= = =
Megatron’s POV
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“FRAG!” Thundercracker slammed his fist against the console, his vents hissing in frustration as the high-pitched, endlessly looping voice of a song screeched through the room:
♪"Baby shark, doo doo doo doo doo doo…"♫
♪"Baby shark, doo doo doo doo doo doo…"♫
♪"Baby shark, doo doo doo doo doo doo…"♫
“Turn that racket off!” Starscream bellowed, his wings flaring dramatically.
“I can’t!” Thundercracker snapped, his digits flying over the console in a desperate attempt to silence the torment.
Across the room, Skywarp was bobbing his helm to the tune. “Well, I like it! Mommy shark, doo doo doo doo doo doo…!”
Thundercracker growled. “Frag! Just give me a fragging moment!” He glared at the datapad, the offending tune still playing as an array of bizarre questions flashed across the screen. “But what in the Pit do these even mean? How many evolutions does an Eevee have?! What the frag is an Eevee anyway?!”
From his position at the head of the room, Megatron let out a long, low growl. He pinched the bridge of his ridges, his patience wearing thin as the cacophony grated against his audials. The song, the shouting, the nonsense—it all blended into a maddening swirl.
“I swear,” he muttered darkly, his voice like the edge of a blade, “whoever invented that accursed melody will suffer my wrath.”
Perhaps this was precisely why Soundwave had chosen to send the encrypted datapad files to headquarters rather than attempting to crack them himself—because even he couldn’t splice through the encryption and had likely reached the limits of his considerable patience.
When the song blared for the fourth time, Megatron’s patience finally snapped. With a resounding crash, his fist slammed down onto the console, rattling the room.
“Enough!” he roared, his crimson optics blazing. “Cease your meddling and leave it alone!”
“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir, Megatron!” Thundercracker all but sobbed in relief, his servos hovering over the console as he eagerly abandoned the cursed datapad. The moment the order to defrag it was rescinded, his vents let out a grateful hiss, as though he’d been freed from a nightmare.
“Here! Let me splice it!” Starscream snapped, snatching the datapad with a dramatic flair before starting to fiddle with it, his talons tapping away with exaggerated precision.
Jetfire arched an optic ridge, his expression one of skeptical amusement. “You? You’re going to try splicing it?”
Starscream shot him a withering glare, puffing up his plating as he carried the datapad to his console. “Watch and learn, Jetfire! Perhaps you’ll finally understand that not everything revolves around brute force combat.”
He plugged the datapad into his console with a flourish and began attempting to hack through its encryption—layer upon layer left behind by someone who was, without a doubt, truly diabolical.
Megatron’s optic ridge twitched upward as a new sound replaced the dreaded song. This one was mercifully short, lasting only a few nano-clicks. Before anyone could react, Starscream’s console lit up, its holographic screen flickering to life.
The entire room froze, their work forgotten as all optics turned toward the display.
“What is it? What is it?” Thundercracker asked, practically leaping out of his seat as he rushed over, his curiosity overriding any remaining irritation.
Starscream tilted his helm, his expression shifting to one of bemusement as he read the text on the screen. “It says… ‘Use the arrow keys to move left and right, and spacebar to shoot.’”
“These arrow keys?” Thundercracker questioned, pointing at the holographic touch buttons below the display.
Megatron’s optics narrowed as he focused on the pixilated icon of a spaceship darting left and right across the screen. Above it, a row of brightly colored spacecraft icons—clearly different from the one below—zigzagged in formation, firing streaks of white dashes downward.
“What—what is happening!?” Skywarp cried, practically vaulting over to peer at the screen himself.
“Hold on! I’ve got this!” Starscream snapped, frantically pressing the arrow keys to evade the incoming fire.
“Oh! I think we’re supposed to avoid getting hit!” Thundercracker exclaimed, his tone wavering between excitement and confusion.
Nearby, Megatron stood with the rest of the Decepticon Command, watching the chaotic display unfold. They exchanged uncertain glances, collectively bewildered by the purpose and function of the spectacle. The screen showed multiple levels, with each introducing more intricate waves of “enemies.” The attackers flew in coordinated patterns, their firepower intensifying as Starscream struggled to keep their starship intact.
Thundercracker jabbed the spacebar repeatedly, unleashing a volley of white dots in retaliation, his claws moving with increasing urgency. Skywarp, however, refused to quiet down. He was a whirlwind of energy, shouting and gesturing wildly—not just at the attacking icons, but also at the glowing symbols that occasionally drifted by, hinting at upgrades to their ship’s firepower.
By the time they reached Level 5, their starship was obliterated in a sudden, devastating bomb attack. The screen dimmed, and a somber jingle played as large block letters flashed on the display:
G A M E O V E R
New High Score!
Please enter Initials (3 Max)
Without hesitation, Starscream leaned in and rapidly keyed in “STA” for his initials. Moments later, the leaderboard appeared. It was sparsely populated, showing only two entries: “STA” for Starscream and “SOU” in first place.
Megatron’s vents hissed in frustration as he rose from his throne. Without another word, he strode out of the room, determined to put this absurd waste of time behind him.
Well played, Prime, he mused bitterly, the thought gnawing at his pride. It was becoming increasingly apparent that Optimus Prime’s encryption coding might rival even the most advanced cyber warfare techniques Megatron had at his disposal. That fool is fortunate to have such a competent mech on his side.
At this time, the leader of Decepticons would have never assumed that Optimus Prime was the one behind the encryption.
Megatron entered his private office, his irritation still simmering beneath the surface. Settling at his console, he initiated a secure connection. With a few precise clicks, Soundwave’s image materialized on the holo-screen, the faint hum of the projection filling the room.
“My liege,” Soundwave greeted, his tone calm and unwavering.
“I require an update on your investigation into Optimus Prime,” Megatron commanded, his voice cold and deliberate. “Immediately, Soundwave.”
At this point, The Leader of the Decepticons was absolutely certain that Optimus Prime was just playing with them, treating them like fools.
“This is what I have gathered so far,” Soundwave intoned. “Origin: Optimus Prime was once Orion Pax, an archivist—publicly confirmed in forums across the grid. What is not known to the public, however, is that he was once a disciple of Alpha Trion.”
Alpha Trion? Megatron’s optics narrowed. He knew that name well. That ancient rust bucket was still functional?
“Data collected from the Prime Citadel indicates that Orion Pax was little more than Alpha Trion’s shadow,” Soundwave continued, his tone as steady and emotionless as ever. “However, Alpha Trion went offline a week before Sentinel Prime’s death at your servoss, My Liege.”
Ah. Megatron’s lips curled faintly. Guess not. He knew little about the ancient mech beyond his billions of years of existence, but that mattered not. Alpha Trion was a relic of a bygone era, worthless in the face of the new world Megatron was forging.
Soundwave continued, “After Sentinel’s death, rumors spread that Orion Pax began investigating crimes tied to the Institute. He is said to have uncovered irrefutable evidence implicating both Sentinel Prime, Zeta Prime, Senator Proteus, and a few others.”
Megatron raised an optic ridge at that revelation. So, once his master was gone, this Orion Pax had started sniffing around? Living under Alpha Trion’s shadow, he must have led a sheltered, cozy existence—blissfully unaware of Cybertron’s injustices and the disdainful treatment of the lower castes.
“And then he brought the evidence to the Senate Council,” Megatron said as he recalled the moment when everything began to change on Cybertron. “Any enlightening details on what exactly transpired during that meeting?”
As always, not a single mech who had been present at the meeting dared to speak of it.
Soundwave paused briefly before responding, “Observation: the Royal Forces stationed at the Prime Citadel both fear and revere Optimus Prime. They are not inclined to repeat the incident.”
So, no answers. Thundercracker might have been right—something else must have occurred in that room beyond the Matrix choosing Orion Pax as its new bearer.
“What else do you have, Soundwave?” Megatron pressed. What he had so far was not enough.
He needed more—more evidence to show his followers and the world that Optimus Prime was no better than the Primes before him. A False Prime. The Matrix and Primus? Mere ancient folklore, crafted to manipulate society into accepting the functionalist caste system as the natural order.
Never again would Megatron be bound by such lies.
This was why Optimus Prime and the whole Primacy had to fall.
The video started to play.
“You’re very pretty. Such a pretty little winglet.”
Megatron recoiled, momentarily dumbfounded as a video began playing. On the screen, a red-and-blue mech smiled warmly, looking directly at him with a kindness that felt entirely out of place.
“Go on. You must be starving.”
Optimus pushed the energon cube closer, gesturing gently toward Laserbeak. The small cassette hesitated for only a moment before dipping into the cube, feeding hungrily. All the while, Optimus Prime watched with an expression of pure delight, his optics gleaming with genuine glee.
What was Megatron watching exactly??
Several more videos played, each depicting Optimus Prime engaged in leisurely activities with his followers. He laughed freely, chatted cheerfully, and moved with an ease that spoke of genuine joy—unburdened by the weight of the world’s darkness and cruelty. There was a purity in him, untainted, almost childlike in its sincerity. It felt… alive, an organic spontaneity rarely seen in mechs, except perhaps in newsparks.
How… odd. For once, Megatron was at a loss for words.
Was this why Alpha Trion had kept the mech hidden in his shadow, away from the world? To shield the wonder that sparkled in those blue optics?
While Megatron had scoured the deepest mines, clawing through dirt and despair in search of energon that was all but depleted, this little “wonder” had lived a peaceful, modest life, untouched by the struggles of Cybertron’s decay. It should infuriate him, make him seethe with envy—but instead, he found himself inexplicably drawn to it. That image of innocence, of kindness... it was something he could never have, yet somehow coveted all the same.
“Here, would you like more, Sonia?”
Sonia?
Megatron’s optics narrowed, his frown deepening as confusion gave way to irritation.
“Soundwave,” he said sharply, “why is Laserbeak not in disguise?”
Soundwave seemed to wilt slightly. “Explanation: Laserbeak does not perceive Optimus Prime as a threat. Further observation: Optimus Prime kept Laserbeak’s presence a secret from his guards and constituents. He ensured she had a means of escape and does not appear to mind her copying datapads. Conclusion: Optimus Prime is confident that the encryption cannot be easily spliced.”
That’s for certain. Megatron grimaced in disdain, the obnoxious echo of that ridiculous song still grating on his audials. What was a "shark," anyway?
“Do you have any insight into who encrypted the datapads?” Megatron asked, his tone clipped.
Soundwave nodded. “Answer: Yes. According to Laserbeak, the encryption was done by Optimus Prime himself.”
Once again, the information threw him off balance. Perhaps being an archivist had granted Orion Pax access to a wealth of knowledge and resources, but did that include advanced encryption skills? Megatron doubted it. The Hall of Records was exactly what its name suggested—a repository of historical events, meticulously dated and recorded. It wasn’t a place where one simply picked up expertise in hacking and encrypting data without extensive experience.
Before he could dwell on the thought further, the next clip jolted him. Megatron’s optics narrowed as he watched Ultra Magnus—the aged commander who had vowed to bring him down for Sentinel’s death—kiss the palms of that wonder spark. The gesture was met with a flustered reaction, and for some reason, it made something wretched churn in Megatron’s tanks.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
A surge of possessiveness overtook him, and he wanted nothing more than to obliterate Ultra Magnus on the spot with his fusion cannon, wiping away any claim the old mech thought he had. That wonderous spark was his.
. . . His?
The word echoed in Megatron’s processor, leaving him stunned. He was confounded by his own thoughts, struggling to rationalize this…conundrum.
It was becoming increasingly clear that this Optimus Prime was nothing like the Primes before him. He was naïve, almost docile, with no apparent hunger for power. If anything, Megatron was beginning to see this Prime as a kind of trophy. The thought stirred something dark within him: the vision of Magnus kneeling in defeat, and Optimus Prime begging for mercy.
These thoughts were dangerous, Megatron knew. They could lead to his undoing. He had encountered far more attractive and alluring bots before. So, what was it about Optimus Prime that set him apart? Why did he find this Prime more captivating than the pleasurebots he had bedded in the past?
Perhaps…it wasn’t about looks or charm, but something deeper.
Megatron realized that Optimus Prime was his final obstacle on the path to ruling all of Cybertron, and not Ultra Magnus. Conquering Optimus Prime would be the ultimate victory. To take him as a prisoner, display him as a prize to the world—proof of Megatron’s right as Leader of all Cybertron—would ensure that no one would dare contest his rulership.
“Lord Megatron.” Soundwave’s voice cut through his thoughts, snapping him back to the present.
“What is it, Soundwave?” Megatron asked, raising an optic ridge as he caught a faint trace of urgency in his third-in-command’s typically monotonous tone.
“Laserbeak has returned with urgent news,” Soundwave reported. “Optimus Prime has been hospitalized. Location: Zenith Ward. Time: approximately eleven clicks ago.”
Megatron straightened sharply. Hospitalized? Was the Prime attacked? With how fragile he appeared in the videos, it was no surprise he’d gotten hurt. How Magnus allowed the Prime to wander around so freely, seemingly without concern, was beyond Megatron’s comprehension.
If it were me, I would… He cut off that dangerous thought before it could take root.
“Do you know why?” he prompted, his tone clipped and expectant.
“Laserbeak managed to secure footage,” Soundwave replied. “Playing it now.”
Megatron’s optics narrowed as the video flickered on.
Onscreen, Optimus Prime was held hostage by an Institute empurata agent, a sharp apparatus poised threateningly at his energon cable. The hall depicted in the video was a scene of bated tension; there was no audio, yet the frantic movements of the others in the room were unmistakable. Two soldiers were present ready to fire their blasters at the agent until they lowered their arms. Their plated lips moved rapidly as they seemed to shout at the Institute agent, desperate for Optimus’s release.
Then, the little Prime turned to face his captor, unwavering, without a trace of fear in his stance. Without caring of the weapon against his throat, his servos reached up and touched the agent’s face.
Suddenly, the entire feed erupted in a blinding white light, obscuring everything for several moments. When the brilliance subsided, the scene had changed. The empurata agent was now enveloped in that same radiant glow, their form shifting and warping before everyone’s optics. As the light finally faded, the features of a once-familiar figure emerged—a face unmistakably belonging to a long-lost Senator who had vanished over a mega cycle ago.
Senator Shockwave.
Megatron shot to his pedes and commanded sharply. “Play it again!”
Soundwave flinched at the order but quickly complied, his claws moving deftly to replay the extraordinary sequence.
All the while, Megatron couldn’t believe what he was seeing. For the first time in eons, he felt a chill run through his systems—a sensation uncomfortably close to both awe and fear. This had to be trickery. Some elaborate deception. What had Optimus Prime just done? Megatron had witnessed medics perform wonders on the battlefield, seen technology push the boundaries of life and death, but this? This was beyond all of it. It bordered on the impossible—a fantasy ripped straight from the Primus-worshipping fanatics.
And yet, the silence of the former Senators—those now disgraced and convicted—suddenly made sense. They had seen this power before, witnessed a miracle firsthand, and now cowered in fear of Primus’s supposed righteous fury.
Megatron glowered, his optics narrowing. Primus wasn’t real. This was no divine intervention. It just couldn’t be.
The video continued, no longer replaying the initial scene, but capturing what followed. Optimus moved from one room to another, supposedly placing his servos on mechs left broken and deformed by the Institute. One by one, the victims began to change—restored to forms they had likely believed lost forever. It was systematic, thorough, and utterly unprecedented. Each act sent another ripple of disbelief through Megatron’s circuits.
The Matrix. It had to be the Matrix’s power. Somehow, Optimus Prime was able to tap into its power to restore other mechs. This couldn’t be the work of Primus, but rather of ancient technology when the matrix was first created.
That had to be it.
When the footage reached its end, Optimus Prime swayed, his energy reserves clearly drained from the monumental effort. And then, without warning, he collapsed, his small frame caught just in time by his people.
Megatron’s fists clenched, shaking with tension, and for a long moment, his vents released nothing but static. Then came the hiss—a sharp exhale of frustration that hung in the air like a storm about to break.
“…This doesn’t change anything,” he muttered lowly to himself, the words more for him than anyone else.
But even as the sentence left his mouth, it felt thin, like a brittle piece of metal ready to snap. He repeated it, softer this time, as though trying to hammer it into reality. “It doesn’t change anything…”
“Megatron, my liege?” Soundwave prompted, his voice cutting through the tension.
“…Continue monitoring Optimus Prime, Soundwave,” Megatron finally ordered, his tone clipped and cold. His optics narrowed as he frowned deeply. “And make sure Laserbeak doesn’t repeat the same mistake. She cannot carelessly reveal herself like that to him.”
Soundwave hesitated briefly, then tilted his head in a slight bow. “I understand, my liege.”
After a few more nano-clicks, Soundwave disconnected the link, leaving Megatron alone with his thoughts. He leaned back in his throne-like chair, optics dim as he replayed the scene over and over in his neural network.
There was no doubt in his processor that word of this would spread—through Iacon and other cities. Even if the footage was deleted from the grid, intakes would talk. Mechs would whisper, and before long, Optimus Prime’s reputation would grow even further. The idea of him as Primus’ chosen would take hold, whether it’d be true or not.
Megatron scowled, his claws tapping rhythmically against the armrest. If anything, this only solidified his conclusion: Optimus Prime was the key to ruling all of Cybertron. With him at his side, no one would dare to question his ruling. He was sure of it.
One way or another, Optimus Prime will kneel.
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= = =
Op’s POV
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My optics flickered online, revealing an unfamiliar white ceiling. It wasn’t the place where Primus usually summoned me—there were no glowing blue-lined grids this time. Turning my helm, I took in my surroundings: a spacious room, clinical yet refined, resembling a hospital suite designed for a VIP. I supposed being Prime had its privileges.
“Optimus…!”
The voice drew my attention to the left. Only then did I notice Jazz seated by my bedside. He must have been dozing earlier; his posture was slouched, and his optics betrayed lingering grogginess. But the relief in his expression as he saw me awake was unmistakable.
“How long was I out?” I asked, prioritizing the question that mattered most.
Jazz grimaced, clearly reluctant to answer. “’Bout five cycles…”
Five cycles. I vented in deeply.
Carefully, I rose from my berth. Jazz’s servos shot out, ready to catch me, clearly worried, but I felt fine.
“I’m good,” I said, brushing off his concern.
Jazz shook his helm, clearly not convinced. “You can’t be good. Ratchet said you had a spark flare.”
A spark… flare? It took less than a nano-click for my processors to scavenge through my ‘mind palace’ for that information. A spark flare was a severe overload of stress on the spark itself. Rare, but not unheard of. Rarely did anyone survive one. Sparks were usually strong. Even after being in stasis for billions of years, a spark would continue to burn, sustaining life with barely any energon left. But under the right—or wrong—circumstances, they could become fragile fast.
It all clicked. By healing and restoring all those patients, I must have pushed my spark too far, slightly damaging it without even realizing.
Actually, that was incorrect. I saw the notifications and warnings, but I willfully ignored them.
Maybe it was because I believed myself to be invincible. After all, I could bend metal, manipulate gravity with a single thought, and heal other mechs with nothing more than my fluid tears. But when I prayed for—let’s call it ‘divine intervention’—I realize now that it wasn’t my power I was wielding. It was something borrowed from Primus himself.
In the end, my body wasn’t built to handle the full force of Primus’ power. It could only endure what the Matrix allowed me to possess.
“Please drink this while I go get Ratchet,” Jazz said, grabbing the high-grade energon cube from the bedside table and handing it to me. “Wait here.”
With that, he hurried out of the room, the doors sealing shut behind him with a sharp shk! But just before they closed completely, I caught a glimpse of Red Alert and Hot Rod’s frames stationed outside. How long had they been guarding my door? Five cycles? I hoped they got a break at some point.
A few clicks later, the doors slid open again, and Ratchet stepped inside. Behind him, Hot Rod leaned in, trying to peek into the room and waving at me, only to be met with a sharp scolding from Red Alert. The doors shut quickly behind Ratchet before I had the chance to wave back.
For the first time since coming online as Optimus Prime, I felt a wave of nervousness. Ratchet’s stoic faceplate and the tension in his frame as he approached my berth only made it worse.
Still, I did my best to keep my nerves in check. “Good morning, Ratchet.”
Ratchet stopped in front of me, fixing me with a pointed stink eye.
“Don’t you ‘good morning’ me, Optimus,” he snapped, his tone sharp and curt. “Why don’t you start explaining how you got a spark flare, hmm?”
Every neural network in me was screaming to run, but that wouldn’t exactly be dignified. Instead, I took a deep vent-in and answered, “I may have overworked myself.”
Ratchet folded his arms, clearly unimpressed. “Uh-huh. And what’s your excuse for ignoring and dismissing the warning HUDs?”
Shit. He could see that? Checking through my database, I quickly confirmed that medics had the ability to extract process logs with their scanners—especially logs tied to incidents like my spark flare. So, of course, he knew.
When I didn’t answer, Ratchet vented out a frustrated sigh. “Optimus, you’ve got to be more careful. That spark flare could have cost you your spark! Especially with whatever you’re doing with that Matrix.”
“I’ll try to be more careful,” I replied quickly, shifting the focus to what mattered most. “What about the Institute patients? How are they?”
Ratchet hesitated, his optics flickering slightly before he relented with a sigh through his vents. “Whatever you did, Optimus… they’re themselves again. Sort of. Patch explained to me how you ‘dampened the load,’ making it feel like what they went through in the Institute was just a distant dream.”
“…It’s only temporary,” I clarified. “It’s meant to help them cope with what happened.”
Ratchet narrowed his optics, his frown deepening. “But it’ll come back. Full force.”
“Pound by pound,” I said calmly. “Not all at once. I’m hoping that, given enough time, their neural networks will be ready to accept the truth.”
Ratchet pursed his intakes, clearly weighing his words before speaking. “I don’t know if this skirts some sort of ethical or moral boundary—taking away their emotional and mental pain. That kind of pain is often necessary for proper recovery. But…” He vented softly. “It’s a mercy you’ve given them, Optimus. Probably more than any of us medics could have done in such a short amount of time. Still, a quick fix is just that—a quick fix.”
“I understand,” I replied, fully aware of the controversial nature of my decision. “I hope to rely on you and Patch to work closely with the patients moving forward.”
“You can count on us,” Ratchet said, his tone firm. “But right now, I need you to lay back and let me run some scans.” He raised his forearm, a jack extending from a compartment.
I obeyed, reclining on the berth as he attached the jack to the port on my right forearm. The sensation was strange yet familiar, almost routine. It reminded me of that game Cyberpunk—I could suddenly relate to how the player character felt when Viktor Vektor, the ripper doc, jacked into their system.
Windows opened in my HUD, displaying everything Ratchet was accessing. As he manually worked through cleaning up my processors, I couldn’t help but find it fascinating. But the thought of falling behind my schedule quickly gnawed at me.
“When can I leave?” I asked, trying to keep my tone neutral.
“When I say you can leave,” Ratchet replied curtly, his gruff voice carrying a sharp edge. “You just had a spark flare, for Primus’ sake, Optimus!”
I tilted my helm, studying the scans displayed in my HUD. “Hmm. From what I’m seeing, my systems look like they’re in working order.”
“On the surface, maybe,” Ratchet countered firmly. “But I still think you should stay in berth for a cycle or two. Just take it easy. And no more using the Matrix.”
“I’m always using the Matrix, Ratchet,” I said in a flat, matter-of-fact tone. “It’s a part of me.”
“Not when it’s hurting you!” Ratchet snapped, his voice rising.
I sat up, reaching over to grasp his arm gently. “Hey… Ratchet? Is everything okay?”
That’s when I noticed it—this wasn’t just about my spark flare. Ratchet vented a weary sigh as he un-jacked himself from my forearm. His servos lingered, resting against mine.
“…You know, I was afraid to make contact with you at first,” Ratchet admitted, his optics reflecting a melancholic gaze. “Especially when I heard the news that you became Optimus Prime. I thought… maybe you weren’t the same person anymore. Watching how you acted on the vids during press briefings… it made me think I’d lost Orion Pax to the Matrix.”
I stayed quiet, letting him speak.
Ratchet vented softly, a small chuckle escaping him. “Heh… I think I may have been wrong. Even now, you’re just as stubborn as ever. I’m both relieved and regretful because it means I can’t cow you into not using the Matrix. You only ever did listen to Alpha Trion.”
I vented a weak laugh at that. “I did, didn’t I…?”
Ratchet’s expression shifted, his frown deepening. “Sprocket, do you still resent him?”
“Don’t call me Sprocket, Ratchet,” I snapped, unable to suppress the sharp rise of indignation and disgust towards that name. It wasn’t just a nickname; it was his nickname for Orion Pax, one Alpha Trion had used often—and occasionally, Ratchet as well. But I wouldn’t allow that anymore, because yes—
I resented Alpha Trion. At least, Orion Pax did.
“I’m sorry,” Ratchet said quickly, his shoulders sinking as the apology left him. “You know he was only trying to protect you, right?”
“There were others who needed more protection than I did. That’s not what I was upset about,” I said quietly.
He made Orion Pax—made me—feel like a fool. He led him to believe the world was right, that everything was at peace. He blinded Orion Pax to the cracks forming in society, to the signs of a world breaking down under the weight of its functionalist ways and the caste system woven into it.
I cannot forgive that. Not when it feels like the future of Cybertron is crushing down on my shoulders of that prophetic war—the millions of years of destruction between Autobots and Decepticons.
This cannot happen here.
After a moment, I vented softly and looked up at Ratchet. “…Thank you for treating me, Ratchet. And… I hope I can still rely on you in the future?”
Ratchet shuddered slightly, relieved, as he nodded. “Of course, Optimus. You can always come to me, and I’ll fix you right up. Always. Just… please, please be more careful with yourself.”
My intakes stretched into a faint smile. “I can’t make promises, but I’ll do my best.”
As a compromise, I agreed to stay another cycle in the hospital room. Ratchet reassured Jazz—whom Magnus had appointed as my caretaker—that I’d be ready to leave tomorrow.
During that time, I received visits from Magnus, Codex, and even Perceptor and Wheeljack. I apologized to them for the delay in restoring the fluxstream, but they all insisted I focus on resting.
The next cycle of the morning—what I’d equate to 10:00 on Earth, since time worked differently here on Cybertron—I left the Zenith Ward accompanied by my retainers, Magnus, and a small brigade.
Apparently, my hospitalization couldn’t be kept under wraps. While there was no proof of my restoring the Institute patients to their original forms—those vids had been swiftly removed from the grid—word of mouth spread just as quickly. Magnus had to handle a press cleanup, sticking to the facts and even announcing plans to reopen the fluxstream.
And so, that morning, I found myself at the ancient energon aqueducts. The entire property had been barricaded by the royal forces to keep civilians at bay, ensuring I could work without interruption.
The plates of my chassis shifted open, and I carefully removed the Matrix with both servos. The swirling white ball of energy unmerged from my blue spark effortlessly, leaving behind a few tingling sensations. It was an odd feeling, but not painful.
Holding the Matrix high toward the aqueducts—where waterfalls of energon had once torrentially flowed—I focused.
“…Primus… lend me your strength…” I murmured under my vents.
An image filled my mind: a faucet. No, multiple faucets. Each represented a flow of energon across Cybertron. I could sense that I had the power to open them all at once without effort—but that wasn’t the goal. I reminded myself that opening them all would crash the economy as the price of energon would plum to mere scraps.
No. I needed to focus. Just one faucet.
Iacon City would be the start.
Nano-clicks later, the ground began to quake, the tremors growing stronger with each passing moment.
“Optimus—!” Magnus’s voice called out from behind me, but I didn’t stop.
At first, gunk and sludge sputtered from the source, thick and unclean. But then, crystal-clear water streaked with energon burst forth in a torrential flood. The stream cascaded into the aqueducts, rushing through the wide canals with startling speed.
The crowd watching from a distance erupted into cheers and gasps of awe. The Fluxstream—dormant and dry for millions of years—was alive again, flowing once more.
Endless source of energon was once again available to Iacon, and soon, all of Cybertron.
I lowered the Matrix—relief washing over me. I had known it would work, of course—but knowing and seeing it were two entirely different experiences.
Turning around, I found my retainers staring in stunned awe, their reactions split between celebration and disbelief. Hot Rod and Jazz were jumping excitedly, pulling each other into a side hug, while the rest stood frozen, their jaws practically hanging down to their chestplates.
Before I could even join their celebration, a bright red light suddenly blinded my left optic.
DODGE. The Primes of the Matrix screamed and I leapt to the side without hesitation.
A laser beam struck the exact spot where I’d been standing moments ago, leaving scorched metal in its wake.
Primus fraggin’ damnit, can I get just one fragging break here…!?
The red light settled on me then but before I could move, a very familiar bird got in the way.
NO--!
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= = =