wheeljack straightened, his optics flickering with something between apprehension and curiosity. “Yes, Optimus?”

“You should consider rerouting the energy flow through a staggered capacitor array to prevent an overload,” I advised—well, technically, Solus Prime advised. “And reinforcing the containment field with a tri-layered alloy coating will mitigate the force of any potential malfunctions.”

When I finished, Wheeljack gaped at me, optics blinking owlishly as though I’d just grown two heads.

Huh. Maybe I was too much.

"Optimus Prime!"

I turned to see Perceptor hurrying toward me.

"Perceptor, you didn’t need to rush. Wheeljack was keeping me company," I said as I moved to meet him, my concern growing. He was an old mech—far older than Magnus—and I feared the strain might be too much. His vents weren’t wheezing, thankfully, but they labored harder than I liked. I reached out and clasped his servos, supporting him steady as I watched him closely.

"Oh, you worry too much, Optimus, my young friend," he said, waving off my concern with a touch of amusement. Still, he held onto my servos for support, his grip firm despite his words. “Besides, It was my fault for losing track of time.”

“No worries, Perceptor. My visit is brief,” I assured him, glancing around. “And has been pleasant. Everything looks fantastic here. Have there been any issues?”

“None whatsoever,” Perceptor replied, his tone tinged with admiration. “The machinery here is… phenomenal. Whoever built this refinery, or however they achieved it, ensured it could still function perfectly after millions of years of disuse. Naturally, we’ve upgraded some components with advanced systems to optimize the energon refining processes.”

“How long before it’s fully operational?” I asked.

“Not long at all, My Prime—just five more cycles,” he said confidently.

“That’s wonderful news, Perceptor,” I said, beaming with excitement. Soon, the fluxstream would flow again, and I couldn’t help but feel impressed—it was all happening sooner than I’d expected.

“Would you like me to give you a tour, My Prime?” Perceptor offered, his eagerness mirrored by Wheeljack, who stepped up behind him, practically buzzing to show off their work.

I grinned, showing my dentas. “Yes, please.”

Perceptor and Wheeljack led the way, starting the tour at the beginning as they started explaining how everything was before what they did to make the changes. Codex was tapping on the datapad profusely, taking notes while his optics flickered rapidly capturing videos and images. Jazz was in between bored and interested. Hot Rod was casually following behind with Red Alert listening to the tour but his head kept constantly turning left and right, looking out for danger.

Throughout the tour, fragments of information stirred within my neural circuits—details I shouldn’t have known. Yet, because of the Matrix—because of the memories of the Primes before me—I understood the intricate workings of this energon refinery treatment. It brought with it an inexplicable sense of… nostalgia. I shook it off for now.

“We’ll need to control the output of energon for distribution, Perceptor,” I said. “We’ll match it to a price lower than the current market rate for energon until the economy stabilizes overtime.”

Perceptor nodded, immediately grasping the intent. “Certainly, My Prime!”

“Wait a minute. Why aren’t we making it immediately available to the public, Optimus?” Hot Rod interjected, his tone curious but slightly impatient.

Jazz chimed in, leaning forward slightly. “Yeah, Prime. If we do that, we could lift those energon reserve protocols in Iacon.”

“Because a sudden drop in energon’s price would cause the market to collapse,” I explained. “It would drive many mining industries out of business. And then, how else would Cybertronians get energon if it’s not properly distributed across the world?”

“Exactly! Our people would starve before they could even get an ounce of the energon produced here!” Codex added emphatically, his datapad clutched tightly in his servos.

Jazz and Hot Rod exchanged glances, the realization dawning on them—sort of. They didn’t seem to grasp the entire picture, but they understood enough to know that making energon immediately available to everyone wasn’t an option.

“But once the energon aqueducts are operational, it won’t be long before those protocols in Iacon are lifted,” I assured the two. “We just need to have patience.”

After wrapping up the visit to the refinery, we boarded the Falconis, a standard air vehicle carrier used by the Iacon royal forces. I had adamantly refused to set foot on the Tempest—a flight so unnecessarily luxurious and glittering that it was an optic-sore of the highest order. I bet it was Sentinel Prime’s wasteful, unnecessary expenditure.

Suddenly, a beeping noise sounded from the pilot’s cockpit. Red Alert let out a disgruntled noise, his posture rigid.

“Is it the media again?” Hot Rod asked, his tone equal parts curious and annoyed.

“Yes,” Red Alert replied, his expression grim. “They’re following a little too close. I just sent them a warning.”

“Man, they’re persistent!” Hot Rod grumbled, crossing his arms.

Jazz let out a long sigh. “Can’t blame ‘em. Optimus here keeps leaving them hanging with his classic ‘Primus bless you.’ He gets ‘em all riled up every time.”

I shrugged, scanning through the grid of trending news on my device, applying a filter to block anything involving me. “Well, they need to learn patience,” I said casually.

Both Jazz and Hot Rod raised an optic ridge at me, while Codex pursed his lips, clearly not willing to indulge my blatant ignorance of the press.

“Optimus,” Codex said pointedly, “it’s been over a month already.”

A month…?! I blinked in disbelief. Quickly calculating in my head—since the day I came online as Optimus Prime—I realized he was right. It had been exactly one month and nearly two weeks. How had time slipped by so quickly?

Looking back, I realized that between official visits to the ward and the refinery, I’d spent most of my time at the Prime Citadel. Whether working on the plans I intended to implement or simply indulging in leisure, I’d been something of a homebody. Often, I’d find myself with a cube of energon in hand, reading a datapad and enjoying the rare quiet moments. Usually, I’d have the “pretty bird,” Sonia, sitting on my lap.

For the last two weeks, she’d been showing up at least once a cycle. As promised, I’d hand her a fresh new cube. She’d let me pet her for a while, fluttering her wings when I found a good spot under her beak, and then fly off through the nearest open window. Somehow, she always knew where to find me whenever I was alone. She never came around if Jazz, Codex, or my guards were nearby.

Of course, the Matrix’s Primes kept sending me warning signals—“stalker” or “spy”—but I wasn’t getting that feeling from Sonia. She seemed harmless, and maybe it was because, in my past life, I came from a world where the line between privacy and public was near invisible.

All you could do, if you were being recorded, was smile.

We soon arrived at the Zenith Ward, a secluded and restricted medical facility where the victims of the Institute’s shadowplay were undergoing recovery and psychiatric evaluations and treatments.

Red Alert’s vents shuddered as we stepped through the doors, and I paused mid-step to turn to him.

“Red Alert, wait outside for me,” I commanded firmly.

Two of the victims here had once been his friends. One of them, a femme, had even been his paramour. I hadn’t dared use my healing abilities since what I did for Shockwave and another victim—it was too risky. The sudden restoration of emotions and memories, after the mental scars inflicted by those unethical, torturous experiments, was too overwhelming for the psyche to handle. It was simply too much, too fast.

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His frame stiffened. “No, My Prime, I’m fine. We can keep going—”

“I can keep going without you,” I interrupted gently, nodding toward the doors. “Go. Take a break.”

Red Alert’s lips pressed into a tight line, his reluctance to argue evident. But finally, he bowed his head. “Thank you, My Prime. Again, I apologize.” Without another word, he turned and left, heading outside to stand guard by the entrance.

As he left, the medical mech in charge of the floor approached me. “Welcome back, My Prime. Are you here to check on the status of the patients?”

I nodded. “Yes. Patch, isn’t it?”

Patch bowed his head. “Yes, My Prime. I’m honored that you remember me,” he replied, then gestured with his servos. “Please, come to my office. We can discuss everything privately there.”

Once we were in his office, Patch began explaining the patients’ progress. Naturally, due to doctor-patient confidentiality, he couldn’t share their names, but he elaborated on their conditions. So far, the two mechs I’d restored with the ability to process ethos and pathos were struggling to come to terms with what they had endured. To be honest, that was completely understandable.

Back on Earth, I’d seen innocent people held captive by psychotic individuals, and it often took decades for them to grapple with the scars left behind by their tormentors. Those scars never truly faded.

Even so, I found myself quietly in awe that Cybertron recognized this complexity, even if their society often referred to damaged mechs as “glitched mechs”—a term I found extremely distasteful. Thankfully, Patch and his team were highly professional and outright opposed to such a label, treating their patients with the respect they deserved.

For now, the Iacon government was funding their treatment, and I intended to ensure that continued, even if it took millions of years—until this tragedy faded into nothing more than a distant memory.

We left the office, and I was preparing to make my rounds with Patch to greet and check on each patient when a sudden commotion broke out. A mech stormed out of his room, shouting that he was back at the Institute and that this place was a trap. His voice was filled with panic, his words cutting through the otherwise calm atmosphere.

Patch quickly excused himself, rushing toward the scene alongside two other medics. Despite their efforts, they seemed to be struggling to calm the mech down.

“Hot Rod, go assist them,” I ordered firmly. “And be careful not to hurt him.”

“Right!” Hot Rod replied, his determination clear as he rushed to join the fray. He maneuvered behind the distressed mech, managing to restrain him while the medics worked to sedate him. “Hey, hey, it’s okay, buddy. Relax now,” he said in a calm, soothing tone.

Suddenly, I felt someone grab me from behind, the cold press of a sharp apparatus prodding against the energon cable at my throat.

“Optimus!!” Codex shouted, frozen in terror, unable to move from his spot.

“Don’t move…! Don’t do anything!” a dark voice hissed into my audial receptors. “You did this to me.”

My optics widened. Shockwave.

With the mech sedated, all optics turned toward me and Shockwave, who now held me captive. Hot Rod took a cautious step forward but froze when Shockwave yanked me back, the sharp apparatus digging into my energon cable. I winced at the sting, the pain sharp and immediate.

“Don’t come any closer, or I’ll do it!” Shockwave snarled, his tone full of malice.

Hot Rod halted, glaring at him, but slowly raised his hands to show he meant no harm. Even so, I could see the telltale glow of his bio-lights activating on his right forearm, betraying his readiness to fire a laser shot at any moment.

“Let him go, Senator Shockwave!”

The shout came from Red Alert on my right, his laser gun aimed squarely at Shockwave. But the Senator didn’t so much as flinch.

“Ha! Go on! Shoot me, if you want your precious Prime to get hurt!” Shockwave hissed, his grip tightening.

“Disengage!” I commanded suddenly, my voice sharp. “Hot Rod. Red Alert. Stand down. NOW.”

Red Alert stiffened, his expression tense. “But Optimus—”

“If his aim were to kill me, he would have done so already,” I said calmly, meeting both their gazes. I felt Shockwave’s glare shift, a silent judgment pressing against me at my words. “Now, lower your weapons.”

Though reluctant, both Red Alert and Hot Rod obeyed, lowering their arms slowly. Still, their frames remained tense, poised to spring into action the moment an opening presented itself.

“Where did you get the confidence to think that I won’t do it?” Shockwave questioned darkly, his voice a low hiss against my audial receptor.

I tilted my head slightly, trying to meet his sole optic. “I never said you wouldn’t. Just that you want something from me first.”

As I spoke, a lingering thought resurfaced. I’d noticed it before, but now it seemed clearer—I wasn’t receiving any alerts of battle protocols engaging. Not that I’d had many chances to test this in combat, but even now, with my life in immediate danger, no HUD warnings or defensive systems had activated. It made sense, really. Perhaps I wasn’t forged as a warrior mech. That would explain a lot. After all, I had control over magnetism and gravity, and the ability to heal mechs with my fluids. Those weren’t abilities meant for war.

I was definitely not a mech forged and reborn for war.

“You think you’re very clever, don’t you, Prime?” he sneered, spitting my title with utter distaste. After a pause, his tone darkened. “…Fine. Fix me.”

My optic ridges lifted in surprise as I turned to face him fully. The movement forced him to shift the apparatus away from my energon cable, careful not to stab me. It was clear—he didn’t truly want to harm me, but the threat lingered, a promise that if he had to, he would.

“Fix you?” I echoed, my tone laced with hesitation. “When I did that once, the emotional strain was overwhelming for you. The damage you went through—”

“I don’t care about that!!” he roared, his optic glowing fiercely, the mechanisms within whirring with intensity. “I meant my faceplate! My servos! I want them back!!”

My optics widened as his words hit me. I recalled Patch mentioning once that it was impossible to recover their faces. The faces removed during the empurata phase were deliberately destroyed, along with the servos. Cybertron provided plenty of replacement parts—but not to this extent.

Most Transformers who went offline were immediately scrapped or melted down for resources. Only removable parts—vocalizers, armor plates, and similar components—were typically salvaged. Otherwise, salvaging a face? That seemed to be deemed unethical—though everything the Institute had done to them was far beyond unethical.

“Senator Shockwave, sir,” Patch said calmly, his tone steady despite the tension. “As I’ve explained before, it is impossible at this time.”

“He fixed me,” Shockwave insisted, his voice trembling with fury. “And he can fix me again! I want to go back to how I was before! Before that slagging Institute ripped me apart and destroyed my identity! This is partly his fault, after all—he’s a Prime! Just like them! Do you really think the Institute started without Sentinel Prime knowing about it!?”

I knew about that, but goddamn it. Fucking Sentinel. The Primes within the Matrix stirred, their simmering rage palpable, most of it emanating from Quintus Prime.

Honestly, that bastard was lucky he’s dead. He got off easy with Megatron taking him down.

“You’re right,” I said simply, my voice calm yet heavy with remorse. “The Primacy failed you. We failed you, Shockwave. And for that, I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want or need your apologies! I want you to fix the wrongs and mistakes your Primacy failed to protect me—and everyone else here—from!” he raged, his voice trembling with fury.

I took a slow breath and willed myself to turn fully toward him, despite the sharp apparatus still pressed against my energon cable.

“W-what are you doing?!” he demanded, panic creeping into his tone. I didn’t answer. Instead, I lifted my servos, steady but deliberate, to touch his face.

“Nobody come close!” I called out firmly, warning Red Alert and Hot Rod, who I could sense preparing to act. “Senator Shockwave is not the enemy.”

Keeping my optics locked on his, I added quietly, “…I’m still learning how to use the Matrix. Restoring your emotional and ethical neural networks was a fluke on my part, but… I’m going to try again.”

Shockwave stiffened at my words, his optic narrowing slightly. But then, slowly, his frame relaxed, and he allowed me to cup his square-rounded helm. His sole, glowing red optic stared into mine, the rage behind it softening—just slightly.

Come on, Matrix. 100% attunement. You can do this much, right? Primus, your people need you.

Suddenly, a warning HUD flashed across my vision.

[ Warning! Possible increase in spark instability detected. Would you like to continue? ]

I tilted my head slightly, surprised. So it’s possible to heal him…but my spark would be unstable?

You know what? Damn the consequences.

With a resolute thought, I dismissed the warning label and channeled all my focus into the Matrix. A loud, humming whir began to resonate, growing deeper and more intense as the Matrix started to glow. The light built rapidly, shining so brightly through my chestplates that it illuminated the room.

The same light enveloped Senator Shockwave completely. His vents hissed with a startled gasp, but I held on, and he didn’t pull away. I focused and prayed. Let this work. Bring him back to how he was before the Institute. If it could help him heal—if it could lead him toward escaping what they did to him—then please…

Please.

My memories of Shockwave in the Transformers series and shows always depicted him as… unhinged. Psychotic. But I never knew why until now. The Institute. The Iacon government and the Primacy had failed him, failed so many others, just because he dared to have ideals. He wanted to create synthetic energon, an invention that would have freed us from endless mining. He saw the truth: this functionalist society thrived on energon scarcity. With an endless supply, the functionalist system would collapse, and those who didn’t fit its rigid molds would no longer be cast aside.

So, please. If I can bring back even a fragment of the person he was before the Institute broke him, that would be enough.

Primus, help him.

When the light finally faded, gasps echoed throughout the hall. I opened my optics—when had they gone offline?—and even I was stunned by what I saw. Gone was the singular optic helm, replaced by a handsome faceplate. His claws… no longer claws, but servos, trembling as they reached out to clasp mine. His blue optics widened, whirring softly as he noticed his hands.

Slowly, he lifted them to his face. His servos grazed the contours of the faceplate, his frame shuddering as realization washed over him. A broken laugh escaped his vocalizer, raw and unsteady, as fluid leaked from his optics. His knees gave out, and I caught him before he could fall.

We sank to the floor together, his frame wracked with sobs that tore through him like a storm. He wept and wailed, pouring out every buried emotion—anguish, relief, grief—all of it raw and uncontainable. The sound rattled the mechs who stood frozen, watching the scene unfold. But I didn’t let go. I kept my arms around him, holding him through the flood of everything he’d held back.

Shockwave.

At Shockwave’s wails, the other patients began to emerge from their rooms. They stood silently, watching, some bearing the same sole optic helm, others with claws—or both.

[Warning! Decrease in Spark stability—]

I ignored it, brushing the alert aside, and gestured for one of the medics. They hurried over, kneeling beside me as I stepped back to let them take my place, comforting Shockwave.

For the rest of the day, I threw myself into healing. One by one, I restored each patient to their original forms—the way they were before the Institute shattered their lives. But while I could mend the damage to their bodies, the deeper wounds were beyond my reach. That task would fall to the Zenith Ward and its most skilled medics, who now held the responsibility of guiding these poor sparks toward recovery.

When the last patient was healed, the ward buzzed with activity. Medics moved swiftly, running tests and evaluations, checking the health and mental stability of every patient. The air was alive with noise—snippets of conversation, the hum of medical equipment, and the lingering echoes of what they had just witnessed.

“…I can’t believe it…” Hot Rod murmured, his voice heavy with disbelief.

Not far away, Red Alert stood beside Aileron, gently comforting her while a medic checked her vitals. She seemed more animated now, her optics brighter, her movements less burdened.

Patch approached me cautiously, his tone carefully measured. “My Prime, I’ve noticed… they’re not reacting the same way as the others did. No outbursts like the first two, when you restored their connections to their emotional circuits.”

I hesitated for a moment before answering, my voice tinged with weariness. “Let’s just say I’ve… dampened the load. For them, it would feel like waking from a long recharge, as if everything they had been through was nothing more but a dream.”

The room spun slightly around me, but I steadied myself and pressed on. “Over time, though, the impact of those memories will return, little by little. And when they do, they’ll need you—and the other exceptional psychiatrists—to guide them through it. This road to recovery will not be easy.”

Patch bowed his head deeply. “I understand, My Prime. We of the Zenith Ward will do everything in our power to help our fellow mechs reclaim their lives.”

I gave him a faint nod, but as I turned, the world tilted dangerously. The motion wasn’t mine alone—the room seemed to shift and sway. Before I could fall, both Jazz and Hot Rod moved swiftly, their servos catching me in time to steady my frame.

Worried optics locked onto me from every direction.

“Hey, Optimus, you good?” Jazz asked, his voice tinged with concern as his servos tightened their grip on my shoulder plating.

“Would you like me to fetch you an energon cube, My Prime?” Codex offered, but his voice sounded distant, as if coming from the other side of the room—though he was standing only a few feet away.

Everything in my vision began to glitch, colors breaking apart into chaotic disarray, like an old television struggling to find its signal. Shapes warped, flickered, and twisted, refusing to hold steady.

Suddenly, warning HUDs flared across my optics, bright and urgent, but their messages blurred before I could make sense of them. Panicked voices echoed around me, sharp with alarm, but they sounded muffled, distant—like I was underwater.

And then, without warning, everything went dark.

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>>> S P A R K S T A B I L I T Y …. 99.99 % ↓↓↓

>>> ↓↓↓ …

>>>… 86.29 %

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