Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It happened quickly, almost instantaneously, a slip of the pede and a life came crashing down.

“...highness...”

“......your highness..!”

The pleas were like a cacophony to an uninjured audial, but they faded in and out like whispers to the object of their calling. Too many voices, it was almost overwhelming, yet a random voice amidst the crying stood out,

“Your Highness please wake up!” it begged especially loud.

Cerulean blue optics shot open and immediately shuttered once more after contact with the light, voices shushed at the reaction. The voice sounded desperate enough to silence the crowd and disturb the sleeping mech.

Well, sleeping might be pushing it.

Adjusting their focus, those same blue optics struggled to adjust to the bright, white light that filled the room their frame resided in. It was almost too bright, after adjusting their focus, and failing once more they remained closed until it was safe enough to try again. That meant other methods had to be used, olfactory sensors merely picked up a faint floral scent which proved to be of no real help. Trying to listen was also a fruitless endeavor as the previous voice had rid the room of any noise, not even a vent could be heard. Or perhaps it was the ringing noise that made its presence known in the audials of the collapsed frame now that it was paired with the dead silence. Eyebrows scrunched and optics crinkled in their closed state, the last hope was to try and feel around which had actually proved to be of some help. A small flick of the wrist and the sensation of a soft fabric was sent coursing through the frame.

Curious. was the resounding consensus at such a feeling, another strained servo movement and it sent another sensation through the frame. It was more than just soft, it was delicate, plush, and incredibly smooth to the touch. That alone made it known to the frame that it was expensive.

Expensive. That caused another reaction. As if the soft fabric had reinstated the drive to see, optics gently opened once more and with the previously lost battle with light under their belt, they opened with the lowest exposure setting available. Now this battle was won. Though vision was blurry it was enough to see, at the very least, straight above.

It was a ceiling, as one would usually assume, except this ceiling was...unique; it practically exuded extravagance and wealth even with diluted optical power. It was painted, soft blues, yellows, pinks, and white danced across the arching pillars and delicate trimming of the edges. Although the subject of the painting was hard to figure out when the optics looking at them could barely see at all, it nonetheless prompted more confusion.

Since when did I have a painted ceiling? Or pillars? Or trimming on my walls? The bed-ridden frame thought.

Somewhere, in the back of their processor a more logical voice merely laughed, You don’t.

And that’s when the panic set in.

As though the frame suddenly had been struck with Solus’ all powerful forge they shot forward into a seated position and the crowd around the berth- why were they in a berth? Let out a collective yelp in surprise, but that was beyond the point, why were they in a room with painted ceilings and silky sheets and why were these mechs calling them your highness?!

A blue helm looked about the room frantically and with the sudden change of position, the pain that had once been a simple ringing in the audials struck but it was painfully ignored in favor of getting a look at what exactly was happening.

There was indeed a group surrounding the berth, five in total, three mechs and two femmes. All a distinct color but seemingly plain beyond that, they shared a shocked look as wide blue optics gawked at them.

As if on cue a little voice off to the left managed to cry out, “Oh thank primus, he’s awake!”

“No thanks to the lot of you!” A new voice barked, “Your constant yowling could bring a mech back from the dead!”

Everyone’s helms shot towards the doorway, upon realization of who had spoken, the group around the berth seemed to shrink back sheepishly at the new voice entering the room.

“But you have to understand, we were worried!” one, a blue femme, pleaded.

“Well, if you were really worried you would have called for me sooner!” The same harsh voice from the doorway snapped.

That seemed enough to shut everyone up for the time being, and the frame at the doorway stepped closer. It was a mech, perhaps mid-sized, white, with red details wearing a scowl to match his earlier established temperament and with a resounding thunk placed a medkit on the nightstand next to the berth, taking a seat on an accompanying stool.

“Now let’s take a look at you.” He said plainly.

“You should shouldn’t speak to royalty that way…especially to the-” the blue femme spoke quietly before cutting herself off with a squeak after the medic shot her a look and decided hiding behind her fellow group members was somehow going to save her from the medics wrath.

Those same blue optics blinked at the latest addition, though not for long as they scanned across the room once more. It was certainly extravagant, well, extravagant was an understatement. It was exceedingly lavish, like those berthrooms you’d see on the real estate channel no mech could really afford but they built and decorated anyways, except this room definitely had an air of superiority to anything he saw on that channel. It carried itself with an ancient grace, as though it hid something...

He shook his head, and focused back on the group and the medic. They all stared at him with varying degrees of confusion, as if they caught on to his bewilderment. It was silent for a few moments, until the bed ridden mech couldn’t take the impromptu staring contest any longer and spoke.

“Um,” He began before immediately slapping his servos over his intake, that was not his voice. It was too deep, too much of a baritone, but not much else could be concluded since he looked down, and low and behold those were not his servos. With rekindled panic he scrambled to the corner of the berth and fell off, taking those lovely sheets with him.

After catching the silhouette of a vanity, wrapped in sheets, the mech crawled and teetered towards it, not making a peep out of fear of what might come out.

“Hey, be careful-” The medic followed while jolting up from his seat, but the red-and-blue mech was already scrambling his way across the floor like some crazed scaplet.

Finally grasping the edge of the vanity, the sheet-tangled mech managed to pull himself up with shaking legs, gripping the edges of the vanity when a glimpse of the mirror showed him the truth of the matter.

This was not his frame.

He was red and blue, sure, the helm shape was there with a longer crest and audial fins but that was where the similarities ended. This frame...this frame was something out of a warframe playbot magazine; Silver base armor was painted red and blue and covered in an almost gaudy flame design, sharp optics in a constant glare, large chest plates that cinched down to an almost unrealistically small waist before extending out once more to equally powerful hips, thighs, and legs. This frame was certainly a looker, but a definite a far cry from the simple, boxy, civilian frame he expected to see. He was almost scandalized to be in such a frame.

Though his attempts to detach himself from the frame were futile. He moved and the frame matched his movements, he blinked and those perfect blue optics blinked. This was, in fact, the frame he was inhabiting at the moment.

“Wha-” he began before collapsing onto the floor after hearing the strange voice escape his vocalizer again.

He snapped his helm towards the group back at the berth with terrified optics and shaking vents he found the courage to ask,

“Who am I?”

The room fell into hysteria.

“What do you mean “who am I?!’” A femme, yellow this time, screeched.

The blue femme from before sobbed, “He doesn’t know who he is!”

“But how can he forget!” a purple mech pleaded to himself.

“Enough!” The medic snapped back to the group, “This may simply be temporary amnesia, he did take a nasty fall…” He concluded and drew himself up pensively.

Raising a servo to his head, the red and blue mech looked even more confused.

“What happened? Who are you? Where am-” he immediately cut himself off.

Now hold on a breem. Red and blue flame colored frame, resting glitch face, royal title, lavish room…? Optics cycled to their widest setting. Everything seemed to fall into place like a data pad on a shelf of the archives.

Oh.

Oh no.

The archives.

He reeled and whipped his helm back at the mirror. This couldn’t be happening, he cannot be in a flamed-red-and-blue-warframe-with-a-resting-glitch-face-and-royal-title-in-a-lavish-room because he is not a character in a fantasy novel! He was an archivist, in the hall of records, and his name was Orion Pax. At this point the pain in Orion’s helm developed into a pounding sensation as he clutched it and curled into himself, venting heavily, too shocked to even weep. Four out of the five servants ran towards him, abandoning their post at the almost comically large berth and softly cradled him with silent coos while others asked him to calm down, stroking his back struts. The medic and remaining servant stared at the events unfolding before them before the white and red mech snapped out of his haze and ran over to the mech curled up on the floor.

“Alright, alright. Out of the way, all of you!” he barked and turned towards the remaining servant still by the berth, “You! Get me my supplies!”

“Ah! Y-yes chief medical officer Ratchet!” The servant stated, stumbling across his words trying to state the title of his superior, Ratchet rolled his optics and returned to tending to his patient.

The clicking of fast-paced steps echoed through the grand corridor as Ratchet made his way towards the door at the end of the hall. His hurried nature was not ignored by the occupants of the hall as he made his way, they all gave him a passing stare and a light snicker but they went largely ignored by the medic. Considering the disaster that had just occurred, Ratchet feared the news he brought would end as poorly as before, he couldn’t waste his time on the passing comments of servants and irrelevant figures. Ratchet sighed, and stepped closer to the great doors where two powerful frames stopped him from coming closer.

With a steeled demeanor, Ratchet spoke loudly, “I bring news of the crown prince’s condition. Please relay my intentions to his majesty Lord Protector so that I may tell him in detail.”

If words could ignite, Ratchet’s started a wildfire. The corridor erupted in chatter about the prince’s condition.

“Poor thing! I hope he’s alright...” one servant whispered off near a window.

“Good riddance if you ask me!” Another said under their vents as they tended to a vase.

“I heard he had a meltdown! How ungraceful!” A maid snickered to another.

Ratchet continued to brush them off, servants were as fickle as a flame and as easily swayed as a flag, their comments held as much importance as a pauper. Returning his attention to the guards at the doorway they hesitantly looked at one another.

"Are you certain?" The one to the left started.

"Yes." Ratchet cut in almost immediately.

Both guards looked strained and nodded before opening the great doors.

“Announcing the respectable ch-” One began.

“Ah yep! Yep! Yep!” Ratchet cut them off, “None of that, he knows who I am.” he finished before pushing through the gap between the door.

Upon his entry Ratchet was met with a large rectangular table in the middle of the room, about three seats on each side and a throne in the center at the farthest end of the table holding the mech he wished to speak to. The room was large as well, blue wallpapered walls were decorated with expensive paintings of historical moments that almost took up the entire wall as stands were placed between each painting with some equally ancient artifact as a grandiose chandelier lit the room with it’s great presence. The floor was a sturdy, slick material with rug taking up a majority of it. The room held itself, but didn’t light a candle to the beings that resided in the chairs. Realizing what he was looking at Ratchet’s tanks dropped, suddenly understanding the guard's hesitation, all seats were occupied.

“Chief medical officer Ratchet,” a booming voice started, “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Ratchet turned towards the voice, powerful energon-blue optics met his own, seated upon the throne was the most revered mech in the kingdom: Lord High Protector Ultra Magnus. His powerful frame and strength betrayed by a sympathetic look on his face.

Ratchet bowed, “I bear news regarding the condition of prince Optimus Prime. Although, perhaps, I should speak to you about it in private?” He ended somewhat hesitantly in a feeble attempt to hide his growing fear.

“No need.” another voice stated as sharpened claws waved away his worries, “I’m sure we all are curious regarding the health of our beloved crown prince.”

There it was. The voice that even made Ratchet shiver, he turned towards the deep voice. A cold look was met on both ends when red optics pierced through blue as murmurs of agreement spread through the room. A silver frame through and through, he stood out as his pauldrons rolled with every movement as he adjusted himself on his seat, gold accents painted his frame for the day—temporary additions that would be removed in the later ours served as tokens for his place as a noble. Compared to others, he was much more plain in terms of colors, but more than made up for it through his presence and militant power.

“Duke Megatron…” Ratchet began.

Duke Megatron, the adopted son of the previous Duke Galvatron. Originally from Kaon, or was it Tarn? Wherever he was from, it showed. Tall, brooding, and ruggedly handsome he stuck out amidst the typically slender and smaller Iaconian nobility, making him a highly coveted figure across the board.

There was always something off about that brat, even when he was a mechling adopted into Galvatron’s house. Ratchet thought bitterly.

But try as he might, Ratchet had to stick to his objective.

Ratchet shook his head and fixed his posture “Very well then, the prince has awakened and seems to be in good health but…”

This was where things got tricky, one on servo Ratchet might not have the chance to tell Ultra Magnus in the mesh that Optimus was amnesic, but on the other...stating that the crown prince was amnesic was a terrible move when every enemy to the crown was in that room. Though Ratchet never considered himself allied to the royal family with the fact they were all corrupt in their own right. If anything, he resented them for taking him out of his little clinic and requesting he become their private physician with the then Lord Prime’s health declined. Even so, he had developed a soft spot for the prince’s of the family; he helped deliver them and cared for them when their carrier had met their untimely demise. Even when two of the three prince’s were arguably just as bad as their predecessors.

“But what?” A shrill voice chimed in, “I’m here on a visit, I don’t have the time to tolerate stammering medics, if you can’t figure out your words now then save it for later.”

“At ease, Starscream.” Ultra Magnus said calmly.

The duke from before laughed, “For once I agree with our Vosnian prince, get to the point, medic.”

Ratchet bristled, he really missed his little clinic at times like this.

Drawing in a vent, Ratchet continued, “But, I fear that the prince is suffering from amnesia.”

Oh yeah, that shut the room up real quick, Ratchet almost felt proud if it weren’t for the fact he just threw the eldest prince under the bus like this.

Ultra Magnus didn’t even bother trying to hide his shock, “He’s…amnesic?”

Ratchet nodded wearily as he subtly scanned the rest of the room. Megatron and Starscream were wearing the same stupid expression as the other nobles present. He almost allowed himself the reward of a smirk but decided against it.

The Lord Protector found himself quickly and corrected himself, “Have you tried to lapse his memory in any way?”

Ratchet turned once more to Ultra Magnus, “He was in a state of shock when he arose, I was unable to do anything to try.”

Another one of the nobles spoke this time, a count from the north. But Ratchet couldn’t be bothered to remember his name, “Then how can you be sure he’s amnesic? Surely he was shocked and reacted accordingly.”

Ratchet rolls his optics internally Leave it to the nobles to think they know more than a medic. Who the frag wakes up, hears their own voice, sees their own servos, and panics?

With a pointed cough Ratchet answered, “He failed to identify anyone in the room present and panicked when he saw his image reflected in a mirror. Although it may be too early to say if his memories are permanently gone I would suggest any future plans involving his highness should be avoided.” he finished to appease the know-it-alls present.

“Well, this is certainly a development.” The elegant seeker smiled and gently rested his chin on his servo, “What should happen if the ever-so graceful prince Optimus cannot take his place as the next Lord Prime?”

The tension in the room seemed to turn solid.

Chapter Text

A collapsed frame lay at the bottom of a staircase. Lunar figures danced overhead in a placate waltz.

“How undignified.” A soft voice mused from above.

It was sickeningly familiar, growing louder as delicate clicks made their way down the staircase.

“Hasn’t anyone told you you’re not supposed to skip steps? I think you’re a bit old for me to tell you this.” They laughed.

Wheezing vents became more prominent as a pede rested a bit too much weight on the frame.

“I’m surprised you’re still alive.” The voice teased, “But that’s a good thing! I would expect nothing less from you, beloved prince.”

A gasping vent was met with a condescending click of the glossa and more pressure.

“Now, now, chin up Prime. You know better.”

A vase shattered, the petals of the crystalline flower that resided in the once spindled container sprawled across the marbled floor.

No one seemed to notice.

No one heard a thing.

Blue optics blinked open once more as the previous disaster seemed to fade away as quickly as it came. Nestled in white sheets, comfortable in the berth Orion chose to ignore the familiar delicacy for delusion.

A dream. Orion thought blissfully

With a stretch the white sheets pulled off, but, ah, no, this wasn’t a dream. As soon as those sheets came off, Orion was met with the same room from before. He laid upon a large berth as a variety of silver and blue-colored sheets sprawled onto the floor, the outline of a pillared berth frame was at the edges of his pedes. Blue optics focused and refocused, trying to gauge the proper shutter to get a good look at the room, it was too dark to make out any of the obscene decorations but with the proper shutter speed the general layout was somewhat visible to the librarian. With adjusted vision, Orion gazed to his left. There he saw the nightstand the medic had used with what appeared to be a medical-grade cube sitting upon it, Orion grimaced at the idea of having to drink the cube. Optics clicked and farther away were the doors, grandiose white doors with what looked like gold details tangled around the edges like vines. How gaudy, Orion notes. Off to the side of the doors was a desk with a chair neatly tucked into it, tilting his head higher, the handles of another door on the same wall the nightstand and berth were pushed against were visible, A closet. What it might contain evaded the mech. Paint? Jewelry? A body? Whatever rich mechs kept around was Orion's best guess. After the left side had been analyzed, Orion turned to the right. Another nightstand. Looking beyond, a now-covered window that almost reached the ceiling caught his optic but little else was placed on the farther side of the room, Not much to see there. Orion peeks over his chest, now there was something to see; Orion saw the vanity he ran off to between the window next to his berth and another one off to the other side of the room on the same wall, also covered. The center of the room seemed to be where all the action happened: Double and single couches, two of each, were arranged around a glass table over a rug. At the opposite end of the room curtained glass windows, touching the floor this time, were barely visible. Orion wondered if it lead to a balcony.

Orion let out a dry laugh and covered himself with the sheets. A nightmare, then. He concluded. Silently closing his optics, Orion counted to three and opened them once more, pulling off the sheets just as before.

No change. The sound of shuffling sheets echoing through the room paired poorly with Orion's chosen coping method of a dry laugh. He repeated the process a few more times in a ritualistic manner, still no change. By the fifth time Orion had given up and accepted that to some extent, this was his reality. The next course of action was trying to get up now that he was awake. Unlike his previous ease with the new optical unit, the high-class frame was far too unfamiliar and complicated to meticulously arrange a way to get out of berth that wasn't rolling over and praying he wouldn't get a concussion on his way down.

Which was exactly what Orion did. Wrapping himself in the sheets Orion sent a silent prayer to his supposed god and flung himself over the edge.

Sha-thONK

Dizzied by the sudden change Orion managed to stand properly after giving himself a breem to adjust. Smacking his helm a few times and making sure all his cables were in line he unintentionally stomped over to the vanity with a no knee-bending gait. With a strange flop Orion was seated at the chair that had avoided him during his initial meltdown, Orion lifted each of his pedes as if to test their worth. This frame had to be heavy, if the stomps were anything to go by, but it felt no different than his civilian frame when he strode around in it. However, Orion felt detached, which was what made walking so difficult. It felt as though he had to maneuver the body from a control system with far too many buttons and a single up-down joystick. The sensation was uncomfortable, though it never teetered towards intolerable, it was just the right level of annoying to be consistently bothersome yet not enough to complain about. Orion contemplated if it was even possible to walk gracefully with such a figure considering he was invading the body of royalty, practice would be inevitable. Orion looked into the mirror, gazing at a reflection that glared back.

“What an intimidating mech,” Orion whispered, flinching a bit when the sound of his voice reached his audial. That would take some getting used to.

Orion analyzed his position in the mirror. An imposing body was hunched over onto itself with an apathetic look on its face. Truly a sight to behold, The crown prince of Iacon everybot! Orion sighed, straightened his posture, puffed out his chest, and deflated when the depersonalization began to bleed through.

Placing his face into the palms of his servos Orion shuddered. "Hopeless, truly hopeless.”

What had brought him into such a frame anyway? What was wrong with his old one? A chill ran down a long spinal strut as Orion tried to recall what had brought him into such a situation. He could have sworn that the cycle started just fine, perfectly normal. Orion Pax had awoke from his recharge, had his morning fuel, stepped out of his apartment, and made his way to the hall of records. Almost too normal! Orion tried to recall more, but there was nothing but glitching memories, muddied by the change.

Scrunching his olfactory ridge, Orion cupped his cheeks, “I got up, got ready, and went to work. Right? So where the frag does waking up in another frame come into the equation?” A finial flicked unintentionally at the sound of such a vulgar word escaping a seemingly dignified vocalizer, as if aware of its new inhabitant.

Orion thought harder, scrunching his whole face now. There was a popping sound in the back of his helm as it dawned upon him. Lifting his face from his servos, Orion felt his paint nanites dullen with the realization.

“I’m dead.”

It was a perfectly normal morning, the way his lights would flicker when the occupant in the apartment above turned on their Energon dispenser. It was quaint how Orion would always hit his head on some new construction on his way out, the stinging sensation painfully familiar with every new injury. It was nearly bland how he would always end up late when a cyber-cat down by a café demanded his affection. It was morbidly cute that his perfectly quiet, painfully normal cycle was put to an end when he was promptly hit by a convoy triple his size and died on impact. Well, dead on impact, Orion hoped. Considering he only remembered the image of a white convoy barreling towards him before everything went black. There was a piece of him that wished he hadn’t suffered, but there was no point in wondering now since he was a character in a fantasy novel. The fact he even died at all was the least of his problems.

Dragging his servos across his faceplate, Orion Drawled. “I didn’t even get to eat my treats."

The novel itself was something stupid too, Songs of the Spark if his memories were to be trusted. Orion wasn’t particularly fond of it, but it made its rounds across Cybertron in his time. Popular for its fantastical take on pre-existing Cybertron. The premise was simple enough: the Duke of Iacon, unsatisfied with the power dynamic, grew greedy and found his appetite would be satisfied if he controlled all of the Kingdom of Iacon, only to be stopped by the hero, the youngest prince of Iacon. Naturally, it was cliche-ridden and pandered to the youngest, most impressionable bots. Orion couldn’t tolerate how cheesy it was at times, but he had read it.

All of it, actually.

More than once, if he was honest.

Orion flushed blue. What a lie. He loved that stupid novel series with its predictable plot and ridiculously overdrawn conflicts. Despite the embarrassing admission, what he did hate was the frame that held his spark.

Looking up once more, seemingly in denial, Orion met his reflection.

"Optimus Prime.”

The angry part of Orion's grief began to make it's way through the new frame with full force.

Orion almost laughed. What a ridiculous name, “Optimus, best! Prime, first!” he barks out sarcastically before dully looking at himself once more. “It doesn’t even make sense, but it’s fitting,” Posing dramatically, Orion continued. “Befitting of a crown prince who will die a gruesome death! Gods!” Orion did laugh this time and glared at his reflection while pointing a digit at himself, “You’re not even the main character! You’re cannon fodder! Plot progression! Your brother is the real hero. You don’t make it past the first book!”

Optimus Prime, the oh-so illustrious Optimus Prime. Tall, beautiful, intelligent, powerful, and an absolute aft. It wasn’t revealed in the first novel, but Optimus was not all he seemed. In one of the few moments that the writing in Songs of the Spark was decent, the author revealed that Optimus was detached and uncaring of his kingdom. Instead, fascinated with the intricacies of war, all of which was undermined with the façade of a stoic prince with too many responsibilities. His war fetish was what prompted him to secretly join forces with Duke Megatron, whose family held a surprising amount of military power, ultimately leading to the fall of Iacon as a whole. Ironically enough, Optimus' younger brother, Rodimus, the real hero of the novel, adored his older brother for being everything he wasn't- which Orion found even more ironic. But even then, Optimus' role was minimal. He was used and killed off almost immediately by the tyrannical Duke within the later chapters as a plot device to get Rodimus on board with fighting for the greater good. Or however the author tried to justify it. Orion shivered, an aloof prince with a stone-cold spark, it was absurd how he cared little for anything in his life but his morbid curiosity. Compared to his resentment towards Optimus, Orion felt bad for Rodimus. When Optimus Prime's betrayal was known, he was destroyed by the news, yet somehow determined to believe that Megatron had manipulated his precious brother into turning against his family. The plot twist was brushed off surprisingly fast given the gravity of it. Simply more fuel for Rodimus’ fire. Not surprising considering how poorly written the story was as a whole. Orion had to remind himself. In the end, Rodimus continued to fight for and alongside his remaining family, the arrogant middle prince with a heart of gold Sentinel Prime and his dashingly charismatic cousin, Elita One.

Talk about a lackluster character, Orion blinked. No one even cared you were garbage. How many lines did you have?

Orion gave himself a chance to chuckle at the thought, “Idiot.”

The word bounded around Orion’s helm as he sat in silence with a satisfied look.

Idiot.

Words danced around the room and echoed back to finned audials, and Orion- or, well, Optimus’ expression falls.

Lovely blue optics flickered, “Oh Gods,”

Optimus' lovely blue optics flickered. “I’m going to die a gruesome death.”

Staring at the beautiful prince’s face desecrated with a dumbfounded expression, the gravity of the situation finally caught up with Optimus. He let out a panicked squeak, which sounded even stranger considering his new voice, “No way! I already died like that! Why do I have to die again for the sake of plot progression?! Couldn't I be reincarnated into literally anyone else?!”

Primus, or whatever crankshaft of a deity that put the little librarian in this situation must be cackling with delight as finials fluttered about in a panicked state while Optimus tried to calm himself. Given how he went out in his past life, Orion was glad he was alive, but this was one pit of a give and take. He sat for a while, finials pinned straight back and trembling servos mostly failing to collect themselves as Optimus’ frame tried to cool down.

Vent in. Vent out. Vent in. Vent out.

Orion was used to somewhat stressful situations, he’d lost track of the times he’d thought he’d lose his job over a lack of funding or dealing with a disastrous event Alpha Trion was determined to put on. But this was a new kind of stress, an I-have-to-evade-my-premeditated-death kind of stress, one of which the poor librarian turned Prime was not used to. As a matter of fact, it might be an exclusive stress invented just for Orion. With new found energy coursing through a blue frame, Optimus tingled and twitched. It grew uncomfortable quickly, Optimus held himself and tried to shake off the excess charge. When that didn’t work, he pushed himself to stand, grabbing onto the edges of the vanity for support.

The panic attack was hard to shake off, but at the very least Optimus rode out the storm to a point where he could move again. With a stiff stride, Optimus made it to the large berth and fell onto it facedown, the soft sheets enveloped the Prime with a chilled reassurance. This time it will be different. It has to be. I’m not the original Optimus Prime. I’m a librarian, a book pusher. I am not the same mech Optimus was.

Optimus closed his optics, despite the appeals that noble life might have on the glyphs of a datapad, the pax-now-prime wanted nothing to do with it. Cut-throat royal courts and scathing drama were best enjoyed when you were a third party. A fan-twirling sweet-talking protagonist was the last thing Orion Pax was. He could always learn those traits but the idea of having to be a seductive prince to win over fate was a strange one. Optimus pushed himself back up, the curtained windows stilled in the dead atmosphere of the room. Optimus had yet to look outside his windows. What lurked beyond the glass both intrigued and worried him. In an attempt to recover what little sanity he had left, Optimus rose and stepped towards the window with careful steps. Only one way to find out. Reaching for the thick marital of the curtains, quickly preparing his still-sensitive optics for bright light to fill the room, the prince pulled away at once hoping the light may show him that, yes, this isn’t real and he will be in the busting city-state of Iacon. Shattering his hope, Optimus was met with darkness instead. Bright stars and galaxies far away twinkled as they faintly illuminated the world beyond a glass barrier, no trace of the dilapidated yet charming buildings that resided outside Orion's apartment window. Finials twitched in mild embarrassment as optics readjusted to the dark. It certainly wasn’t early in the night. Not a single trace of sentient life existed beyond the window and there was no light or ticking of a clock in his room to give an answer.

Looking out, this place was Iacon in name only. Optimus could see a garden right outside his window with crystal flowers meticulously cared for as they created a perfectly cultivated forest. The world was surprisingly organic-like. Another selling point of the novel. Optimus remembers. Organic life always had it's fascinations rooted in the metal alloys of the Cybertronian people, there was a surprising amount of data pads devoted to singular organic planets in the archives to compliment the interest and Songs of the Spark preyed on that. Looking harder at the garden, Optimus could make out stone paths that danced into the forest-like space while solid paths were built around it and led to other buildings. In the dark, the not-Prime Prime could see the outlines of buildings off to every side of where his room was located. A passing thought consumed his processor on how big the palace truly was, forgetting about the previously established balcony, Optimus tried to press his face against the glass to get a better look. After failing, and recalling the balcony, a flushed Optimus Prime decided that the layout of the palace wasn’t of importance. Looking straight ahead, beyond the garden and another building in the way, he could see the outline of the palace gates. A little beyond the gates, he could see the faint, warm light that must have come from the city.

Lifting a heavy servo to touch the window and pointing to a small space beyond the gates, “There.” Optimus whispers.

Somewhere out there was where he would go. The new Optimus doesn’t know any of the bots here in the palace, not personally at least. He doesn’t owe them a thing. He had to survive, avoid the awful fate that awaited him. There was no way he’d squander this chance of a new life. The Optimus Prime from before is gone for all he knows, dead in his own right, replaced with a meek librarian. Staying in the palace would only guarantee a difficult life. Optimus places the rest of his servo on the glass. A piece of him is grateful he reincarnated as a forgettable character. Regardless of how Optimus acted before now, surely his presence would hold no real ground in the progression of the story. Megatron’s lust for power would lead Rodimus to defeat him one way or another.

Optimus scoffs. Let them have their war. I doubt I can make any difference.

Digits twitched at the thought as the anger dissipated and shame replaced it. Avoiding the bitter thought, Optimus turned from the window. Paying a visit to his new best friend, the vanity. Each visit characterized with a stare into the new reflection as if he was obsessed. Optimus was pretty, sure, but every time he looked at the mirror he expected to see sweet little Orion with his large blue optics, simple armor, and even simpler life. Unfortunately, now he was met with every warframe’s ideal. Gargantuan figure aside, the new Prime still wanted a quiet life, maybe somewhere in a village where he can work as a bookkeeper. Orion did like his job in the archives. There was a twinge of guilt he felt for disregarding his previous life so shamelessly. In hindsight, it was a lot better than what he was met with now. Optimus shook off the self pity, there was no use crying over a spilled cube. Orion Pax is dead, his spark in the body of Optimus Prime. So he got a new cube in the end, right? Unless identity theft extended to waking up in a supposedly fictional story when you get hit by a transport convoy.

Optimus touched his intake with a brush of a servo. The movement mirrored to him by the vanity. It was not as though he could come out and tell the truth. He would get locked up in a spark beat, whether it be an asylum or prison was any mech's guess.

A metallic eyebrow twitched, Orion’s spark was the spark in the frame, wasn’t it? What if this was some delusion of the real Optimus Prime from his accident? Another shiver slithered down a silver spinal strut, suddenly insecure, Optimus tried (and failed) to open his chest plates. At his defeat, Optimus discerned that the same difficulties he had with carrying this frame in a graceful manner extended to the less graceful aspects. This frame was unfamiliar through and through and the learning curve he would face was starting to grow evermore.

Now Optimus found himself faced with another problem: if he is the spark of Orion Pax in the body of Optimus Prime, that means he'll have to show his spark eventually, whether it be medical or otherwise.

Slag.

You can fake being a prime all you want, but you can’t fake the spark signature of one.

There was no way Optimus was going to make it to his original death date if he’s caught with the spark signature of a mech not from the universe his frame was from. Optimus would have to be especially cautious of that medic from earlier.

Optimus gripped the vanity tightly as the thought circled its way back, “My original death date.”

The pressure was on now. Optimus had to get out of the palace one way or another, and considering the fact he was a crown prince, his only way out of primacy was either running away or death. Optimus shivers, both are not ideal options. Running away was easy enough, but searching for a missing prince would be a top priority; he'd be on the run forever. Not exactly what one might call a “peaceful life.” With narrowing optics Optimus wondered if he should he fake his death. That seemed like a chore, only recently waking up from one accident, there was no way he’d be able to get away with staging another anytime soon without raising suspicion. Being the crown prince, Optimus’ safety would be a top priority of the palace. Rubbing his helm pensively, a bit of hope seeped through the concern, Optimus seemed to be very solitary character, odds were the old Optimus had never shown his spark to anyone but a medic. So, all he had to do was avoid that medic until he figured out a better plan. He felt fine, Optimus could avoid any deep scans until he figures out a real plan. Procrastination at its finest.

With a pensive hum Optimus rises, one step at a time. Last time he checked there weren’t any problems with Orion’s spark. So there shouldn’t be any by the logic of...whatever had happened.

There really was no way to know what exactly prompted the frame swap, if one could even call it that. Optimus wrote it off as some higher power’s doing, if he tried to derive a logical conclusion he’d end up frying his processor. With a grounding smack to his cheeks (Orion’s mildly masochistic go-to focus tactic, one he might have to break given the new lifestyle that awaits him.) Optimus slinked down and crawled his way to the desk on the other side of the room on a mission. Looking around the surprisingly messy desk Optimus could find nothing he could use to his advantage. No calendar. No clock. He notes. Strange as it was, this discovery was going to make things harder.

Getting a hold of a stylus and an empty pad, Optimus was fueled with a survival instinct only matched by when he made his way about the badlands before Alpha Trion got ahold of him. Only ever knowing the room he resided in, Optimus didn’t know how far along the outside world was into the plot of Songs of the Spark. It shouldn’t have been surprising since it was always vague with time, hardly ever mentioning the cycle, stellar cycle, or vorn. Measuring the plot with major events was convenient for the reader since they don’t have to keep track of anything, but not so much when you reincarnate into the story. Optimus chewed on his derma as the empty pad stared back at him with a mocking twinkle, illuminating his face against the dark room. It was Optimus against the world now. He could work with this, knowing what he does, which was essentially nothing. Optimus Prime's frazzled memory banks held nothing he could work with, and apparently the intricacies of Optimus Prime and linear time weren't exactly the key points of the novel. Optimus shook his head, the new Prime couldn't let his previous negativity get the best of him. Fumbling the stylus, he begins to write what he knows in the Neocybex Orion was familiar with.

✨Key to survival✨
DO NOT LET THEM SEE YOUR SPARK.

Perfect.

Tiredness seemed to avoid Optimus as he continued to think, he had slept more than enough, what he needed was to get his data-ducks in a row. There had to be something beyond not letting anyone see his spark, something Optimus missed. A melancholic expression spread across the Prime as he began to realize that he was alone in this. Optimus certainly couldn’t confide in or get particularly close to Lord High Protector Ultra Magnus since he would be able to sense the broken creation bond. Assuming it was reasonably strong enough to sense in the first place. No, better safe than sorry. Getting too close to Ultra Magnus was out of the question. As for his carrier, well, there was nothing in Optimus’ scrambled memory banks that connected back to them. However, there was a profound emptiness when he tried to think of their image, bordering on painful. Surprising, considering it was coming from Optimus' fleeting existence rather than Orion's spark.

It really started to hurt.

He cut the line of thought.

Recalling his previous epiphany, Optimus began to make another list below his golden rule.

Mechs to avoid
1. Ultra Magnus
2. Carrier (if any)
3. The red and white medic. (Hatchet?????)

Optimus paused, then quickly corrected his previous listing.

Mechs to avoid
.....
3. Any palace medics.

Facing away from the datapad and towards the windows, the glistening silver mesh blanket caught his optics attention. Silver. Optimus’ plating crawled when the starlight of the uncovered window reflected on the mesh. Of course. How could he forget? Megatron. Duke of Iacon. The real villain. Getting his spark frequency checked would be a death sentence for him, but getting involved with that monster would be the death of Iacon.

Optimus turned to his datapad once more. His plating clamped down in a defensive shiver.

Chapter Text

A discomfort washed over a white and blue frame. 

It wasn’t painful. 

It should have been.

Lord Protector placed his pad down, looking at the empty office before him illuminated with the gentle glow of the stars, and softly chuckled.

“I must be getting old.” 

Picking up the pad once more, with a straightened posture Ultra Magnus continued reading the document. He tried to pass off the sensation as exhaustion, but the strange atmosphere persisted. 

Blue optics flickered and narrowed as they gazed around the room searching for an answer.

It came through a frantic knock at the door. 

If anything in the novel was to go by, Megatron was not a mech to get involved with, he was the very essence of a cruel, possessive, and power-hungry villain you would find in any cliche action story. Optimus grilled himself for a moment; what was Megatron like outside his villainy? The novel never touched upon his personality outside of 'bad guy is bad,' most likely a choice to avoid any sympathies on his part. However, readers were fortuitous enough to receive a bit of backstory for the sultry villain. Taken from the pits of Kaon and adopted by the late Duke Galvatron when he acknowledged the young gladiator's potential to be greater than that of his creation, Cyclonus. Groomed to be a perfect heir and an even more powerful fighter, Megatron easily earned the respect of his new peers. Or perhaps it was fear? If there was one quality Megatron had, it was stature, towering over any and every Iaconian in both height and width. Galvatron chose the right heir if he was trying to scare the people of Iacon into submission. Optimus dismissed the thought, there was no time to ogle at a killing machine, instead focusing on the individual that disappeared from the duchy and narrative. 

Cyclonus... He was brushed off quickly, never getting more than a passing remark of his existence. Did he survive the war? Orion never considered how strange it was for Cyclonus to do little to fight his sire's decision to state Megatron as his heir. It was easy to write it off as another plot hole since Cyclonus was as forgettable as Optimus, but now it raised a few flags.

I should consider making an ally out of him, the forgotten older sibling solidarity. Optimus mused. What the two had in common was known to Optimus alone but a part of him knew that establishing a relationship with the duchy would be necessary. Luckily for Optimus, out of the two sons of Galvatron, Cyclonus was the safest choice in providing a look into the duchy. Optimus wrote Cyclonus’ name off in the corner of the pad to remind himself in the future.

Tapping the stylus against the datapad, Optimus tried to recall the power dynamic established in the novel. While the royal family maintained the image of being ‘for the people’ via socio-economic prowess, the Iaconian dukedom was honored with military power as a token of respect. Optimus snorted. Respect my aft. There was no way a dukedom would gain so much military influence from the royal family without some advantage on their part. The duchy was arguably their biggest contestant for power as a whole, it wouldn’t be hard to come to the conclusion that the royal family was trading off the military for political power. Iaconian’s were pacifists by nature, ridding themselves of the military would give the royal family a popularity boost with lesser nobles and populous; both of which were in the majority, and the majority ruled in any political climate. The duchy would be unable to decline the charitable act, and as a result, they'd lose quite a bit of political influence, becoming second to the royal family in name alone. It was a logical conclusion, even if it was hearsay on Optimus’ part. There was a possibility that the royal family truly had offered the military as some innocent gesture, but it was unlikely. Songs of the Spark was determined to paint the duchy as evil and greedy, and making them aggressors flaunting military power was the most explicit way of doing so. If you were putting a noble family against the monarchy that gave them said power, well, it was not hard to vilify them.

Nevertheless, Megatron was still a duke. With or without political priorities upheld by his family his social standing towered over anyone else, which was still the one thing that Optimus would have to be cautious over.

Megatron had easy access to the palace, and therefore Optimus. 

Optimus chewed at the end of his stylus. There was no way to know whether or not Megatron and Optimus were in cahoots when Orion woke in the prince’s body. He could only find out the hard way by interacting with the terrifying silver mech, but the risk had no reward. Confirming suspicions was a terrible reason to seek out Megatron. 

Another quick scribble and the Duke found his name on the blacklist. Looking at the latest addition, Optimus hovered over fourth place. Who else?

It was a stupid question, Optimus knew who but didn’t want to admit it. With a quiet mumble, he wrote the glyphs of the fourth list member. 

Rodimus Prime. 

Looking at the designation, the guilt from before returned. There was no fear of seeing the name, only a resounding sense of sympathy. Perhaps it was the soft spark in him, Optimus didn’t like the idea of having to avoid the one individual who might treat him decently.

Optimus tapped the stylus rhythmically on the desk, “It’s for your good.” 

The last thing Optimus needed was to get caught up with the darling of Iacon. He needed to survive, there was no such thing as being overly cautious when death awaits you at every corner. Granted, Optimus didn’t want to hurt Rodimus like the novel said he had. Optimus knew the intricacies of every major character he now shared a world with, which would prove to be useful if it weren’t for the fact they were all a death sentence in the making—the only positive being that at least Optimus knew who he had to avoid. Rodimus was no exception. It’s hard not to coddle the main character you’ve seen at their highest and lowest, how could you not love an overzealous and optimistic kid with a spark of gold? Still, that mech was the definition of an extroverted party mechanimal, getting involved with Rodimus would inextricably put him in unfavorable situations with Iacons court and noble families. Primus knows what would happen then. 

Optimus stared at the designation. There was no guarantee that Optimus could change Rodimus’ fate by avoiding him, especially if Rodimus already held his elder brother to the umpteenth degree. But it could certainly alter his own. Optimus had to be a little selfish now. He would do anything in his power to avoid dying at the hands of Megatron, and the first course of action needed for that was to avoid his new family and Duke unless deemed necessary for his survival. Tensions between the duchy and royal family were inevitable. Optimus was determined to remain in a grey area with both of them.  

Survive. Optimus looked off to the curtained doors on the other side of the room. The light was beginning to make its way through the space between the curtains, faint threads spilled onto the marble floor like melting gold. The light caught Optimus’ attention for a while. Despite missing his original Cybertron, this world was as objectively pretty as one would expect from a fantasy novel. It wouldn’t be hard to adapt to it. Looking up from the floor, the curtains remained still as the light made its way through. Optimus glanced reluctantly back at the desk. “Maybe I’m due for a break.”

Picking himself up from his seat, Optimus strode to the doors and opened them with a triumphant tug. Just as he suspected, there was a balcony behind the doors. This time the light caught him off guard, and Optimus’ optics shuttered as he flinched back. Idiot . Optimus thought, the insult towards himself, now. Optimus readjusted his optics, blinking a few times for good measure and murmuring a silent curse to the unbeknownst sun. With a blinded waving of his arm, the Prime got a hold of a curved handle. Pulling down, the door opened. 

Warm sunlight seeped into the curves of his armor, triggering a shiver at the sudden heat source. The familiar dance of a light breeze reminded Optimus of how dreary the air was in his room, and little by little, he felt himself relax. With a servo shielding his face from the new light, Optimus stepped onto the balcony. As blue optics steadily readied themselves, Optimus placed his servo down back to his side. Clear vision blessed Optimus with a sight he never thought he’d see. 

Optimus gawked. 

If the palace was lovely at night, it was gorgeous during the day. White, polished pillars towered over everything as they shaped the cradle for the rooms they held. Windows of varying size, shape, and color invited the rising sun with fervor as the tease of curtains tucked away allowed the beautiful light into their respective halls. Optimus admired the view as he stepped farther towards the railing. Getting a better look at everything, Optimus began to wonder which buildings served which purpose. The collection of palaces was blue and white, there was an additional color exclusive to each palace, seemingly to aid in differentiating them. The privilege seemed to be for a palace alone, which was obvious enough, they were the ones painstakingly carved, polished, painted, and detailed with mini gardens around their perimeter. Of course, they’d get a special color. Not to mention their size, Optimus was on optic-level with the highest stories of the buildings. Based on the palace across from Optimus’ own, each palace had five floors. Looking down and gripping the railing just in case of a particularly strong breeze, Optimus saw crystalline trees planted at key points with bushes of blooming rose quartz trimmed in neat rows along the paths of the palace like lace. 

That’s when Optimus noticed smaller buildings off by each palace, almost invisible next to the behemoths, carefully tucked away like a creation with their carrier. Faint voices caught Optimus’ attention. Gazing off to his left, the prince noticed servants stationed at one of the smaller buildings. Maid quarters?  Despite the bland comparison, it was quaint. Its cottage-like appearance was clearly designed to not take away from its larger counterpart. Instead, it added a touch of humility to the extravagant building. How strange. Optimus thought. Maid quarters were usually within the palace, in the basement or attic. Cerulean blue optics narrowed. Why separate the two? The current Cybertron seemed to be breaking much of the status quo. Maids served their purpose to nobles but were otherwise weren’t a passing thought. One would naturally assume being a maid was a grueling job with all the necessary chores. However, Optimus noted the maids below seemed quite excitable. Optimus grew pensive. A finial flicked unconsciously. How does social status work here? Going outside seemed to leave Optimus with more questions than answers as the number of things never mentioned in the novel piled up.

Focusing back to the barely-rising maids, they seemed to confirm that it was still very early despite the sun. A petite, yellow bot caught Optimus’ attention as they scrambled about; they were, loudly, scolded by a superior for whatever reason. Little door wings pinned down in submission. A faint beep slipped out with a drawl in an apparent apology. The little bot had caused quite the ruckus if Optimus could hear snippets of the scolding. The sight was familiar, he couldn’t count the times Alpha Trion had scolded him for being late. Smiling now, Optimus set to resting his weight onto the railing as he propped his chin upon a servo. In a similar manner to how the old bot would pat Orion’s helm in loving defeat, the superior green mech, with a flowing overcoat and a cigar, brushed off the little mech with a shooing motion. Yellow door wings fluttered in victory as they turned directions and stepped onto the pavement that adorned the outside of the buildings with a triumphant trek. 

One little skip, and then another, a helm bopped and swayed as yellow pedes carried a young maid throughout the places paths. Optimus watched with glee, his previous worries whisked away. “If only I came out as you instead.” The prince sighed. 

Being a maid would make things monumentally easier, at least then he could turn in a two-deca-cycle notice and be on his way with a new life. No blacklisting or spark signature to fret over. 

Yellow antennae dancing on an equally yellow helm caught Optimus’ attention once more. The bot stopped at the corner of the building next to Optimus’ and brushed themselves off, adjusting the little apron around their waist. Optimus laughed as they checked themselves out in the reflective windows with a bit too much vanity. Antenna snapped back into their helm, and a yellow body froze as if they were caught sneaking treats. The quaint little maid turned in horror and snipped their head back and forth, searching for the source of the amusement.

"Oops."

Optimus seemed to catch on to the fact he may have been louder than intended and clasped a servo over his intake. Far too conveniently, the sound of metal slapping over itself echoed through the quiet space between him and the maid. The servant froze again and looked up with a painful look on their face. Blue optics locked into one another. 

It seems I have forgotten myself. Finials twitched. Optimus was unaware of how his new frame was publicly perceived. If the little yellow bot's reaction was anything to go by, not great. Another thing conveniently never mentioned in the nonexistent profile of a passing character. 

Optics continued to stare into one another. A little longer, after that. Then it reached an uncomfortably long amount of time. Optimus began to fret with every passing klik. The more time spent staring, the more the poor maid was trembling. Alright, not well received then. In a rush of worry, Optimus shouted. 

“Sorry!“ 

The apology echoed much like his clasping servo.

The poor maid looked horrified when the Prime's apology rung in their audial receptors. If their optics could cycle any wider, they would probably snap. Optimus was sure if their intake was uncovered, they'd have it wide open as well. 

Oh, now he's done it.

Yet both continued to stare. It dragged on again. Optimus couldn't help himself as the situation was growing increasingly humiliating on his part. When the embarrassment grew unbearable, Optimus managed to awkwardly wave at the maid and ran back to the glass doors. 

With a profound SLAM! Optimus pressed against the glass panels and cringed, “So much for first impressions.” 

Sliding down, the first prince buried himself into blunt digits, "What a wonderful way to go about changing my fate, traumatizing a maid." He wept superficially. 

The warmth of the sun prodded Optimus to have him look back up. The room before him glistened in the new light entering and the Prince whispered.

“Changing my fate.” 

Click, click, click, click.

Clawed digits tapped on a desk in a rhythmic pattern. The datapad sat in front of the individual shook with every tap.

“Amnesia?” A deep rumble pondered. 

“Amnesia.” He repeated as if to test the glyph on his glossa. 

Before anything more could follow the thought, an annoyed seeker stormed into the office and sprawled upon a velvet sofa.

Red optics blinked in a cocktail of surprise and confusion, “Ah. Star-” 

Delicate claws brushed against the velvet and, a delicate intake voiced its thoughts, “ Please don’t tell me you’re discussing the little accident Optimus had, I have just about had it with that stupid prince and his stupid little concussion. It’s all you mechs talk about!” 

A visor and red optics met, both flickered in hesitation at the visage before them. 

“Honestly! How do you expect me to believe a Prime of that magnitude is out of commission simply because he slipped? If that happened to me, the embarrassment of it being discussed so much would have killed me instead of the fall.”

The sprawled mech seemed to grow agitated as they continued their tirade when claws twitched at the thoughts that found their way into words.

“It’s pathetic! And not in the endearing grounder kind of way,” He paused for a moment and leaned his helm towards the seated individual at the desk. “not that you ever were.” 

Red optics blinked and narrowed before briefly glancing at the clock that sat to his right. The previous thought dissipated as soon as the agitated seeker entered. He looked down the abandoned pad, decided that whatever it was held more substance than his current visitor, and resumed whatever work he had previously set. 

“And it’s not like it’s that big of a deal, I get the sentiment after the Lord Prime passed away, but this? Come on, at this rate, you'd think he died! You Iaconians have no conception of real loss, so em-”

A dark blue figure stepped out from the farthest corner of the office, speaking just loud enough to cut the ranting mech off. “Soundwave: Suggestion?”

Heeled pedes clicked on the hard floor as his attention shifted from one mech to another, “What is it?” 

“Lord Starscream: Calm down.” 

If looks could kill, Soundwave would be a bubbling pool of metal and energon on the floor. And if Soundwave could smirk, he would. 

“Oh, don’t you tell me to-"

The first voice stifled a laugh over the fuming prince.

“Forever abusing your position as my closest ally, aren’t you, Soundwave? 

There was no response. None was needed. A visor flashed at the winged prince with a teasing glow before he reverted to his statue-like position. The answer was yes. 

“Ooh, that one gets on my nerves. You should keep an eye on him, Megatron, his pettiness is matched only by your temperament.” Starscream snapped. 

“Please,” a servo waved dismissively. “Soundwave is only like this around you. Your reactions are more entertaining than any play the temple can put out. I can hardly blame him for quipping you.” 

Soon-to-be Winglord scoffed, “What an underhanded compliment. I’m still visiting royalty, you know!” 

“.:Megatron glyph analysis:….:Compliment:…404 Error: Not found.” 

“Listen here you, little-“ 

A smirk threatened to make its way across a sharp faceplate. Finding his composure Megatron spoke, “Enough, enough, I’m sure we have more pressing matters to discuss.” He said while tapping his desk with a claw, like a judge’s gavel. 

“Of course! We should talk about…Uhm.” Starscream blinked and gazed over to Megatron, who shared a flat expression.

“Fascinating Starscream, thank you.”

“Well, what am I supposed to talk about! I’m in Iacon, your kingdom. Tell me what is there to talk about here!”

Megatron tipped his head in faux thought, “Now that you mention it, if you haven’t heard, the eldest prince is currently suffering from amne-”

“I know that you dolt!”

“Wonderful! Then you are all caught up on Iaconian news. Please make your way out of my office.” 

Starscream dug his claws into the sofa in frustration, the threads' desire to tear growing evermore with the increasing strength of his grip. At this realization, Starscream let go and turned away from facing Megatron. The office was distinctly quiet, the duke reveled in the familiar silence before his royal guest spoke again.

Starscream adjusted himself from his slouch as he turned to face Megatron with pleading eyes, “Am I not allowed to visit old friends?” 

“We’re not friends,” Megatron answered without missing a beat. 

Starscream hmphed and slouched back onto the couch. “Fine, we’ll talk about Iacon’s supposed heir problem.” 

“Last time I checked, there were two more.”

Like a pot left unattended, Starscreams temper threatened to boil over, “You-!” Starscream cut himself off, deeply invented, and continued. “Then what topic do you have in mind, hm?”

Megatron looked up with feigned ignorance. “Me? If I hadn’t made it obvious, my topic of choice would be any if you were not my converse.” 

Soundwave snickered off in his corner, the pot threatened to bubble over, but rather than let himself be baited, with a passing sigh the prince fell comfortably into his seat in a dramatic position, seemingly unbothered.

“I’m such a victim, forever caught between two despicable, bullying brutes!” 

Megatron looked at the distressed seeker and then to the doors, “I wonder if it would be discourteous to kick you out. What do you think, Soundwave?” 

“Hey-“ Starscream tried to interrupt. 

“Soundwave: Agree. Suggestion: Allow Lord Starscream to tire himself out.” 

“Watch it-“ a drowned voice growled. 

“Hm, good idea. I can’t have my reputation tank because of a flyer.” 

“Don’t ignore me, Buckethead!” 

Megatron chuckled, and Soundwave dipped his head at the slightest degree to indicate his amusement. “Very well, I’ve had my fun. What are your demands, seeker?”

“If you spoke to me like this in public, you’d be executed on the spot.”

“Aren’t I lucky we aren’t in public then?” 

Starscream growled, “You are the only thing stopping me from having your head on a pike and starting a war is the fact we’ve known each other since we were younglings.” Wings twitched in annoyance as manicured claws waved it away. “Your disgraceful behavior aside, I was hoping to speak to you regarding the reason I’m even in Iacon, to begin with.” 

Megatron set down his datapad now to indicate his intrigue, “To bother me?” 

“Are you going to be like this the whole time?”

“Apologies,” Megatron raised his servos in defeat, “Continue.” 

“As I was saying , my real reason for this visit; The debutante ball for the youngest Prime, Rodimus. I was wondering when you were going to ask me to attend with you.” 

Megatron’s raised servos slammed against his desk as he choked on nothing. “ Excuse me? ” 

“You’re excused, but only this once, I’m not very forgiving.”

“You know what I meant, prince . Why on Primus’ silver structure would I ask you to attend a royal ball with me?” Megatron shook and placed his helm on a servo in bewilderment, “Has every Cybertronian prince lost his processor now?” 

Starscream looked at Megatron with a bored expression, “Oh spare me, do you have anyone else in mind? No offense, but I don’t see Iacon’s fairest begging you to escort them. I don’t blame them either, you brute. You should be flattered that I'm waiting for your invitation at all.” 

Megatron straightened himself with a cough. “Then you may continue to wait. I intend to go alone. If at all, thank you very much.” 

“Alone? Are you mad? A Duke? The Duke of Iacon , attending an Iaconian royal ball, alone!? You might as well spit on your late sire’s grave!” Starscream gaped.

This time it was Megatron’s turn to roll his optics. “I doubt he would have cared.” 

“Honestly…for what it’s worth, you two share a lot of similarities despite not being related whatsoever.” 

Soundwave’s forgotten presence reemerged with a simple message, “Soundwave: Agree.” 

Starscream preened proudly at his temporary ally, “See?” He waved his servo generally towards the typically silent mech, “Even your kiss-aft gets it.” 

Megatron laid back into his seat, “Enlighten me, why in the pit should I attend with you as my accessory?” 

“Oh, now you flatter yourself. You’ll be my accessory, not the other way around. I’m the one with the highest social standing between us.” Starscream corrected. “I’m surprised you fail to see the benefits of this. You’re always stalking about, scaring off any potential mates, and I require a bodyguard. If we go together, I can serve as bait to get those little Iaconians jealous enough to be at your pedes for a klik of your time, and you can make sure I’m cared for.” 

“I fail to see how- Ah.” The threads connected in the duke’s processor, a sly grin found its place on silver derma. “You want Jetfire to notice you.” Now placing his chin on a servo, Megatron let his smug amusement flow into his field. 

Crowned Winglord-to-be stammered, “W-what?! Don’t be absurd, I want nothing to do with that behemoth of a flyer. I-I merely wonder if the accident with Optimus may happen to me!” 

“Now, Starscream, since when were you worried about falling down a flight of stairs?” 

“Since that stupid Prime fell! If someone as supposedly dignified as he fell, what can that say about me?” 

“Absolutely nothing, if you fell from a similar height you’d transform and fly off or die. I’m sure the latter is more appealing than having me catch you and deal with the insinuations that follow.” 

Starscream glowered, “You speak of nonsense!” 

“Ah, ah, ah, seeker prince, don't pull out your royal tone for this. You want me as an optic treat, this channel goes two ways. You make the pretty little Iaconians get jealous over me, or however, you tried to justify it on my end, while I make your precious baron jealous over you. How curious you are, your highness.” Megatron stood from his seat and gave a dramatic bow. “Very well, I’ll accept your invitation to attend with you.” Megatron finished with a wink as he stood to his full height. 

“I didn’t invite you!” Seeker snapped. “But, I’ll tolerate this…mutual agreement as long as you make it up to me by making your intentions public.” 

“Power play isn’t your forte, Starscream.” 

“Shut up!” 

Chapter Text

Too much.

It was all too much. 

He wasn't supposed to be there, it was bad timing, it had to be. 

A witness with no voice, an existence never noted now held the fate of a kingdom.

How easy it would be to speak the truth, if only he could speak.

If only someone more capable could lay witness.

If only he ran a little faster.

“He woke up, didn't he?” 

“I thought he already had? But last night, around 2 in the morning cycle I heard a loud thu-“ 

“We all heard the loud slam last night, that’s why he’s asking.” 

“Oh.” 

The morning was strangely lively at the Sapphire Palace, chittering maids and gossiping servants huddled in the kitchen with unusual vigor. The energy that danced around the wafting scents of jelly treats and freshly crushed crystals was none the wiser when a tray was placed down without a sound. 

Tap tap tap

“Do you think he’s really amnesic?” A bot asked while rinsing freshly-cleaned plates under running solvent. 

Tap tap tap

A worker off by the stove shrugged, “Who knows, but I’m not keen on finding out!”

Tap tap tap

“You’re lucky you don’t have to find out, you get to stay here in the safety of the kitchen.” A maid muttered as she held a silver plate, fussing over her faceplate with a servo. 

Tap tap tap

“And anyways it's not like-”

Tap tap tap

“What is with that incessant tapping?” The maid holding the plate whipped back to the location of the sound. Her optics flew open as she dropped the plate onto the counter and rushed to fix her posture, brushing her apron down. “Ah, Madam-” 

“My, aren’t we eager today?” A slender, pale blue femme called from a farther side of the kitchen. 

The warm kitchen froze over. They all knew that voice, the iron will that came with it, and the inevitable scolding to come from that pretty little voice box. So brutal as though Primus had enacted her on an epic journey themselves was none other than head maid Chromia. When she stepped foot into the room the maids became soldiers with the brooms and dusters brandished like swords. As far as Chromia was concerned, every day the Sapphire Palace was a battlefield against disorder, and she was the general who would certainly win. 

“A-apologize madam, we were simply excited about the Prince’s wake.” One of the workers from before tried to answer. 

“Is that so?” Chromia asked with an unimpressed glace at the huddled group before her. “Then, if you’re all so excited, why don’t I see you preparing his highness's morning meal?” 

Ah. Checkmate. 

Everybot curled in on themselves. In the past, the worst part of their day was interacting with the cold prince. He was just so… scary . Prince Optimus never conversed, interacted, or acknowledged the maids aside from a curt nod or an even rarer glance. It was humiliating! Many of the maids would rather him be cruel towards them, at least then he would acknowledge their existence. 

Even so, knowledge of Optimus Prime’s amnesia had made its way through the gilded residence and beyond, no thanks to Ratchet. 

Still, the maids were still far too intimidated to interact with their lord. Optimus’ demeanor was still dubious, there was a worry that hung over them contemplating the idea if his personality had taken a turn for the worse. There was no way of knowing, of course, but if it had, none of the maids were willing to be the first to find out. 

“Well? Would anyone like to see the prince in his new state?” Chromia asked with poorly veiled impatience. 

Aproned frames exchanged glances and fiddled with their armor, no one spoke out. Time seemed to tick by faster as Chromia began to tap her digits against the tray again, the maids would have to act fast, someone would have to take the fall, any comradery they built in their time would be thrown out without a second thought if need be. To deny Chromia would be an immediate demotion of position, or worse, being excused from the palace entirely. Working anywhere in the palace was a kushy job, better than working out in the fields or in the streets as common folk. 

Panicked fields grew with fervor, who would it be? 

Chromia narrowed her optics, with a pointed digit she raised her arm and pointed to a dark blue bot. “You-”

The back door slammed open, a petite orange frame strolled in between chromia and her target with a gigidy smile as she waved at her fellow coworkers. Blissfully unaware of the tension residing in the kitchen she called out her greeting.

“Good morning!” 

“Windy!” The huddle group ex-vented in relief. 

Windy noticed her fellow maids cowering in fear when they called her designation. The little femme developed a curious look. “Haha, why is everyone so ser-“

“Windy can go! I’m sure she’d love to see his highness!” A purple frame pointed. 

“Y-yes! How could we deny our latest edition to see the prince in the mesh!” A mech nestled at the back of the group added. 

Bright blue optics blinked. “What?” 

Chromia flashed a look at the group which made them slink back a bit more as she strode to Windy, tray tightly held against her frame. 

Windy recycled her optics as Chromia stepped forwards. “Oh, um, good morning madam Chromia- I’m sorry if I was disruptive…” 

Chromia waved off the apology as she handed Windy the empty tray. “No need, today is your lucky day, little one,” She flashed her subordinate a smile. “You get to meet the newly awakened prince!” 

Windy had to deny a rebooting sequence as she processed the glyphs. She stood still for a moment and like a petrokeet she chirped with a dumbfounded look. 

“What? ” 

Barely heeled pedes made their way through the quiet corridor with soft taps on softer carpet. All the curtains were still drawn as Windy shakenly gripped the tray holding a cube of medical grade energon diluted with the white glimmer of common calcite as it sank to the bottom of the cube with fizzy bubbles. It was hardly the extravagant meal associated with nobility, the chefs prided themselves on their ability to make the humble cube taste like anything but energon, often paired with the game that was hunted earlier in the morning. But Optimus was on a strict dietary order by Ratchet, overwhelming his newly booted system with whatever absurdities the chefs delighted in was, as the medic put it, “ Gonna kill the brat faster than his fall. ”  

Hardly a reassuring comment, so the chefs reeled in on their meal prepping for now. 

Windy gazed at the cube, she probably drank a tastier cube when she woke up. Medical grade cubes were always foul tasting, far too bitter for the common cybertronian’s palette, but packed to the brim with restorative nanites and all the good things a healthy bot needs. 

The little orange maid looked up and took in her surroundings, she had never been this deep into the Sapphire palace, she typically stayed in the bottom floors cleaning up and doing the overall grunt work. The fact she was chosen to bring his majesty his morning energon was a shock, a highly prestigious honor for the common maid, Chromia or other well accustomed maids held that privilege on a regular basis.  

“Talk about skipping a few ranks.” Windy mumbled quietly as she hopped over a crease in the rug adorning the stairs.

Skipping up the last step to the fifth floor, Windy huffed as she fixed her posture and fumbled with the tray holding a slipping cube. She began to trek down the corridor. The initial floors were pretty, big windows letting in all the light they could, gave Windy the impression that the Sapphire palace was lovely. And it was. But moving up floors she couldn’t help but notice the atmosphere became increasingly dreary as the drawn curtains darkened everything. The décor was older, albeit in pristine condition, as portraits of Prime’s past looked down on her. Windy scooted past the portraits with a shiver as she felt the cold, painted gaze of optics long dead pierce through her armor. 

On her way down the hall, a portrait caught the optics of the orange maid. Vector Prime. The last Lord Prime before one of his creations makes his way to the throne in his place. With Optimus out of commission, who knows which of the three princes would get the throne. Unlike the other portraits, Vector Prime held a soft gaze, looking beyond his viewer. Curious, Windy looked back and only saw a curtained window.  

“Quite the view you got there, your highness.” 

She set her tray down at one of the tables in front of the portraits holding lamps and various memorabilia and made her way to the curtains. With all of her little strength she carefully pulled away the curtains one at a time and tied them in place with a satisfied huff. 

Windy turned around, placed her servos on her hips and smiled brightly at the portrait of her Lord Prime. 

“See? Isn’t that a bit better?” 

Windy quietly hoped that was enough to appease the painting as the ding of a grandfather clock beckoning the arrival of a new hour caught her attention when Windy realized she had spent 20 breems on her admiration. 

“Slag! Chromia’s gonna kill me!”

She spun on her heels and ran back to the portrait of Vector Prime, and with a bow she mumbled a prayer. Glancing up she caught the glisten of silver paint and smiled.

“Wish me luck my Lord!”

With a quickened pace, Windy scooped up her tray and clicked her way down the corridor with renewed energy.

The room was quiet, words of fate had echoed and dissipated. Optimus sat pensively against the balcony doors as Rodimus’ fate replaced that of his own as the primary connection in his processor. The poor youngling was thrust into battle alongside his closest relatives for the sake of a greater good he couldn’t define. Optimus’ betrayal was acid in the wound, Rodimus refused to accept the fact that Optimus was willingly involved in the fall of Iacon.

Optimus lingered on the thought of his betrayal, at the time of his outburst it seemed so real, so genuine. As if that was the ultimate truth, but just looking outside had shattered the idea that the novel was an absolute. Optimus knew nothing. 

Clicking his glossa, Optimus shut his optics and began scanning through his files. There was little left of the original Optimus, only the occasional wisp of his core memories influencing specific thoughts, otherwise Orion existed all the same aside from his exterior. Passively skipping through files, Optimus searched for his downloaded copy of Songs of the Spark, one saved for a particularly long transport ride to pick up a request the Hall of Record sent to a Vosnian library, the perks of being a data slug gave him a high storage capacity, at the cost of recharge and refueling a bit more. Optimus peeked at his new servos before closing his optics, moreover to continue his search, he worried how his still-downloading files would fare in this new fame, granted he could download them in the first place. War frames weren’t exactly known for their storage. 

Optimus left a mental note to spend one of these cycles decluttering his processor. But for now, it was only a matter of finding his PDF of Songs of the Spark amidst the endless datapads he had saved before the novel, taking the occasional moment to delete anything that he deemed useless. 

...:Downloads: Search: Songs of Spark:...:File: Located:...:Access?:...

The seated prince ex-vented in relief, he did download it.

…:Yes.:..:Search: Optimus Prime:..

….loading….

….:Results: Found...1 of 30:...

“Thirty?” Optimus blinked. He hadn’t expected there to be so little of Optimus Prime in the novel, he knew the character was forgettable but this was offensively little. Venting in deeply, he began to click through the highlighted keyword. 

...

....:... Optimus Prime , the eldest crown prince of Iacon…:...

..:”I hope Optimus is okay..” Rodimus mumbled…:...

...

Optimus narrowed his gaze as he skipped through the first six results, It’s nothing but name drops.

...

…: Optimus smiled. “Worry not, brother.”:...

…:”Are you sure about this, Optimus ?” Sentinel retorted.:...

...

Audial fins pinned back in annoyance, “Come on, show me the real stuff…” he hissed. Skimming through all the instances of the highlighted word. 

...

…: ” Optimus was used. He didn’t do anything wrong, he feared what the world would do to him and he feared what it would do to us. He had to have done it for our sake, he was not a monster.” Rodimus said in an attempt to comfort his cousin..”:..

...

“Whoops, too far.” Optimus clicked back once. 

...

…:”You killed him! You killed Optimus ! I will never stop fighting until I have avenged my eldest brother and my people!” The youngest prince cried out amidst the flaming rain that surrounded him.

    ” Optimus ?” A deep voice plundered, dipped in every acid imaginable. “You mean the prince who led me where I am now?”

“What are you talking about Megatron?” Rodimus hissed. 

    “Why, your brother of course!” Megatron gestured to the befallen city. “He wanted this.”

Rodimus staggered. “What?” He grabbed his sword and pointed it at Megatron. “You tell lies! Optimus was a good mech!”

   Megatron laughed and his great armor rolled. “I am all but a liar little prince, that fool destined us to this moment. He wanted war, he was so scared to lose his place as crown prince he came to me. Demanding that I help him to stay on the throne. And so I did, at a price of course.” Megatron twirled the sword in his grip. “I doubt he knew it would cost him his spark.” He mused. “Such a shame, maybe Optimus was a good mech outside of his paranoia.” Megatron brandished a sword towards Rodimus. “But he wanted you dead.” Rodimus stepped back and Megatron stepped closer. “Why do you fight for a mech that wanted you dead? A brother that let your kingdom crumble by my servo? Optimus was a coward.” He hissed. “And so are the rest of you royal scum.”

Rodimus lunged...:...

....

Optimus shivered, the final battle scene truly was one of the more memorable moments. Now being in his predicament, the monologue felt like a grim reminder of what could be. All the more reason to avoid that maniac. The prince straightened himself and he clicked again. 

...

…: ” Optimus was used. He didn’t do anything wrong, he feared what the world would do to him and he feared what it would do to-:...

…

Click.

..:30 of 30:..

“What.”

He clicked again.

..:30 of 30:..

Optimus stared blankly at the floor as his HUD prompted the message after every click. “...That’s it? That’s the last time I’m mentioned?”

The air in the quiet roomed stilled. Optimus Prime was willingly involved in the fall of Iacon.

...probably.

Out of searching through an entire novel, all he had to work with was the monologue of the villain. Optimus felt his plating heat in embarrassment as he recalled his temper tantrum earlier in the night cycle, he laid his helm against the glass of the baloney doors with a sigh. “Once. My supposed betrayal was mentioned once.” 

Maybe he gave his previous iteration too much credit, the author certainly didn’t. His death was used to push Rodimus into fighting, a final straw, but then why was he suddenly made into a secret villain? Optimus sighed and clicked to that final dialogue between Rodimus and Megatron. 

...:“...he was so scared to lose his place as crown prince he came to me. Demanding that I help him to stay on the throne...maybe Optimus was a good mech outside of his paranoia.”:...

Optimus tried not to put so much weight on the words. Megatron was the villain, in the novel at least, anything he says about Optimus could very well be unreliable. Even the “all but a liar” comment can’t be taken to spark. Optimus slouched as he brought his knees up and laid his chin on top. “Out of an entire novel, all I have to work with is an unreliable villain.” His field flickered in annoyance as if the empty room would comfort him. For all that it was worth, Optimus was a scapegoat, an excuse to explain how Megatron got so much influence in the palace without having to explicitly explain it. Which would make Optimus just as sparkless and devoid of personality as before, only now under different pretenses. 

The literary snob in Orion rolled his optics at such a bland consensus, there had to be something worthwhile in that conversation.

So, dusting off his ‘the curtains were more than blue’ programming, Optimus fixed his attention to Megatron’s use of “paranoia,” the supposed betrayal was such a small portion of the dialogue that Orion never bothered to pay much mind to it after his initial read. Paranoia carried a strange weight to it. Unlike wrath, anger, or greed, paranoia meant that Optimus had something to fear. Eyebrows scrunched together, “Greed. Why didn’t the author use greed instead?” It would have made more sense. 

“Your beloved brother was greedy for power, so I used and killed him to satisfy mine.” 

That made sense. It painted Optimus as evil, and Megatron even more so for playing the prince like a Theremin. 

“Your stupid brother was so paranoid about losing his status that he sought me out. So I manipulated him to gain power and killed him after.” 

That was a strange motive. Far too specific and suspicious a cheap novel villan had any right to imply. Nevertheless, it meant that there was something that pushed Optimus to seek out Megatron of all mechs, something a prince could not handle alone. An outside factor that made the perfect, pretty, and punctual Prime run to the only other house that might help him. 

The only house with militant power. 

Optimus tried to ignore his lines growing cold as the existence of a bigger threat than Megatron came to fruition. He clamped his plating down in an absentminded defense. 

“Hah, I wonder if it’s possible for me to catch a break, I’m Optimus not Rodimus.” He laughed bitterly.

Cerulean optics blinked. 

“I’m Optimus, not Rodimus.” 

“I am Orion Pax.” 

The name Orion sounded strange now. Optimus tilted his helm to the side, the world tilted as well. Then to the other. 

“No.”

Flexing his digits, he tapped them rhythmically against the floor in a song he used to hear on the grid.

“Buh, buhbuh, buuuh, You got the touch….you got the power-” 

The curtain coding came in full force all at once and hit as hard as the convoy had hit the petite librarian. Optimus was looking at his old variant as absolute, through the eyes of the reader. His programming was right, there was a bigger threat to Optimus’ life aside from Megatron because he was a minor character in Songs of the Spark. Reaching for his reflection on the polished marble, all this thinking and theorizing failed to note that this wasn’t the world of Songs of the Spark, this was the world that Songs of the Spark took place in. The palace, the maid quarters, the room he sat in meant that as of right now, they weren't backdrops or scenes in a play, they were real places with real items and individuals within them. At this moment, Optimus wasn’t a forgettable character. If he had become aware of his surroundings, his experiences, and his future, that meant the rest of the world was as well. That meant Songs of the Spark told one story, one out of millions. Optimus Prime was one of those millions. Orion Pax was no more, and so was the original Optimus. 

Optimus’ servos dropped to his sides. “I am Optimus Prime.”

There’s no way he knew how the original story of Optimus’ life went aside from the fact the prince died a possibly tragic death. But a story certainly existed. With the hindsight Optimus has now, there was no way he was going to let this life go as fate may have originally intended. Now he had bigger problems than Megatron, he had to find the source of the paranoia and effectively quell it. Along with the fact Orion had to rebuild Optimus’ character from the ground up, there’s no sources saying he had to act a certain way or follow a plot, all the ambiguity between now and Optimus’ death was up to interpretation now that it was technically Orion , he was free to do as he pleased. 

Changing my fate. Optimus wonders with a newfound clarity. And like the rising sun entering through the curtains and painting walls of his hab, the sprawled sheets on the floor lend credence to an idea. 

Optimus lip plates quirk into a smirk.

“Haven’t I already changed the story?” 

Twisted hope began to flood through his spark, aside from the breakthrough that was ‘you’re in the world a story takes place in, not the other way around’ there’s no way his previous meltdown went unnoticed by the palace. As the original novel follows, Optimus Prime was painfully stoic and detached from those around him, Orion’s reaction to waking up would be painfully out of character, and given his disastrous character profile already, a responsible prince suddenly having a panic attack at the sight of his servos...now, ohohoho, now, Optimus was an amnesic victim of a tragic accident. Blue optics looked up at the ceiling, catching the image of that stupid something-symbolic techno-dove his optics twinkled. 

Rumors would run wild.

“I already changed my fate.” He whispered.

Optimus almost hollered in glee but stifled the excitement when he remembered the last time he laughed out loud. Instead, he giggled quietly to himself and kicked his legs like a youngling after their first date.

“ As far as they’re concerned, I may as well be a prince with no memories of being one! I can act however I please! I don't have to run away or fake my death! I just have to play dumb! Ori- Optimus you genius! I can kiss this stupid primacy goodbye!” 

Revitalized, Optimus straightened up and looked out the windowed doors. 

“This life is mine now. And this time, I won't be a tragedy.”

Amidst Optimus’ quiet declaration a quiet knock at the door interrupted Optimus from his thoughts, “H-Hello? Your Highness?” 

“Oh slag.” 

Optimus quickly scrambled to his large berth and fell into the soft sheets as quiet as a warframe could, which meant whoever was outside definitely heard a loud POMF. Grabbing the sheets off the floor and placing them haphazardly across the berth, Optimus added a few coughs for good measure.

“Come in!” The Prime said, as demure as a baritone could. Which, again, teetered on impossible, but somehow Optimus pulled it off. 

The door opened with a hesitant tug after a pause from both sides of it, “Your highness?” A little orange femme peeked in. 

Optimus smiled warmly. “Yes, hello."

Chapter Text

The crowd of maids surrounding Windy warmed the air with their buzzing fields with a flurry of questions as they leaned closer as she answered with meek squeaks and simple sentences. 

“Oh Windy, you brave little spark!” A large cook said as they coddled Windy with their large yellow frame. 

“Actually, didn’t you all - “

Windy stepped to the left with a yelp when a chef turned towards her with a scalding spoon. “Volunteering to see that dead-sparked price! This isn’t a romance novel; he won’t pick you up!” He scolded.

Windy was almost offended by the accusation if she wasn’t flattered by the idea. Before she could assess a rebuttal, another maid asked in rapid fire as he peeked around Windy with weary optics. “Did he hurt you? Yell at you? Did he even look at you? Lay a digit?!”

Windy jumped at a digit poked at her side, “What? No!” 

“So, he didn’t even acknowledge your presence!” He assessed, hugging his frame as though he were scandalized.

Windy flushed in an effort to relay what she meant, but once more, she was cut off.

“He must’ve dwarfed you! Oh, you poor thing!” A blue femme chimed in off to the left.

Windy tried to bristle her thin armor as her poorly vented frustration began to seep through her field. “Didn’t you all set me up to go up there in the first place?!” She cried out.

“We would never!” The bothersome group said in a single, unified voice. 

Liars! Windy thought bitterly to herself, her weak field doing little to help voice her thoughts. 

A yellow figure slinked off from the corner, finding their place alongside the maids closer to Windy as another asked a question, “How did it go?”

Windy gave way to a quiet mumble and wriggled free from the group. With a shuffled step she almost tripped, catching herself on the counter holding the many half-finished cubes of the maids on their lunch break. She brushed her apron down, adjusted the blow and with a hmph, closed her optics and faced away from the group. Only returning a passive grace when she followed with an answer,

“He smiled.”

Windy was knocked over again by the maids as they barraged her with more questions. 

Ultra Magnus set the data pad he was holding onto his desk, and he pinched the uppermost area of his olfactory ridge with a sigh. 

“There truly is no rest for the wicked.” A voice chimed in from the entryway of the office. 

Lord Protector looked up from his place, only to find the slim figure of an old friend, his mouth curved into a soft smile as his servos were intertwined together and centered under his chest. 

“A-3.” 

Raising a servo and bowing with a flick at the wrist, A-3 met Ultra Magnus’ gaze. “‘Tis I.” 

Magnus greeted in turn with a tilt of the helm. “What brings you here?”

“To urge you out of your work.” A-3 remarks, stepping closer to the desk.

Ultra Magnus lets out a dry laugh. “I have no such luxury. You ought to know that.”

“I do, keenly. However, I believe you have more pressing matters to attend to than, well, that.” A-3 says as he gestures to the datapad set in front of Ultra Magnus.

“And what would that be?”

“Your eldest son, for one.”

Ultra Magnus turned away from A-3. “Ah, yes, him. I do not believe it is my place to see him at the moment.”

A-3 maintained his optics locked onto his lordship. “Why not? You are his sire; you have a greater place than any.”

“I fear I may frighten him with my presence, if what Ratchet said is true.” Ultra Magnus lied as he sat deeper into his seat, crossing his arms.

A-3 grazed over the obvious lie. “He deserves to know who you are, at the very least. He hasn’t left his palace, much less his hab, in deca-cycles. I can only imagine the crisis he’s endured waking up,” A-3 replied in time. “I implore you to go.” 

The two figures maintained a mutual silence as Ultra Magnus chewed on the thought. There was no tension, no malice, no manipulation in the request. Nothing that Magnus was familiar with in hearing when a visitor of any social standing, it wasn’t a grand request either, but his bias maintained hesitation. 

Optimus Prime, his eldest son, a dearest creation, they all were, but a crowned creation always presided over their siblings. And presided Optimus did, Rodimus and Sentinel were in no place to heed their brother to the throne, and Magnus was not getting any younger, Optimus was the only choice. Before the accident, Ultra Magnus knew what to expect out of Optimus at any given moment, but the idea of that suddenly being taken had left a pit in Magnus’ tanks. Optimus could have changed for the better. Magnus hoped he would, but with every new revelation finding its way to the intakes of snickering servants the Lord Protector grew fretful. A tad bit more tolerable and less tactical would have been nice. Maybe losing a bit of his ego and willingness to argue with his sire wouldn’t hurt. But it seemed that the extreme happened. Optimus had panicked at the sight of his servos, fell off his berth in the middle of the night, and smiled at a maid. 

The slagger actually smiled. Not once could Ultra Magnus think of a time Optimus met someone with a genuine smile. 

It felt wrong. 

Everything was wrong, actually. 

His son was not clumsy or caring. He was not a night owl or a nap taker. And he most certainly did not smile. 

No. Optimus was calculating, intelligent, and cold. Like his sire, perhaps to a greater degree. That’s why he maintained his crown prince status, and that is why he wouldn’t have to bond to receive the throne. Alone, Optimus was a Prime by blood and a Protector by processor. That’s why he was the perfect heir.  

The emotion his son was showing terrified Magnus, because now, he had a son who held the potential to be equally as emotional as his carrier was. 

A carrier that was far too kind and far too self-sacrificing. 

Not good qualities of a single ruler. 

Magnus stiffened at the thought of his deceased conjunx. Vector needed Magnus but Magnus could not say he needed Vector. He loved his Prime, his beloved and his chosen. But those feelings were built, not born. Vector Prime was the lone heir of his creators. But he was far too soft-sparked to hold both reigns of Prime and Protector like his eldest would turn out to be. Vector existed for his people, not politics, whereas Magnus was more of the opposite. Optimus’ strengths were from the both of them and Magnus could not have been prouder to sire the first true ruler of Iacon. 

How ironic that it all crumbled in a flash. 

Optimus would likely have to be bonded off to a capable strategist to rule with an iron fist like Vector had with Magnus. Magnus didn’t like the suitors available at the moment, for any of his creations. Sentinel was a terrible choice by personality alone to become the peoples Prime. Even if the throne essentially belonged to him now. Ultra Magnus also could not give the throne to Rodimus either, the curious yellow spark was far too rebellious for his own good, mentioning an arranged bonding to Rodimus would spell disaster. And there was no way Magnus would tarnish the reputation of the House of Thirteen Vector came from by bestowing the title of prime to a sister house like that of the House of One and giving Elita the throne, even if she was the only capable individual in line. 

So, in an uncharacteristic fashion, Magnus locked the eldest away, demanding no one but those serving within the sapphire palace (and himself) to see Optimus in the hope of hiding the gaping wound Iacon now had. If neighboring kingdoms or lesser houses found out about this heir problem, Ultra Magnus would have a giant target on the back of his helm. Not that he didn’t already.

A-3 knew this. There was no other reason behind his request otherwise. Visiting Optimus would imply the prince is well, even when he was very clearly losing his processor. 

How strange it was that Magnus had maintained a wall of reasons to avoid this truth, only for it to topple over with a simple, albeit politically strategic, request. 

Ultra Magnus sighed. “I’ll go.” 

The Lord of Iacon stood and walked out of the room without facing A-3, ignoring the faint smile mixed with relief plastered across the civil leader’s faceplate.

Across the palace grounds, Optimus stirred, twisting his frame to wrap himself with the soft sheets that adorned his berth, pointedly ignoring the not-so-subtle clicks of pedes intruding upon his naptime. The warmth of the half-opened window beside the berth beamed with the breeze of summer air, Optimus relished in the fact that the air didn’t smell of the sulfide the factories besides his old apartment produced. The prince nuzzled into the sheets with a smile, before they were promptly ripped from his frame by a high-pitched, but clearly unimpressed voice. “Please get up, your highness.”

Optimus sighed. “Good morning, Windy.”

“The sun is halfway across the sky, it’s well beyond the morning, your highness.” Windy teased. 

The price turned on him optics with a click, and just like he suspected, the orange femme stood there half-sparkedly placing the mesh onto the messy berth and flashed him a glance before making her way to the nightstand on the left, messing with the tray she brought in. Optimus noted her demeanor, cheery, as always. She was the first maid to treat him more like an individual than a royal, which certainly had its advantages. As a matter of fact, since the day he met Windy, all the maids began to warm up to him, not a lot, but enough to be noticeable. Optimus could only attribute it to Windy’s hanging jaw when they originally met, apparently greeting her with a smile was not what she expected. 

Optimus paused. “How long has it been?” He asked. 

“What do you mean?” Windy responded, in turn. 

“Since I’ve woken up, since we’ve met, since I have been unable to escape my room.”

Windy looked at the prince sympathetically. “Well, in order. I think it’s been a month since you've awakened. About two deca-cycles since we’ve met. And his majesty Lord Protector Ultra Magnus says your not allowed out since you woke up.” 

Optimus mumbled gibberish at the mentioning of his supposed sire. Apparently, Optimus wasn’t a flight frame, but he certainly felt like a caged seeker right now. But it could be worse. It could be better , he thought. But it could also be worse . Either way, things were finally looking up, until Optimus looked down at the cube Windy was preparing. 

He grimaced. “What will it be today?”

Windy scrunched her faceplate with a suppressed gag as she turned to Optimus while pouring in a packet into the sad excuse of a cube. “Medical grade and Thiol...sorry.”

Optimus shivered, he too turned away when the foul sent hit his olfactory sensors. While Windy quickly capped the cube and began to shake it as far away from her as she could, Optimus scrambled off the berth to open the other windows, tying away the curtains with a lopsided bow and taking in the largest in-vent he could to rid his sensors of the smell. 

Windy stopped shaking and held the cube out for Optimus to grab, “Ready? I think you should take it like a shot of high-grade…”

Optimus made an undignified sound which Windy giggled at. “Let me...open the balcony too.” 

Windy didn’t bother trying to convince him otherwise, she merely held a servo to shield her face and Optimus opened the balcony with a sigh. The breeze that entered frolicked around Optimus’ frame as he took the sight, he had still been unable to grow accustomed to, the sky was clear and the voices of workers whistled from below, Optimus stood quietly taking it all in with a hooded blink. Optimus had hardly felt the need to keep track of time, there was no escaping his habsuite. It was strange, Optimus wanted out, to see what this new world was like, to transform and see what this world offered, but, at the same time, a look in the mirror and the feeling disappeared. The face he bore was always that of a prince, one that will inevitably have to live like one. The hab was safe, enclosed, protected, it meant he had nothing to worry about, and yet it felt as though a burden of thousands rested on his shoulders. As far as Optimus knew, he would never live a life like he did as a librarian, free to do as he pleased as long as it was within his monthly budget to do so. In a sense, Optimus finally got the wealth Orion insisted he needed at the cost of living in an elaborate cage. 

“Your highness?” Windy asked, now pinching her olfactory ridge. 

Optimus snapped out of his haze. “Yes! Coming.” 

Letting go of the balcony door handles, only then realizing he may have dented them a little, Optimus strode to Windy, noting to be more wary of the strength he now possessed. 

Windy, still pinching her ridge, placed the cube into Optimus’ servo. “Ready?”

Optimus stared at the foul thing, taking in the rancid color of a blueish purple muddied into a dark green, perhaps it was a metaphor for his new life. It was vile but offered many benefits. “Ready.” Popping the top off, Optimus downed the cube in a spark-beat before his senses could register the gravity of disgust. 

With a swallow, Optimus felt good, having done the worst part of his new day-to-day life. However, the courage was not enough as a moment later Optimus gagged and hunched over with a servo tightly placed around his intake, bending into a squat as he tried to recover from the assault. 

Optimus extended the cube in his other servo to Windy as she plucked it away with a giggle. “That bad, huh?”

The prince could only nod and Windy let out a laugh. 

“Do you have anything to wash it down?” Optimus managed to spurt out between coughs. 

Windy looked over her shoulder at the door, then to Optimus. Her gaze darkened as the two occupants met each other's gaze. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone...” 

“I promise.” Optimus said, muffled by his servo, in equal seriousness. 

The little maid pulled out a small bag from her subspace. “Good.”

The cries of crystal-cadas rang in the audials of the frames quietly seated in the garden. It was a warmer cycle, Cybertron was in its orbital cycle that reigned closest to Alpha Centauri. With an intricate sway of a brush, pastel pink danced across a canvas, the sound of the bristles danced rhythmically with precision. A quiet hum of satisfaction came as a delicate servo gently sought more paint on their brush. However, next to such a beautiful moment, a loud smack of a brush far too saturated made fewer pretty sounds. 

“I hate this.”

“I know you do.” 

Another schlop and a glob of paint fell onto the once-pristine cobblestone path.

“I really hate this.”

Crystal blue optics narrowed at the paint residing on the floor, they zoomed in and examined the color- black, solid black, the color felt out of place in such a vibrant location. The presence of the color tainted anything close enough to touch. The dastardly color was a void, consuming the colors around it instantly. 

“That’s not even the right color.” 

“Who cares.” 

“We’re painting a still life of the garden, where do you see black?” 

“It’s what I’m about to see if I have to sit here any longer.” 

A pink helm turned towards her companion with an annoyed flick of her field, “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It means if I have to sit here and paint some stupid flora any longer, I’m going to bash my processor in, Elita. Why can’t we do something fun, like sparring or fencing? ” A dark blue frame mocked and pointed his brush like a sword, sending another glob of paint flying. 

Elita ducked to the side of the black projectile, seeing it splatter on the path she turned to her cousin with a glare. “We did that yesterday, Sentinel , you said we could do something I wanted to do today, and I wanted to paint.” 

“Ugh, I only agreed ‘cause I thought you’d want to do something actually fun, not this still life garbage.”

Elita bit back a crude comment, opting to pick up her brush once more in an effort to ignore Sentinel. She returned to painting a quartz rose that glimmered in the sunlight, “You should learn to appreciate the beauty of our kingdom.” 

Sentinel rolled his optics. “You’re too sentimental, it’s just some flower.” 

Elita scowled. “It’s not “just some flower,” it's a flower in the garden, our garden, the garden of the kingdom of Iacon . In such a delicate form, it carries a divine presence with it-”

Before Elita could continue, Sentinel got up and threw his brush and palette down onto his stool with little mind. “I’m outta here, maybe Rodimus wants to do something fun.” 

Elita went in to wash her brush in the cube of solvent diluted with her previous colors. “He’s with his tutor, you’re stuck with me.” She said looking up with a pointed glace. Little could be done, however, as Sentinel was already a dozen steps away from his cousin and canvas. Elita jumped up to reprimand him. “At least clean up after yourself, you slob!” 

“We have servants for that! We’re a royal lineage, Elita! We’re above anything that involves cleaning up!” He yelled in turn as he went to rest his arms over his helm.

Elita took after Sentinel with a quickened pace, abandoning her own supplies with a final sympathetic look back at the abandoned paintings Elita followed Sentinel outside the garden. Though the second prince didn’t come out unscathed, much like the paint on the canvas, Elita's servo found its place against the back of Sentinel’s helm with a solid smack. 

Sentinel tensed and turned to Elita, rubbing the back of his helm. “What the frag was that for?!” 

“Stop being such a burden to the poor servants. We’re supposed to be a benevolent family.” She scolded as she turned forward and surpassed Sentinel’s pace. 

“You should know better than to lay a-” Sentinel started, but a glare from tokened royal-blue optics stopped Sentinel from arguing any further. Instead, he mumbled an expletive and slinked after Elita as they both made their way out of the garden in a ceasefire. 

The rustling leaves of the trees faded and gave way to a truly scorching sun when the cousins traded their stone path along the garden for the solid sidewalk that twisted about the palace grounds. The shade of the buildings offered little refuge as the heat lingered in the creases of their armor. Elita looked up at the sun and her optics shuttered before she could get a good look at the sky. It was a nice day, that much was obvious if they could have made their way to the garden and paint for a while, but Iacon was almost unbearably hot during these cycles. The unrhythmic clicks of four pedes made their way about the palace grounds, simply enjoying their stroll until Sentinel decided to make good on his previous statement. 

“Where is that idiot brother of mine?” 

Elita had to stop herself from hitting him over the head again. “I told you he’s with his tutor.” 

Sentinel turned to face Elita, walking backwards as he quirked an optic ridge. “Do you really believe that? He misses so many classes he might as well be uneducated.” 

Elita didn’t dignify Sentinel with a response, rather, she impolitely ignored him in favor of looking at the bushels of quartz that lined the sidewalk. Sentinel didn’t attest further; he shrugged and began looking about the buildings they passed in hopes of finding the red and yellow mech of his lineage. Neither of the pair finding anything in their search's worth noting, their pace began to slow as the heat began to take greater effect on their frames.

Sentinel groaned as he shielded his faceplate with a servo. “It should be illegal to be this hot. I can only imagine how bad it gets in the south.” 

Elita continued to face the bushes as she absentmindedly responded. “Maybe you should ask the adopted Duke about it.” 

Sentinel stopped dead in his tracks as he faced Elita in guffaw.  

Realizing her impudence, Elita’s vocalizer glitched as she turned to Sentinel. “I didn’t mean it like that-” 

Sentinel’s optics twinkled at the opening; he twisted the figurative knife into his cousin's side as he ducked down to her audial. “Careful, dear cousin, I’d hate for others to hear how you disgrace the honor of our beloved Duke.” 

Sentinel yelped as Elita dug her literal digit into his side. “And I would hate it if Rodimus would have to be the chosen heir of Iacon.” 

“Is that a threat?” Sentinel growled. 

“It’s a promise.” Elita bit back. 

If one thing carried itself around the courts of Iacon, it was Megatron. Loved by lesser houses, despised by greater houses, but entirely feared by all. Elita didn’t hate the mech, fear him? Maybe a little, but hate was nowhere near what she felt towards him, if there was anything genuine, she felt at all. Elita had only met Megatron once, in passing, about 12 vorns ago when he originally entered the kingdom and Galvatron pleaded his case to Ultra Magnus during Optimus’ debutante ball. Since then, she only caught a glimpse of the towering mech at balls or similar events. Elita’s field flicked and, retroactively, she cased it closer to her frame, she was so young at the time, but it certainly caused a stir. Galvatron had humiliated Optimus in favor of naming some, as her family put it later at a private dinner, “low life with no noble blood in him.” as his heir. It was harsh from her point of view, but she always sympathized with her family. Apparently, this manifested in a crude mention of Megatron’s position. Elita wouldn’t admit to her trepidation around the hulking size of the mech, being of a high social standing, she knew better than to show such weakness, but her own family had problems with him coming in and disrupting the power balance that took years to establish in the first place. Megatron represented a type of “forward thinking” that irked the higher houses of the court. But even voicing the thought could put anyone in a pit of sharkticons, it didn’t help that Megatron looked like one too, but a Duke was still a Duke. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.” She said again, in a softer tone this time.

Catching onto her obvious regret, Sentinel backed off and the two royals decidedly ignored their skirmish regarding the duke and quickened their pace to the safety of the Sapphire Palace's shade. Sentinel straightened his back with a stretch as he looked up to the white exterior of his brother’s palace. Elita gazed pensively through the window. “I wonder how Optimus is holding up.” Elita asked, mostly to herself. 

“Clearly not well enough for my sire to let him out.” Sentinel tried to joke. 

Elita turned to face Sentinel for a moment before turning back towards the window. They stood in silence for a brief moment as Elita’s lip plates gave way to a smirk. “I hope he’s okay. I’d hate for you to be the next crown prince.” 

“You made the joke once already!” Sentinel bristled. “And anyways, I’d be a lot better than that emotionless drone.” 

Elita gave her cousin a teasing look. “Who said I was joking?” She teased. “If you’re so confident, then name the purpose of the Epsilon treaty in the context of diminishing the use of utilitarianism as a war mongering tactic in southern territories and the socioeconomic benefits that came with extension contracts with their kingdoms.”

Sentinel paused as his process worked. Every nanosecond that passed Elita’s field radiated more smugness. With a scoff, Sentinel turned to face the window in a poor attempt to ignore her. “Using big words doesn’t make you smart, Elita.”

Elita ginned deviously at Sentinel as she prepared another witty comeback, turning away with a dramatic pause she placed a servo on her chest as she voiced her next attack. “Well, they wouldn’t be so big if you were actually sm-” 

“Wasn’t it something like offering better trade routes to develop better labor practices so they don’t start a war ‘cause they hate us?” A voice piped up. 

Elita opened her optics and turned back to Sentinel. “Huh, I didn’t expect you to get it somewhat right...” 

“Uh, I didn’t say anything.” Sentinel said.

“Yo! Up here!”

Elita and Sentinel both stilled. They faced each other with a blink and looked up, and speak-of-Unicron, they found Sentinel’s once intended target. Or more so, he found them. A red and yellow frame leaned out of an opened window, dangerously close to falling. 

“Rodimus!” The two said in an identical pitch. 

Out of the four royals in the current generation, Optimus was the eldest by a long shot, he had emerged 11 vorns before anyone else. Sentinel and Elita emerged a little over an orbital cycle apart but Elita was the first to make her debut. While Rodimus, being the youngest, emerged about a vorn after Sentinel much to his carrier's surprise.

“Hehe whatcha doin’?” The youngest asked while he leaned out more. 

“Why are you up there, you little scrapheap?” Sentinel asked, placing his servos on his hips.

“To see Optimus, duh.” Rodimus said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

Elita blinked, quickly remembering the palace she stood outside of and the one Rodimus was in . “We’re not allowed in the Sapphire Palace, Roddy. Get out of there before Ultra Magnus finds out.” 

“Blahhh, come on! Killjoy! Don’t you want to see Optimus?” 

“That’s exactly why we can’t go in!” 

Sentinel looked Elita up and down with a smirk. In a predictable turn of events, he began to climb the walls up to the window Rodimus resided in “Yeah! Killjoy! Roddy, help me up!”

It was the spitting image of a regular mechling mischief, except the defining difference between the two was sneaking into the palace of your older sibling when strictly ordered not to by your kingdom's supreme Lord Protector was a tad bit more treasonous than whatever civilians might typically do. With a last jump Sentinel met Rodimus in the window a floor above Elita, hanging off the railing much like his brother Sentinel gave Elita a taunting look. “I told you! Rodimus would want to do something fun!” 

“Yeah! Come on! Come on!” Rodimus bounced while holding onto the windowsill. 

Elita prided herself on the fact she was the voice of reason out of the three. “No! How did you get up there in the first place? The sapphire palace is teaming with guards.” 

“It’s a secret!” The youngest winked. “I’ll tell you if you come up!”

Sentinel rested on the windowsill and examined his digits. “Come on, Rod, we’re wasting our time. ‘Lita won’t do anything fun cause she’s lame.”

Rodimus pursed his lips. “What? No, she’s-” Sentinel glared at Rodimus as the silent plan was realized by the red mech. “Oh, right.” He chirped. “Yeah! Elita is sooooo lame for not coming up with us!” Rodimus said instead, quite unsubtly. 

Elita knew what the two were doing, trying to do, at least. And it was working, much to her chagrin. Apparently, her responsible nature fled her frame when taunted enough, as poor as their efforts were. She quickly looked over her surroundings and began her climb up. “If we get in trouble, you two owe me dessert for a vorn!” She hissed as she hopped between the two royals.

Entering the Sapphire Palace was all kinds of bad ideas stuffed into one. Optimus was always a scary presence, their little entourage rarely interacted with the crown prince, and he made no attempts to interact with them either. Of course, that didn’t stop Rodimus’ infatuation with his older brother, even if Elita and Sentinel didn’t like Optimus as much, the only plus out of it was the eldest didn’t care enough to stop them from having fun and causing mischief.

Elita took in her surroundings, stepping into the lifeless corridors of his residence almost made her battle protocols switch on. Compared to the busy and eclectic halls of the Ruby Palace Elita, Sentinel, and Rodimus stayed in, the Sapphire palace was a breath of strange air, as if the servants or mechanical mice feared what lurked about the rooms. 

“Ugh just being in here rubs my plating wrong.” Sentinel shivered. 

“It certainly suits Optimus…” Rodimus mumbled. 

Roaming about the seemingly abandoned corridor felt as though there was a threat waiting at any corner. Looking about, Rodimus felt a bit sad at the closed curtains and dreary appearance. It was clean, of course, but lacking the same warmth it once had. The Sapphire palace was always the residence of the Prime, before it was bestowed to Optimus it had held their carrier up until they became one with the allspark. Rodimus fondly remembered the tall windows glistening with light that crowned the rooms with the same bright presence their carrier did as his small pedes would run into their arms while Sentinel tried to steal their attention. Optimus was always off in the corner reading a data pad, their sire chuckling loudly at his younger creations vying for attention. That part of the memory glitched, it was all so early in Rodimus’ memory banks that he couldn’t recall much more. Those memories seemed to make the halls even more bleak when he had such a positive point of reference. It didn’t help with how much Ultra Magnus changed since his carrier passed and Optimus’ accident. His sire seemed less tolerable. 

“Hey! We’re gonna get caught if you keep standing there, scatterbot!” Sentinel scolded as he grabbed Rodimus by the arm and pulled him from his place in the hallway. 

Rodimus followed after his tugged servo, collecting himself in an instant. “Sorry! Just realized how depressing this place is.” He laughed.

Elita shared a sympathetic look at Rodimus as she patted his back when Sentinel let go of him and took the lead. “I’m telling you; we should go…being here is a punishment waiting to happen.” She gently prompted as her servo left Rodimus’ back. 

Rodimus shook off his mood and elbowed Elita. “It’s fine, we’re here to pay Optimus a visit!” 

Elita made an unimpressed face at Rodimus, but let the topic be as they continued to trot down the building in silence. If it weren’t for the rug adorning the extravagant halls, the trio would have been easily caught, luckily, they each made sure to remain on the mesh path that unfurled before them, so a step doesn’t escape the muffling fabric. Perseverance was a trait inherited to any of the royal family, it seemed, even when faced with possible guards and maids getting in the way of their expedition.

Rodimus and his elders went upstairs, down halls, took left turns, and right ones too, with little more than courage and a lot of luck. 

They eventually found themselves at the final floor of the building. There wasn’t much to note on their way up, Sentinel and Elita had become well accustomed to whatever delicacies decorate the halls of the palaces.

But Rodimus hadn’t.

Rodimus always had been easy to please, despite the constant doting for being the youngest, he liked the simpler things in his functioning. Which was why he found himself skipping lessons in favor of escaping palace grounds into the town below or towards the edges of the crystalline forests that extended to the border of Iacon. His excursions were a poorly kept secret. Even so, every time he entered the place, regardless of which one it was, the little prince was mesmerized by the glittering beauty. Sometimes he’d think his awe was akin to what a common bot might feel entering the palace. Of course, a commoner might not feel the varying degrees of disgust Rodimus felt towards the overt luxuries his family held in comparison to other territories on Cybertron. Still, the trio reached their final destination in silence, much of it in thanks to Rodimus’ contemplations. 

“It’s right down this hall.” Elita pointed.

“I can’t believe we made it this far.” Sentinel said.

Rodimus agreed. “Neither can I.” 

The three stood awkwardly at the end of the long hallway. It was the first time they had to sneak into the sapphire palace, and it was surprisingly…easy? Elita sensed something off but brushed it off as her anxiety. Instead, all their frames began to buzz in excitement as Sentinel took the first step to Optimus’ door, Elita followed behind. 

Sentinel looked back to Elita with a sly grin. “Betcha he’ll scold us for coming in without an invitation.” 

“He wouldn’t be wrong for doing so.” Elita matched. 

Rodimus stopped walking at the comment, the gravity of the situation catching up to him. Rodimus looked down at his pedes against the pale tiling, noting how his color fared garishly against the white. Bringing his gaze back up, he evened it to his companions as they made their way halfway down the hall. “What if he doesn't remember us?” The concern rippled across his armor as the same warm memories from before froze over like the energon lakes would in the winter. 

Elita stopped mid step and turned to her cousin stationed away. “I didn’t consider his amnesia.” she voiced quietly.

Sentinel thought little of the comment and continued his stride. “You don’t really believe all that amnesia slag.”

“I do.” Rodimus said, his gaze stiffened, focusing on Sentinel. “Ratchet said that-”

“Please, what does that discontinued model know? He saw him for a couple nanoseconds and called it amnesia.” Sentinel brushed off the concern with a wave of his servo. “And anyways, we’re ‘boutta find out for ourselves.” Elita chewed the end of her digit. Rodimus remained at his place at the opposing end of the hallway. Sentinel promptly ignored the two, coming up the final steps to the door. His steps sounded heavy, matched by a slower tempo, yet wholly unfit for his weight class and height. Noticing this, Sentinel stopped, yet the steps continued. Deep, heavy, powerful that grew louder with every passing klik. Sentinel felt his spark drop, he reeled his helm back, Elita and Rodimus froze, petrified as well. Three pairs of blue optics, all in varying intensities, looked in fear as those steps came to a stop right in front of Rodimus. 

“Just what do you three think you’re doing here?” 

What a strange twist of fate.

In reality the question was an order, either answer or perish. None of the latest royal generation could save themselves from their inevitable punishment. They would be lucky to leave unscathed, a scolding would be the bare minimum, and a lashing would be the worst. Naturally, Sentinel froze up, but he was safe for the most part, as was Rodimus. Elita, however, was significantly more distanced to the crown, and from another house, she was not to be blessed with the same mercy from her uncle. So, she stumbled and apologized in a stutter. “F-forgive us, your grace, we-”

“We wanted to see Optimus.” Rodimus finished, calmly, stepping to cover Elita from view, although it did little to shield her from his sire’s great stature. His fear was gone in a blink.

Far too brave than Rodimus had any right to be. Rodimus was aware of his predicament, while still being perfectly aware of how the entire situation befell his sire. He was juvenile, sure, but not stupid. Optimus was, for the most part, out of the picture. Alienated by his own volition and now his title was up in the air. Punishing Sentinel or Rodimus, and by extension Elita, through cruel and unusual punishment would only strain future relations which may bite Magnus when he had to step down. It was a stretch, Rodimus was far too confident in entrusting his safety to being second in line, he cared little for the title, but it carried benefits. And one of those benefits was being able to hold some ground against his sire. Which was a power he was about to abuse.

Magnus fixed his posture to stand at his full height, narrowing his gaze down to his youngest. “I strictly forbad all of you from coming here.” 

“I have the right to see my brother.”

“You have no right to do anything I forbid you to.”

Rodimus’ shoulders tensed up. “Why did you lock him up?”

“I should be the one asking questions, do not act righteous, Rodimus. You are well within your wrongs.” 

Rodimus glared. “My wrongs? This is the first time I’ve seen you come here. Meanwhile I’ve had to plan this for deca-cycles.”

Magnus’ optics flashed at the comment, he stepped closer, leaning down to his creation. “So, you’ve conspired against my word for deca-cycles, now?” Meeting Rodimus’ glare with his own. “Your carrier raised you better than to defy me,”

“My carrier is dead. ” Rodimus bit back, thinking little of the consequences. “Optimus, Sentinel, and the Sapphire palace are all I have left of them. But not you. Never you.”

Elita managed to summon the courage to step forward and speak to Rodimus, her servos hovered in the air as she would when comforting a crying bitlet, “Roddy, calm down…” Her efforts were in vain, however, as a pointed glare from her uncle sent her gaze back down to the floor as she clamped her intake shut.

“I will not have his discussion with you, Rodimus. Return to your palace or I will punish you for this foolishness.” Ultra Magnus met Sentinel and Elita’s distant figures. “You two as well.”

Sentinel snapped out of his haze, his usual gusto faded in an instant as he too lowered his gaze and mumbled a “Yes, sir.” 

Elita’s comments on Sentinel’s inability to lead grew truer with every interaction they had with their sire. It infuriated Rodimus. Though he shared none of that malice towards his cousin, seeing how she at least tried to help despite being faced with harsher consequences than Sentinel. Rodimus glared from where he could at his brother's cowardice. This is why he preferred Optimus. Rodimus loved Sentinel, as a brother should, but Optimus was stronger than the three of them in terms of will. He always spoke out, even when wrong and never hesitated to set his sire in his place, which was well above that of his own, but it fared little to Optimus. That’s what Sentinel should be doing, defending Rodimus and Elita. But he didn’t, Rodimus felt foolish for thinking he would back him up. 

Rodimus was second in line, he used to be third. One would think he was happy with the shift, but in reality, Rodimus wanted to stay as far away from the throne as possible. By that logic, he had no reason to bite back. But Rodimus’ temper wouldn’t let this slide. Rodimus met Ultra Magnus’ gaze steadily, now fully adopting the role of his elder brother. 

“Let him out.”

Ultra Magnus’ lip plate twitched. “Excuse me?” 

Rodimus narrowed his gaze, straightening his posture while doing so. “Let him out. I will leave if you let Optimus out. He deserves to see his kingdom.” 

Ultra Magnus merely scoffed. “You have no right to bargain with me on the treatment of your brother.” 

Rodimus grew irritated. “He deserves to be let out. You think he hasn’t lost his processor being locked away like this? He’s been awake for a month now, and not once have you lifted your order. Or visit him yourself!” Rodimus mimicked his sire’s scoff, looking up and a twisted expression. “Was this even your idea? Do you even have the spark to care about your eldest son you locked away like a-”

“Enough.” Ultra Magnus barked out, he looked down at Rodimus with such fury that he could not even see that pathetic thing as his creation. “You are to obey me without question, do you understand me?” He growled. “I do not expect you to understand what I do and why I do it. I am responsible for you, your brothers, and Iacon as a whole. What I deem fit for them is what is fit for the good of Iacon.” Rodimus tried his ground yet stumbled back as Magnus continued forward. “I will only excuse this fatuous behavior this once. If I see any of you within this palace ever again, without my explicit permission, I will thoroughly punish each of you myself.” He thundered. Adjusting his posture, Magnus gazed at the trio now huddled together. “Am I clear?” He asked, calmly, unlike his previous outburst. 

“Yes, sir.” Sentinel and Elita bowed, their voices trembled and cracked as their frames shook. The two quickly picked themselves up and briskly walked past their Protector to the entryway of the hall, not once looking up at him or each other. Rodimus did not, however, instead he remained standing and glared the entire arsenal of Iacon at his sire. The little prince did not match a single courtesy as he fixed his gaze to his brother and cousin and began to walk towards them. “Glitch.” He whispered, clear as day, walking past his sire. Ultra Magnus stopped himself from snapping again by gripping his servos shut and walking in the opposite direction to the doors of Optimus' room, pretending not to hear it. 

When the mangled steps of three frames finally disappeared, Ultra Magnus ex vented deeply and felt his frame nearly collapse onto itself. “Not Rodimus, let it never be Rodimus.” Magnus swore to himself as he dragged his servos across his face in frustration. When his servos finally passed down his face, Ultra Magnus looked at the door with a pitiful glance. “Please, be better than your brothers.” 

Raising a servo, Ultra Magnus knocked three times. 

Chapter Text

Ultra Magnus reached he door of his office as the frantic pounding grew with fervor.  “I’m here, what is the issue?”

The servant panted as their optics wildly searched their Protector. “His majesty…Prince Optimus…” they choked out between gasps. “…had an accident…the medics...unsure of his condition.”

The Protector clamped his plating shut; the cold sensation of a panic threatened to overtake him. Determined to avoid betraying himself, Ultra Magnus kept his field in check and nodded, the servant bowed and led the way to the befallen prince. 

On the opposite side of the hall, a petite yellow bot rested against the wall, unbeknownst to Ultra Magnus or the servant, blue optics flooded with coolant as they failed to call out to their lord.

Windy offered a concerned look to her prince as they sat upon the large berth snacking on the multi-colored contraband, Optimus flinched at every new voice that managed to surpass the muffing walls of his room. 

“They sure are loud.” She said, trying to ease the silence between them.

Optimus didn't respond, his optics remained glued to the door while his intake chewed on the sweet pink jelly. 

Windy's optics locked onto Optimus for the moment, studying his serious face. Nothing came from their silence, Windy kicked her pedes against the frame of the berth while leaning over to fit into Optimus' peripheral view. “I can go check if you want.” 

Optimus’ optics zoomed in on the door, as if the enhanced image of the white material would enhance his hearing too, it didn't. Swiftly stuffing the rest of the sweet treat into his mouth, the prince shook his head. “No, maybe it’s better if we wait, it might be dangerous if you step out.” He finally managed to say with a swallow.

“Whatcha mean by that?” Windy asked, hopping off the bed with a puffed chest and flared armor, the bag of treats still firmly clutched in her servo while she struck a pose. “I’ll have you know I had to reject an invite from the elite guard!” 

Optimus looked over Windy for a moment, caught off guard by her sudden reaction, which seemed to be a poorly veiled attempt to distract him. Passing another glace at the door, then back to his maid, Optimus decided that Windy’s attempt would be better to focus on than whatever disastrous scenario his paranoid processor was formulating. The prince let out a soft chuckle. “Of course, I’m forever indebted to your abilities.” 

Windy took the compliment with stride as she set the bag down and began to show her supposed military prowess by sparring with the air. Loudly. Hoo-ing and hah-ing with the most definitely incorrect fighting stances. Optimus felt himself relax a fraction; this was somehow more than enough to distract the two from the arguing happening outside the large doors. Optimus played along with Windy, clapping and laughing when she kicked and punched, as a naive prince should, but Primus did that muffled yelling petrify him. In the moment his focus returned to the yelling his processor hitched once again with obsessive thoughts. Why were bots arguing outside the door? Weren’t there no guests allowed? Did that medic catch into the spark signature? Optimus cut off his panicked processor by shutting his optics and stuffing another treat into his intake. Stress eating, he realized. Old habits die hard. Quietly laughing at the thought, Optimus took another treat. Orion had died hard alright, probably, hopefully. He couldn’t imagine what would happen to his frame now that his spark had transgressed universal plains. Was there a funeral? Was Alpha Trion mourning his loss? There was no way to know, no point in thinking about it either. Perhaps it was old habits that come with you after you die in your first life into your new, second life where you replaced a crown prince? That interpretation was a bit too personal. 

Windy smiled when she heard Optimus laugh, assuming it a reaction to her little antics, as if she could ever conceptualize the truth. With the hope to win over her prime's favor evermore, she upped the ante by grabbing a treat out of the bag and handed it to Optimus with a wink. “Okay, okay, throw this at me, your highness. And I’ll kick it back, alright?” 

Optimus' processor abandoned any previous lines of thought upon the illogical request. “Throw it?”

"Yes."

"You'll kick it back?"

Windy lit up. “Yes!”

Optimus didn't match her excitement, his finials flicked down to exemplify his weariness. “Won’t it make a mess?” 

“It’ll be fine! I can clean it up!” Windy insisted, waving off the concern. 

The reassurance did little to quell Optimus' concern for cleanliness, Windy was a delight to be around but by no means was she any good at her job. Clumsy, late, disorganized, and an airhead Optimus would occasionally catch Chromia staring at him with a look of horror at his choice of maid when she did anything particularly crude, which to her credit, was most of the time. Apparently today would follow in another string of disastrous incidents. Optimus looked at the treat that sat precariously in the palm of his servo, his audial finials fluttered back forward at the thought of throwing it. It was just so… silly. It was a simple request but the connotations it carried with it were not. How juvenile. Windy was young, but she couldn’t be that young. The treats were made of jelly, they weren’t firm to any degree. If Optimus threw it, and somehow, Windy managed to kick it, it would find itself planted onto her plating with a splat! Optimus returned his focus onto Windy, who’s optics glistened with excitement much like the sun reaching its peak outside. The prince's lipplates creased into a soft smile, the moment felt so surreal, as if it wasn't a prince and a maid but two younglings getting into trouble. The librarian-prince found himself enamored by the idea of throwing a jelly at his maid who was possibly convinced it would bounce back when she kicked it. Windy was a maid, but she was not uneducated, did she really expect it to work? 

Optimus decided to humor the little bot, looking up at her and nodded. “Alright, ready?” 

The answer was obvious, of course she didn’t, she only wanted to see him smile again. And she succeeded at that. Windy rolled her shoulders as she prepared for her first kick, the two exchanging quips and playful rudeness as Optimus charged his first throw. With that, Optimus thought his throw would be a delicate toss, apparently a bit too caught up in the poetic moment of transgressing social class (and by extension forgetting that he was double the size of windy and perhaps quadruple her strength) the treat went flying, barreling towards the little maid with no regard. Windy, nevertheless, was keen on making her intentions a reality, the fearless little thing. 

“I got it! I got it! I-” The jelly flew past Windy by several centimeters, skipping over her ankle as she was in the process of kicking up. "...don't got it." The treat, blue this time, found itself flying away from the two intakes in the room it was meant for and onto the wall with the much-anticipated splat, the sad remnants dripped onto the floor. 

The two bots paused to look at their failed attempt. “You missed.” Optimus said, sounding a little sadder than he intended.

Windy, however, ignored the failure, flicking her wrists and set a servo on her hips, using the other to point at her prince. “Me? You missed! You’re a terrible shot!" 

That accusation brought to attention an interesting prospect; did he miss? Or did he throw it too hard? Two sides of the same coin, really. Optimus thought it would be the latter but after gazing down at the servo that flung the treat airborne and flexed it a few times, watching the digits curl and unfurl as he commanded, the red and blue bot realized may be throwing with the same intention as Orion Pax, not that he could suddenly become aware of the strength he was putting into his throws either. Frame changes were a strange thing, if Optimus ever came in contact with a scientist who was willing to commit a few blasphemous studies on a prince he would have to ask about self-awareness and its correlation to the frame. Assuming they wouldn't think him insane for trying to find a correlation between the two, which they undoubtedly would.

Optimus plucked another treat from the bag. Interest piqued at the debate of strength or lack of skill. “Let’s test the theory then.” He tossed the treat with more restraint this time, yet the opposite seemed to occur, the treat never made it to Windy, the sweet jelly plopped onto the floor with a pathetic splat not unlike before. "Oh." No dripping this time, if there was, it would be drowned out of the chamber as it was filled with laughter instead. Optimus reared and fell onto the bed with a grin, a tender shame blossomed at the action. “I am, aren't I?”

"Did you even try?" Windy asked, looking very unimpressed. 

"I did! I thought if I threw it with less intention, it would be easier to kick," The splattered jelly beckoned Optimus moreover as he noted the mess it made. "I suppose that was incorrect." 

"Honestly," Windy huffed. "Are you so unused to your frame?"

Optimus couldn't help but answer with the truth. "I am! Let me try again." The statement would mean different things for Windy and Optimus.

Windy hummed. "Alright but try harder!” She insisted, suddenly aware of her own relief to see Optimus slip back into a playful demeanor. 

And he did, Optimus tried again and again, and every time the energon would find itself strewn over anything but Windy's thin plating. Optimus was beginning to think there was nothing wrong with his strength control, moreover it was his skill that was horrendous. Which it was, Orion Pax was never a thrower anyways, he never needed to be. The bag containing the delectable morsels began to wane with every new attempt that did nothing but embarrass Optimus a little more while Windy tried not to laugh at him. It was a waste to throw the jelly, given that it was meant to be consumed, but the joy that came from the juicy splat was worth it, even if the little things never made it to their intended target. As the two blue sparks began to reach the end of their game, it came to be that Optimus truly was a terrible shot, no longer a theory or hypothesis, it was a well-endowed fact. Or Orion was, at the very least, Optimus would like to give his previous inhabited spark some credit, being a military-trained individual and all. But Optimus didn’t mind, it was all fun and games, and now that the noise outside the door ceased, he felt himself relax.

In this bout of relaxation, amidst their laughter and the discarded jelly, neither bot heard the knock at the door.

Which was curious, being that it was quite loud.

No matter, there was always next time.

And indeed, a next time came, about a breem later, except now Optimus was busy ordering Windy into the perfect place for her to kick the treat. “No, no, a little more to the left. Wait, no, to the right…right there!” He had set Windy right in front of the desk by the door and just when he prepared the throw, Optimus stopped. “Wait. Maybe you should try catching it with your intake!”

Windy’s optics glistened. “Oh! Good idea, yer highness. Higher stakes!” She set her leg down and shuffled across the floor closer to Optimus sitting on the berth. 

By this point, the knocking grew louder and more incessant while the two inhabitants remained blissfully ignorant. 

“Okay, ready?” Optimus asked. 

“Ready!” 

In a perfect world, Windy would have hopped up in perfect grace and slipped the jelly into her mouth. The two would cheer and try again until the excitement or the treats were expended. The knocking would cease, Chromia would come in with the nightly cube, realize the mess and scold the two as the night cycle would come to whisk them all away into recharge. A normal cycle for the one and only Optimus Prime.

This, however, was not a perfect world. The door no longer served as a private barrier and began to open. Optimus, quaintly unaware of his high stature and forgetting his strength again—he’d like to excuse it via his excitement— stood up and flung the treat right over Windy's frame. The little orange maid watched it fly as her gaze followed it to the door, mouth agape, prepared to jump. (Un)Luckily for her she noticed the door and did not complete her jump. Time seemed to slow to a tanks pace as Windy realized the distinct color palette that emerged from the space of the doorway, her optics began to cycle wide, her servo extended out to try and catch her once sought-after prize. The treat, nevertheless, continued right over her helm. If the treat had any sentience, it would promptly stop itself midair and plop onto the ground, begging to be spared. But the law of motion cared little for respect or status, and so, the jelly flew. It glided, it soared, and it almost grew wings, prepared for its place as the first ever flying candy, until it found itself planted against the face of the most powerful individual in all of Iacon with a resounding smack. 

Ultra Magnus had jelly on his face. 

The Ultra Magnus. The Lord High Protector of Iacon. The sole figurehead of the royal family. The sire of three Primely creations. And—one of—the last mechs Optimus wanted to see. 

Optimus’ voicebox glitched, he knew for a fact that was his sire, he didn't even have to see the full mech. It was hard not to come to the conclusion, even with the tags the frame had associated with the bigger bot, Optimus was the bimbofied spitting image of his sire. A darker shade of blue, but the same red covered his frame. Two large, white shoulder pauldrons made him taller and appear wider, with similar finials that Optimus sported but thicker, white, and seemingly immobile. He was handsome in an older, rugged sort of way (Optimus quickly threw that thought out when the attachment of ‘sire’ was noted once more) and, goodness, he looked positively furious. 

The offended look on the High Protector’s face was not helped as the pink jelly slipped down his face plate, onto his chest, then onto the floor. The two stared at each other and Optimus wondered if he was gracious enough to let Optimus at least get a 10 klik head start as he ran for his (second) life. 

“Optimus?” Ultra Magnus choked out as he wiped his face clean of the projectile. 

Optimus’ processor ran through thousands of potential responses, sputtering out the most nonsensical ideas to excuses that only Alpha Trion would know. Naturally, the answer was right in front of him. Rather, the answer was him. Play dumb, bimbo prince. Optimus laughed dryly, since when was he so parched?

“I’m sorry," He squawked. "Who are you?” 

Miraculously, it worked, Ultra Magnus’ optics widened a fraction, any anger he might’ve had melted away as he heard the question. The last of the jelly rolled off of Ultra Magnus’ servo and onto the floor. “You…don’t recognize me?” 

Optimus plastered a strained smile on his face, and Ultra Magnus looked even worse off at the expression. “Um, no?” 

Orion was never a good liar, he wore his spark on his sleeve, never having a real reason to lie. But he seriously needed to develop the habit if he was going to make it past a stellar cycle as a prince. Despite the obvious falsehood of how he acted, Magnus didn’t seem any better at picking up social cues or body language as he took Optimus’ stupidity at face value. He looked…well he looked like a lot of things; distraught, confused, spark broken, and a few other emotions Optimus wasn’t sure there was a word for. Ultra Magnus didn’t seem to be very good at hiding his emotions, or perhaps this was such a big shock he couldn’t hide them? Optimus didn’t know, but he was set on keeping everything at face value. 

“May you tell me who you are?” Optimus asked. “So I may offer you an apology.” He topped off with another smile, a little more genuine this time. 

Windy, bless her spark, was shaking and wholly unaware of the inner torment the two royals were currently facing. She turned to Optimus with a frantic look, to which Optimus returned with a smile and twitching optic. She seemed to be more confused than anything after that. 

Optimus returned his gaze to his sire. “Hello? Sir?” He asked with a strained pitch. 

Ultra Magnus flinched, as though life had once more returned to him. “Sir?”

Please stop making this so hard. Optimus spat in his helm; stupid smile still plastered on his face. “Yes! May I know your designation, sir.” 

Ultra Magnus’ face soured, he composed himself in an instant, straightening his posture and flicking off the energon residue. “Do not call me “sir,” my designation is Ultra Magnus.” The massive mech corrected. Optimus remained silent at the comment, as if waiting for more, and Ultra Magnus was less than happy to continue. "I am the Lord High Protector of Iacon, the kingdom you currently reside in...at the moment I reign alone." He puffed out his chest, and paced towards the berth, closer to Optimus while avoiding any of the jelly that was on the floor. “And I am your sire, you are to address me as such.” 

The room was still, as if Ultra Magnus dropped the greatest plot twist in the history of plot twists. Unfortunately, it wasn’t, even by the novel’s standards. Even though the novel was a terrible point of reference now. If Optimus had time to practice; he would’ve gasped with woe, clutched himself tightly, and fallen to the floor in feigned shock like they did in cheap holovids. But who exactly practices meeting their sire? Mech who were not sane, that’s who, and Optimus was still trying to convince himself that he was. Optimus would look back at this moment and cringe, perhaps at Ultra Magnus’ attempt over that of his reaction, but, for now, with the extra kick of energy coursing through his wires mixing with the discomfort of the whole situation, he snorted. Did he think he was being cool?

Ultra Magnus blinked a few times at the sudden sound that escaped his son, confusion presided as a trickle of embarrassment dared to slip into his field as Optimus covered his intake as quickly as the snort itself. “Optimus?” 

Is there a universe where I don't mess up every first meeting? It was slight, but it was there. Optimus felt the half breem long embarrassment Magnus nearly projected. Optimus pressed the servo close to his intake as he tried to hide his obvious amusement. He had the audacity to giggle. Optimus choked on a rising holler, feeling as though he chose the wrong dialogue option in a dating sim, waving the free servo as a distraction. “I'm sorry,” he laughed again. “I really am, I just-" Optimus’ processor wheezed at him to recover the situation as Ultra Magnus’ face grew dark, truly, a dating sim type of reaction. “I just, uh, my sire?” 

Ultra Magnus didn’t flinch. “That’s right.” 

Optimus' face contorted in a precarious manner as he chewed on the potential dialogue options he had now. Too bad for him it wasn’t as easy as deciding between options one, two, and three. “Well,” he focused on anything but the terrifying look on Ultra Magnus' face, trying to buy more time. “I’m just…” 

Magus’ patience was growing thin. “You just what?” 

Optimus faced Ultra Magnus with a flinch and fixed his posture, deciding that a stupid mech was better than a dead one. “I’m just so shocked!” He gasped. “With all due respect, we look nothing alike." He stated with an even tone, placing a servo on his chest for emphasis. If Magnus didn't catch onto that lie, then Iacon may as well be doomed under Megatron's pede. "Please understand how sorry I am! I truly didn’t mean to distress you Ultr-uh, sire. I only woke up recently, pardon my ignorance towards you…” Optimus trailed off noting Ultra Magnus’ temper seemed to vary much like the wind, his face losing some of its murderous intent as Optimus scrambled to save his aft.

The tables had turned, now it was the great Lord High Protector's turn to be amused. At this point Magnus had certainly caught onto Optimus’ suspicious character, though he paid little mind to it.

Optimus felt generally guilty now, the gig was up. As free as he considered himself, he still had to abide by the rules the kingdom of this world bested upon him. “I’m sorry I couldn’t grace you with the respect you deserve, my creator.” He finished with a deep bow. 

The shift from dumb to gracious made Ultra Magnus quirk an optic ridge, the initial shock waned. He may have lived a pampered life now, but the mech was still military trained, a general, and the head of the Elite Guard up until his bonding to Vector Prime. He knew a lying mech when he saw one. Although it was curious to see his son act this way, Optimus definitely had some internal conflict. Ultra Magnus tried to consider what it could have been, but alas, it evaded the larger bot. Not that he really cared in the end, this change was surprisingly welcome. It could have been worse. Ultra magnus tried to reason with himself. At last, it seemed as though everything was clicking. “So it seems,” he said, mostly to himself. Optimus stood straighter at Ultra Magnus changed tone of his voice, switching his focus between Windy and his sire. Deciding to acknowledge the little bot as well, Ultra Magnus nodded to her. “You’re excused, prepare to clean this mess up.” 

Windy tensed as bowed without a word, disappearing into the hallway after closing the door. 

Optimus let out a sigh of relief at the image of Windy departing. Magnus frowned at the sight immediately. “You’re quite emotional now that you woke up.” 

“Am I?” 

“You are. Are you unaware of how much you’ve changed?” Optimus didn’t try to answer, they both knew he did. 

The room that was more than enough to accommodate the two royals, yet it felt suffocatingly small as Optimus and Ultra Magnus remained close to one another. Aware of the discomfort, Ultra Magnus made the first step to eliminate the feeling, removing himself from Optimus’ proximity towards the center of the room that was free of Optimus' target practice as he picked up where he left off. “You were much stiffer before your accident. Do you remember anything from that night or before?” 

Optimus took the time to consider the request, mostly as an excuse to pretend he was looking for the file, unfortunately much of the memory files were corrupted from the damage to his helm. “No…I’m afraid not.” 

Magnus thought little of the comment, “Of course not.” Gazing at the ornate centerpiece on the short table, untouched and unmoved since it was first set the lord began to note what he could about Optimus. “You were resilient, still are, by the looks of it." He said with a side glace. "Mature, quiet, calculating, serious…” Ultra Magnus stopped at the sight of a small mesh toy, hidden away at the top of a bookshelf shelf farther away from where he stood. The little thing was untouched, unmuddied, free of the grubby remnants of a loving bitlet. It must’ve been vorns old, a gift from some unimpressive house or family member. The sight made Ultra Magnus smile, beginning to stride towards the wretched thing. “Never emotional.” 

Optimus felt strained, like he was being interrogated. “I’m sorry-" 

He was promptly cut off. “You didn’t apologize either.” Magnus noted with shift in attention back to his creation, arm in the middle of reaching for the toy. “Ever, actually. You were quite proud.” He finished, taking hold of the small toy.

The eldest looked away, Optimus could feel the conversation derailing out of his control (not that it ever was). 

“I’ve spared you a moment of my time and you’ve proven in a fraction of that time that you've truly changed.” Ultra Magnus was now at the windowed doors that lead to the balcony. “I’m not sure what I can do with you. I’m afraid you’re not the Optimus that was capable of ruining Iacon alone.” He said, fiddling with the toy.

Alone? Optimus wondered. The novel never spoke of Optimus ruling alone, although it didn’t touch upon the Prime much if at all that type of thing seemed important. Was this a test? Was Ultra Magnus dangling the notion of unimaginable power to coerce the same reaction the old Optimus might have had? Oh, it was getting bad now. The strange foreshadowing made Optimus’ tanks do backflips, he lost all control of the situation now. “Then…” He paused. What could he say? Ultra magnus seemed pretty set on Optimus as he was, not as he is. By the looks of it, from an objective standpoint Ultra Magnus lost his biggest support. The Lord Protector had little to lose now.

Change the topic. Optimus thought. Trying to delve deeper into future-talk with a bot who was only named dropped in the novel would spell disaster, Optimus was not about to make any promises he couldn't keep. “May I ask what occurred outside?” 

Magnus returned his focus onto Optimus for a moment. “What do you mean?"

"I heard...more than one voice outside."

Dark blue optics narrowed; the Protector's side profile reflected by the window. "Your brothers and Elita One decided it would be a good idea to pay you a visit before myself.”

Optimus tensed. Rodimus, Sentinel, and Elita were outside then, three other characters Optimus had no intention of interacting with. However, it was strange, Optimus knew he heard yelling outside, and his sire had entered alone. That must've meant there was an argument between them, which in turn made Optimus (selfishly) worry about his own fate more. “My brothers?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten you have a family as well.” Magnus replied in an instant, turning to face Optimus, his grip tightening around the neck of the toy. 

The eldest prince tried not to imagine his neck taking the place of the toy, dreading on how far he was willing to go with testing the waters. If he claimed to forget Ultra Magnus, he would have to claim the same for everyone else. The idea seemed appetizing at first, but now that it was established Optimus had to play it especially careful as to not reveal what he knows. While Optimus paused to consider what to say, his optics fell upon the toy in his sire's grasp. It was a predacon, it was quite cute, losing all its potential fear factor with soft purple mesh and an open mouth, adorned with soft silver teeth. Not even a sparkling toy, it was crafted for a bitlet at the earlier stages since emerging from its carrier. Given the age of everything else in the room, it had to be ancient, but appeared as if it was good as new, plucked right off the shelves of an overpriced shop in town a moment ago. The sight disturbed Optimus, symbolic of how precarious his frame's old spark was since his first vent. Determined to both maintain his image of an amnesic prince and dispel any mistrust Ultra Magnus may have, Optimus spoke. "I'm afraid I do not remember my brothers either." Ultra Magnus' optics did not lose their intensity as Optimus asked the million-credit question. “If you were outside with them, why did you argue?” Optimus clasped his servos in front of himself, tensely preparing for another snap, but it never came. If he played amnesic, then the question was innocent in nature, it veiled Optimus' as curious and nothing more. However, knowing what he does, the question was to put into perspective how Magnus treated his sons, which in turn would reveal a lot more about his character and how Optimus would need to act in the future.

Instead, Ultra Magnus faced the balcony once more. “Rodimus asked for you to be let out.”

Optimus’ spark dropped, unsure if it was out of relief or fear. That's it? All that arguing over a simple request. He was left frazzled over a request to go outside from his bitlet brother? Either Ultra Magnus was lying, or the conversation derailed, there was no way he heard that degree of anger emanating over something so petty. His sire seemed unaffected by the argument, apparently winning if he stood where he was now. Even so, phrasing also felt…off, ‘let out’ Optimus knew he was being locked away but hearing it so explicitly from the mech who ordered it was nauseating. “But everyone sounded so upset...”

“Your brothers and Elita disrespected my orders by coming here without permission, I had to explain to them why that was wrong.” 

“Even so-” That doesn't make sense. Ultra Magnus was dancing around the topic, something more came from the request that he didn't want Optimus to know about. Something he carried within himself that threatened to be uncovered. Rodimus adored his brother, the request wasn't out of character, which meant that Magnus couldn't be lying. Only enough of the truth to keep me in the dark. The request nicked a wire, it had to, there was a reason Ultra Magnus didn't want Optimus to be let out. Rodimus knew what buttons to push, and he was damn good at pushing them if it got his sire worked up like that. Optimus could feel his voice starting to shake, how little power did he have right now? Or ever, at that, whatever the novel was keying at started to feel more and more like the truth. “I’m sure they meant well.” 

Ultra Magnus’ shoulders sagged as he let out an exasperated sigh. “Of course they did, but they should know better.”

That’s wrong. This is wrong. Everything feels wrong. Optimus felt himself starting to panic, he began to find himself strangely defensive as well. “Why.” 

Deep blue eyes fell even with lighter ones. “Why, what?”

“Why should they know better than to ask for my freedom? Or to try and visit me?” Optimus clutched his servos tighter to himself as he stepped back. 

The older bot’s eyes narrowed at Optimus’ reaction, looking him over. “Why? What an absurd question, Optimus.” His voice began to sharpen like a blade on whetstone. Oh no. He struck the split wire Rodimus had cut a moment ago. “Look at you! You’re clearly not yourself! Look at how you cower at my voice!” Ultra Magnus rebuked, stepping closer as Optimus stepped back. They were many paces apart, but Ultra Magnus made sure to cut the distance short in a few wide steps. “How you watch what you say,” Another step forward, and another back. “How you hold yourself like a commoner,” The Protector snapped, their steps locking in a dance to the back of the room. Magnus’ frustration boiled over at Optimus continued cowardice. “How you smile at a maid. How you play with her! How you left this room in diserray!" The Protector swore, waving his servo at the parameters of the room caked in energon jelly, messy sheets and closed curtains. "How you insist on feigning ignorance.” He hissed. Optimus now had to stop as his heel met the wall, but Ultra Magnus continued, reaching up close to his face so that they were leveled. “Do you take me for a fool, bot?” 

He was right, Rodimus left a mark under Ultra Magnus' armor. Orion’s spark screamed at him to run, whatever fear he felt was his. Optimus’ frame, however, interpreted his flight as fight, requests for enabling battle protocols popped up one by one as Optimus frantically searched for the strength to say no to his processor and his sire. 

Unsatisfied with no answer, Ultra Magnus shaved down what little distance between them to a fraction of an inch. “Are you afraid of me?”

Optimus' voice box spazzed, he pressed himself against the wall fighting, and losing, the urge to suppress the coolant welling at the edges of his optics. "Yes.” he voiced, softer than a whisper but louder than a thought. 

Ultra Magnus’ face fell at the response, he reestablished their previous distance in a klik. That was not supposed to happen, he was not supposed to snap like that, and Optimus wasn't supposed to react in turn. Optimus would have stood his ground and knocked the older bot down a few pegs for even trying to elicit such an emotion, his face would fall into a glare as he looked down upon his own sire. No, now Optimus stood backed into the wall like an autodeer in the headlights as he threatened to sob. Sob. Ultra Magnus had never seen his son cry, never, not since he became conscious of himself. On one servo, Optimus smiling, and laughing was tolerable, albeit strange, but crying? No, that was in the realm of the impossible, and Ultra Magnus was not in the habit of breaking the boundaries of impossible. In that moment, Ultra Magnus finally realized that his old son was dead and gone. Nothing he could do would bring him back, no scolding, snapping, or temper tantrum on his part would bring back the stoic son he had. All that remained was this soft sparked fool. Whether he liked it or not, the Lord of Iacon would have to get used to it. The talons of guilt began to sink into his spark. In a joor, he managed to disappoint and terrify the youth under his care to feed his delusion that everything was fine. It wasn’t. It never will be. Ultra Magnus looked away from Optimus with a shaky vent. 

Two pristine silver servos, clutched so tightly that the thin, blue armor that adorned the top was dented in. Optimus tried to steady his beating spark as Ultra Magnus stepped off. Given how his sire’s face dropped, Optimus hoped that Ultra Magnus came to his senses, maybe even apologize, but he didn’t. Instead, he pinched his optic ridge in a habitual manner and sighed.

“I will have Ratchet come tomorrow for a checkup.” He started, “With his approval, starting tomorrow you are free to leave the Sapphire palace, this includes the garden and residential buildings. However, I ask that you do not stray near the Onyx House." He continued, mumbling the later portion of his edict. "Primus knows what I will do if the other houses see you in this condition."

Optimus did not utter a word, he simply nodded with optics cycled wide.

Ultra Magnus took a moment to look at Optimus again and let out another exasperated sigh. "And…” 

Still wordless, Optimus leaned over in an attempt to catch his sire’s following words, but the mech continued to avoid his prying optics and began to stomp to the white doors that Optimus would soon be able to open himself. “And you are free to mingle with your siblings, Elita included.” 

Taking hold of the ornate handle, Ultra Magnus pulled the door open and took a step out. In a quick manner, he leaned in, still not looking at Optimus with his optics closed shut and nodded a farewell. “Good day.” 

The door shut with an unceremonious click and Optimus was back to standing alone in this room, he let out a squeak.  

Sentinel and Elita remained quiet for the remainder of their way out of the sapphire palace, they weren’t in a hurry but maintained a quickened pace as if Ultra Magnus was still on their coattails. Rodimus kept to himself as he sulked behind them, passing an occasional glance to the paintings around the floors of the palace. He focused on the ones of his carrier, strewn about the walls as if they were a decorative touch and not the image of a real mech. By the time they had escaped the stuffy palace, the sun was setting. The fluttering winds and gentle rustling of the flora was little help to ease Elita’s tenseness as she overtook Sentinel and Rodimus to the Ruby palace. At once upon their entry, a maid greeted them with a smile. 

“Welcome back, your graces.” They said with a bow.

Elita, who would usually greet the servants in kind, brushed past them and up the stairs to her room. Sentinel and Rodimus watched her hunched figure disappear into the halls and heard a door slam shut.

Sentinel winced. “I guess we owe her dessert.”

Rodimus rolled his optics and followed after Elita, refusing to acknowledge his brother. The servants seemed to catch onto the grim atmosphere and kept to themselves, moving out of the way as the youngest prince made his way up the stairs. Now walking in the adjacent hall, he heard the distinct sharp invents of a crying bot, slowly growing louder as he found himself in front of Elita’s room. Rodimus clutched his servos into fists at the sound, feeling the rush of guilt overtake that of his temper. He faced the door quietly, he hesitated to prompt his distressed cousin as her muffled sobs filled his audials. Nevertheless, Rodimus took his servo and gently tapped the door, so quiet he wondered if she could even hear it. 

“I’m sorry.” Rodimus began. “It was a bad idea, and you were right. We shouldn’t have gone in.” 

Elita, rightfully, ignored him and continued to cry. 

Rodimus turned to rest his back on the door. “I put you in a dangerous position, I should’ve known better we don’t have the same freedoms. I’m really sorry, Elita.” 

Once again, he was ignored. Rodimus felt no better apologizing, he sighed and slumped against the door, sliding down with a screeching sound. He really should’ve known better, chiding her on was cruel. He acted carelessly, and far too hopeful of what was coming. Rodimus couldn’t imagine the fear Elita must’ve felt, she was by all means the most responsible royal that existed now that Optimus was out, she deserved to be crowned instead of Sentinel or Rodimus; but they all knew that would never happen. Elita's pride came from her house, the House of One, where she received her surname of Elita One. A very good house, stemming directly from the original Primal lineage, much like that of Rodimus’ own House of Thirteen. The only real power difference was that Rodimus’ house had a closer tie to the original Prima Prime, a “divine right to rule” you could say. The House of One served as a backup if that of Thirteen didn’t survive, the extended family and the only remaining Primal house aside from Thirteen. Given their proximity to the throne, the House of One resided on palace grounds and received royal titles over that of noble ones. Quite literally, Elita was a princess, a backup Prime and about 5th in line, sure, but a Princess of Iacon nonetheless.

Rodimus had almost gotten Iacon’s only Princess killed. How gracious of a prince he was, much less that of a cousin. Rodimus tilted his head back into the door, Elita’s crying had luckily stopped but now he was met with dead air. Deciding he wouldn’t embarrass either of them anymore, Rodimus tried to stand up but promptly fell when the door that held his weight opened. Elita stood there with a pout as Rodimus hit his head onto the marble floor. 

“Are you really sorry?” She asked, sterner despite the hiccups she had from all the crying. 

Rodimus rubbed the back of his helm as he picked himself up. “Yeah…” 

Elita took her trusty servo, pointed two digits, and planted a deadly flick to Rodimus’ forehelm. “Ow!” The younger cousin yelped as his servos went to protect the front of his helm instead of the back. Elita only gave him a half-smile. “Good, I’ll forgive you when I kick your aft when we spar tomorrow.” And with that she pushed her cousin out of the way and stomped off back to the stairs. “And you owe me dessert for a vorn!” She yelled, entirely unlike herself. “You too, megachin!” Elita added as she strode down the stairs. 

Chapter Text

Sharp claws tapped on the dim light of a single-use data pad with narrowed optics. It remained unopened since the moment it arrived at the estate, collecting dust amidst many other letters sent and forgotten. But this letter was special, the imperial seal danced as the glistening screen awaited to be unlocked with a tap. Megatron tried to consider its contents, knowing well who it was from. A request for tea? A formal invitation to Rodimus’ ball? Another plea for aid? The contemplative duke opened the screen with a flick. 

Dear Duke Megatron of Iacon,

Southern territories have grown disorderly. I implore you to take the time to-

Ah. So the latter, then. 

The first sentence was unbearable enough to stop reading. The fact he read even a portion of the second irked Megatron, he didn’t even bother to crush the letter and tossed it into a bin with a scoff. “The gall. Who does he think I am? ‘Southern territories have grown disorderly.’” Meagtron barked out a laugh. “Good. My people deserve that much.” He told himself, following with a quiet whisper. “Let them riot, I will be their aid when the time comes.” 

What an obsessive prince, could his imperialism go unquenched for longer than a vorn? 

With a grunt the reluctant duke made his way out of his office and down the hall to his room. Windows glistened as the sun set on another monotonous cycle.

“Paranoid fool.”

“Are you leaving, my Lord?”

Megatron turned to face the servant who held his cape and took it, muttering a thank you he properly fastened it onto his pauldrons. “Yes, it appears that I need to take my seeker out for a walk.” 

Graceful steps entranced the figures at the bottom of the stairs as the elegant seeker in question made his way down, decorated in all the finest silk mesh, Megatron stared blankly as Starscream finished his catwalk with a twirl once he reached the bottom, the neatly placed ruby decor jingled on their platinum chains. 

“You dress as though this is the night of the ball.” 

“I pride myself on my appearance, perfection takes effort, you know.”

Megatron didn’t even bother trying to think of an insult. Instead opting for something worse, ignoring Starscream. And that he did, rolling his optics and began to depart towards the doors of his manor.

Starscream, who was ready for anything, had not expected to be ignored and stomped after the duke, “I could care less if you didn’t compliment me, but at least offer me your arm!”

“As long as we reside within the manor, I will do no such thing.” 

“You said we were going to make this official.” A lithe servo gestured between the two when Starscream caught up. 

“Yes, well, this, ” Megatron followed with the same gesture. “Is only official this evening when we dine.” He corrected as he tilted his helm in thanks to the servants opening the doors. 

As the two monochromatic mechs made their way down the stone stairs to the carriage neatly presided by zaphorses. Megatron outpaced Starscream by a long shot and made it to the carriage first, relishing the only moment of peace he would have that cycle. Taking a step, then stepping down when Starscream huffed, Megatron begrudgingly offered his servo to Starscream to aid his entry into the carriage. “I don't see the point in going out in the middle of the day cycle. I have more important things to do than sparksit you.” 

“Ugh,” Starscream flicked away Megatron’s servo as soon as he sat down in the plush seats. “Is there a single romantic strut in your frame? If we go out, it will seem more genuine, and the more genuine it looks, the more jealous everyone will be of us! And anyways, is it not your responsibility to entertain your guests?” 

Megatron bit back a growl as he tapped the walls of the carriage to notify the coachmen. “You mean Jetfire will be jealous over you, I’m starting to regret humoring you.” He sat still for a moment before he followed up. “And I don’t entertain.”

“Not anymore, at least.” Starscream mumbled.

“Watch it.” 

Starscream raised his servos in a half-admission of defeat, turning to face the window as he crossed his legs and pushed himself farther away from the duke. Megatron did much of the same, while gently knocking on the wall to signal their readiness to depart into town. The coachman reacted to the signal in a klik, and the tell tale sign of zaphorse hooves clicking in anticipation meant they would be off in a moment. The trip into town was quite long, Galvatron seemed to enjoy being far from his fief, a trait Megatron somehow adopted as well. The usually silver mech wore a dusty-bronze paint that Starscream insisted suited him, though Megatron was convinced it was just a ploy to make Starscream stand out more, not that Megatron minded. He wasn’t big on the social life most nobles base their lives around, the less he stood out, the more the other nobles feared him. All for the better. 

As the zaphorses trotted along the designated path into town, it was deathly quiet in the carriage. At first it was expected, not much to talk about so early on in the ride and the transported individuals may prefer to focus on minor upkeep in their appearances or to look outside and see the fleeting image of the Decepticon manner. At some point conversation would arise, it always does. But not this time. Megatron and Starscream sat adjacent to one another in absolute silence. By the halfway mark the coachman himself wondered if there was a living bot in there. 

Although Megatron enjoyed being in the quiet, he hated doing so in the presence of another, especially when that other was Starscream. The damn seeker was talkative enough as is, if he started sulking now for whatever ridiculous reason he manifested in that processor of his and justified just as quickly, it was going to drag on for the rest of the cycle. Taking in a deep vent, Megatron sighed. “Alright, get to it, what do you desire to do in town?” 

Starscream was not kind enough to spare Megatron a glance, his optics continued to look out the small, ornate window. “Shopping.”

Megatron narrowed his optics. He’s sulking. The bigger bot had a feeling he knew how this conversation, or lack thereof, was going to go. “Then what do you plan on buying?” 

“Dunno.”

“Is there a specific shop you’d like to go to first?” 

“No.”

“What would you like to eat for lunch?”

“Anything.” 

“Would you like tea?”

“Sure.” 

Megatron grit his dente, it was going exactly how he had anticipated. Insolent, spoiled piece of shareware. What is he so upset over? Megatron uncrossed his legs and dragged a servo over his face. “What did I do now?” 

Starscream shrugged, looking at his manicured claws over his company. 

Megatron dropped the polite dialect in favor of a growl. “I’m not going to apologize, but if you’d tell me what it was then I will avoid doing it from now on.” 

Still nothing.

Megatron’s right optic ridge twitched. “Is this about not offering my arm?”

Starscream continued to remain quiet, he folded his arms over his chest, looking away from the pointed stare of the non-Iaconian, Iaconian Duke. Hoping he would figure out the answer for himself. 

It was giving Megatron far too much credit, even if he knew the answer, he would refuse to acknowledge it under the premise it had not come out from the seeker himself. The burly mech was not interested in the mental puzzles Starscream enjoyed putting him through. “Well?” 

Starscream rolled his optics and threw his once delicate crossed arms up. “Yes!” 

Megatron didn’t bother holding in his field, it took the place of whatever he wanted to say and lashed out like Ravage’s claws when he refused to take a bath. 

Starscream hissed at the unwelcome sensation, actually taking the time to look at Megatron with a glare. “You’re very difficult to work with, you know that?” 

“And you’d be very easy to snap like a rust stick, you know that?” 

The seeker prince bristled. “Would you stop treating me like one of your knights, I’m a prince! I deserve to be treated kindly even if it’s just for show.” Starscream wept superficially, placing emphasis on his symbols by doing so.

“I already told you I will do so in town. In public. But I will not humiliate myself by doing it when we are alone, much less when we are both aware of the truth.” Megatron bristled.

“Alone? What about your maids? Your butlers and servants? They will think lowly of me.” 

Megatron huffed. “Why do you care?”

“Because servants gossip and I will not be mocked by a lesser class than that of my own.” Starscream bit. “Starting right now you are to treat me with the utmost dignity and respect, as if I was made of astatine. Both in and out of the public light.”

Megatron balked at the comment. “By the primes Starscream! Absolutely not! I’d assume you’re asking me to fall in love with you at this point.” He finished with a contemptuous exvent.

“I wish you would!” The seeker cried out. “Then it’d be so much more satisfying to leave your spark broken when Jetfire saves me from your tyranny!” 

“Oh, please, just shut up!” 

Starscream stood in the cramped carriage, his frame hunched voer within its confines with an enraged screech. “You spoke to me first!” 

The coachman tried to remain ignorant to the yelling, coughing awkwardly when passing carriages and cartloads gave him a confused look. The yelling didn’t stop, but by then the coachman had long given up trying to understand what his lordship and future winglord were ‘discussing.’ The zaphorses whinnied, as most mechanimals do when they sense high stress. In turn, the coachman hushed them, urging them to quicken the pace with the promise of snacks, crystal fruits, and getting the frag away from the insane pair of nobles. 

Optimus could cry, really, he could. He wanted to. Not in the ‘I’m capable of showing emotion’ type of way, rather the ‘I’m so stressed out I want to do nothing but cry’ type of way. Typical archivist things. Orion could tolerate a scolding, he could tolerate an attack on his character, he’d like to think he’d be able to tolerate a few good punches especially with the new frame he was cursed with. 

But what he could not tolerate was a prying medic not particularly interested in maintaining doctor-patient boundaries. 

“Lift your left arm.” Ratchet, not Hatchet apparently, ordered sternly.

So Optimus did, right arm up.

“I said left!” 

“Oops.” Optimus lifted his left arm. 

Ratchet gave Optimus a quick glare, as though suspicious of something. Optimus kept his face as blank as he could, looking away from the medic. The one bot that could tear his cover to pieces was getting down and deep into his frame, exceedingly close to his spark chamber. “Last time I saw you, you were a bumbling mess.” Optimus did not response, too scared to see if his voice box would work or not. 

“You still are.”

At the comment, Optimus let his face twitch in slight ire before going back to what he thought was a neutral position. What was up with these bots and their habit of insisting on his character? What were they, witnesses? This wasn’t a courtroom! Optimus was starting to grow tired of the constant comparison, Ultra Magnus left a pretty deep wound. Yes, yes, I know I’m the sappy spark that took over your paranoid psychopath of a prince. Sue me. His finial flicked back in annoyance and Ratchet’s helm flew up at the motion. “Since when could you do that?”

Optimus’ face went from blank to confused, he looked down to face Ratchet. “Do what?” 

“Your finial,” Ratchet pointed at with a medical instrument. “I don’t recall you ever being able to flick it or move it before you woke up from your accident.”

“Is that so?” Optimus drawled. What a weird observation to make, no one else bothered to point it out. Granted, it was a weird thing to point out, if it wasn’t Ratchet (a medic) who asked it would’ve come off as exceedingly rude. 

Ratchet abandoned his check up at the arm in question and stood up to fiddle with the finial. “Pull up your program files, I want to see if the movement files were enabled.” 

“Um, yes, of course.” Optimus definitely knew how to do that. It was easy, you just had to…

Ratchet didn’t buy it. He snatched Optimus servo, right at his wrist guard, tapped a button Optimus didn’t even know existed and a small screen projected between the medic and the prince. 

Optimus’ intake hung open in awe. "Since when could I..." 

Ratchet used his free servo to close Optimus’ intake and began to scroll through the screen. It glowed blue, the confusing neocybex of this world sprawled across its small area. Optimus began to think he didn’t know his frame as well as he thought.  

“Ah, here it is.” Ratchet clicked his glossa to himself. “Seems it was disabled, since the night of your debutante ball. Only got enabled after you woke up.” 

That was curious, who would disable such a cute feature? Well, Optimus knew why, the original at least. Current Optimus figured it was something along the lines of maintaining his image, cute wasn’t the first word that came to mind when you saw Optimus. “Perhaps it turned back on when I hit my helm?”

Ratchet nodded. “That’s most likely the case, helm trauma is a strange thing. Want me to disable it again?” 

He shook his helm. “No need.” The ability to move his finials would be more of an asset than a hindrance, it would be easier to present kindly when you were expressive, he’d be damned if he lost that ability with a face in a perpetual scowl. What was that term the tabloids would use? Resting glitch face? “I find it’s a convenient way to express oneself.”

Ratchet made a strange face at the comment. “You’re not the type to express yourself.”

Optimus’ flicked his finials back in retaliation. “Well I am now, so I don’t see the point in disabling it.” 

Ratchet backed off at the souring reaction. “Alright, alright, keep your silly function.” And went back to looking over other components. 

Optimus tried to avoid feeling bad for snapping like that, he didn’t want to give the same impression of the original Optimus. But it was hard not to when everybot insisted you were cold and emotionless, getting rid of that box he kept being placed into was starting to prove difficult. Who could’ve thought these Cybertronian's were so stubborn. 

The checkup went on for a little longer after that, in silence. A painful, drawn out silence that would only be defused with the occasional yelp from Optimus when Ratchet hit a funny spot. Time could not go any slower.

The carriage came to a stop without another word uttered from its inhabitants, the coachman let out a sigh and set down his reins as he made his way to open the carriage doors. They pulled off the road to a small boutique, one that Megatron requested via comm amidst the silent portion of the trip. Just as the coachman reached out for the door, it slammed open and Megatron stormed out grumbling obscenities. The duke stepped down with a look that could kill, bystanders looked in awe as they caught sight of Megatron, still, the duke continued his rant of curses towards a specific seeker despite the looks. Once stepping down he took in a deep vent and spun on his heels to face the door, nearly instantaneous. In this sudden turn, the duke had shifted character and wore of contrasting expression. The ex-gladiator was smiling, not a great smile, it was small, calm, courteous. Setting one arm behind his back as the other reached out, as if he were beckoning a lover. It was very much unlike the duke, he never bothered to maintain an image other than one that kept everyone away from him. 

“May I lead my prince outside the coach?” Megatron spoke out sweetly, the coachman started to feel sick. 

Starscream poked his head out with a sly grin, the gems he adorned himself with jingling softly as he began to step out gracefully, extending a servo for Megatron to catch. “You may,” he said, just as sickeningly sweet. 

Megatron hummed and caught Starscream as he made his final steps out of the carriage. “We have arrived safely.” 

Starscream looked up at the boutique in front of him. “Oh? How charming, did you pick it out for me?” He peered into the window pensively. “It’s…quaint.” 

Megatron tried not to grit his dente, he intended to make good on his word. “Fear not, my prince. Looks are deceiving, you are standing in front of one of Iacon’s greatest boutiques. I’ve heard the royal family has commissioned many pieces from this place.” 

“They clearly must not care for their appearance.” Starscream smirked. 

.:Careful, Starscream:. Megatron replied via comm, maintaining his composed demeanor. .:You’re still in Iacon, it'd do you some good to at least try and be respectful of your hosting kingdom:.

Starscream, shameless as ever, did not repeat the notion in kind. “Nonsense, I will not muzzle myself for the sake of a few polished grounders,” he responded passively. “Come. Let’s see what this little place offers, we’ve come all this way after all.”

The seeker, still holding Megatron’s servo, pulled him into the boutique making sure they were being watched. They entered with the pleasant jingle of bells set at the door and once inside the supposedly quaint building, Starscream and Megatron alike were surprised at how pristine the shop was. Adorned in vibrant velvets and white columns, the shop was a far cry from what the outside hinted at. One quick look around and the prince-duke combo found a variety of intricate armor patterns with delicate ‘made to order’ notes perched beneath each mannequin, many pinned with equally elegant robes, mesh capes, and fine, sheer silks, while other garments were hung alone on empty, slim and small typically-Iaconian frame mannequin. 

“Welcome!” A drowned out voice beyond a curtained doorway called out. “I will be with you in just a moment!” 

“Huh.” Starscream nodded. “Maybe this place isn’t so bad after all.”  

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Megatron commented as he led Starscream deeper into the shop. “This kingdom is known for its delicacies.” 

“You say that as if it isn’t your kingdom.” Starscream snorted. 

“It isn’t. ” Megatron grumbled. “I’m a duke by name alone, my home is in Tarn.” 

Starscream looked over at Megatron and made an unimpressed sound. “Don’t let the Primal court hear you.” 

Megatron shrugged, his armor rolled with the gesture. “It’s the truth, they are foolish to think otherwise. The only thing I intend to do with this title is ensure some betterment for the south.”

“How noble you are, my lord.” Starscream stressed sarcastically, letting go of his arm and stepping towards the front desk with a quickened pace. 

The shopkeeper entered by lifting the silk curtain when the prince called out, she greeted them with a bright smile. “Welcome! My deepest apologies, I’m afraid I’m the only one working today and another order kept me busy. How can I help you?” She was a femme, that was apparent, a little taller than the typical Iaconian but she shared the lean grace of one. Her plating was painted pink and white, and her eyes were the distinct shade of blue her people were known for. 

Starscream huffed when he reached the front. “I would like to see your catalog.” 

“Please.” Megatron finished for the seeker when he finally caught up to the front desk.

“Oh!” The employee exclaimed, placing a servo gently over her intake. “My goodness! Duke Megatron, Prince Starscream of Vos! What a pleasure.” She bowed deeply at the hip. “I apologize for my impudence…”

“No matter,” Megatron pardoned. “I believe my companion requested a catalog.”

“But of course!” The employee reached over to her side and picked up a catalog, handing it to Starscream with two servos. The latter of the two snatched it from her servos with thanks and made his way to a sofa to flip through its contents. 

Megatron rarely felt embarrassed about anything, but the second hand embarrassment he felt anytime he was with Starscream was always enough to spur an uncharacteristic act out of him. “I’m sorry,” he started, facing the employee with a flash. “I would say this is unlike him, but that would be a lie. Thank you for your patience.”

The employee smiled at Megatron and bowed her helm. “No need to apologize, my lord. If you need anything please call for me, my name is Arcee.” 

“Of course, Arcee. Many thanks.” Megatron finished and began to stride towards Starscream with a hiss when he reached close enough. “Must you be so shameless.” He bit as he took a seat. 

“Yes." Starscream answered. "I’m a prince. If I have any right, it’s the right to be entitled.” He explained, flipping through the catalog only to pause at a certain page and show it to Megatron. “Do you think I’d look good in red?” 

Megatron rolled his optics. “Why would I-“

“Ah. Ah. Ah. My lord, we’re playing nice.” Starscream interrupted and with a whisper. 

Megatron let out a quiet sigh. “You’d look lovely in whatever you chose, my dear.” He grit out. 

Starscream set a servo on his chest and fluttered his optics. “How you flatter me, my lord.” 

The door jingled once again and another pair of somewhat high-class Iaconians stepped into the boutique with much less awe as Megatron and Starscream. 

“This is a waste of time.” One muttered to the other. 

“Would ya relax? We’re here to pick up an order, no biggie.” The other said while pointedly ignoring the delicate work of the artisans.

“Yes. A gift I asked you to pick up, I don’t see why you had to drag me along. I need to be at a meeting with our lordship soon.” The original said. 

The calmer of the two laughed, apparently caring little for the concern. “That widowed rust bucket? He won’t mind if I borrow you for a while.” 

“Yes he will.”  

“Welcome!” Arcee called out, oblivious to their conflict. When the pairs optics met with her own, she bowed with another greeting. “I greet my Marquess with pleasure.”

“A marquess?” Starscream queried. 

“That sounds like Marquess Prowl and his knight, Jazz.” Megatron answered nonchalantly. 

Marquess Prowl of Praxis, a small territory on the outskirts of the north, but still very much under Iaconian rule much like the rest of the north. His knight, Jazz of Praxis, was a bit more mysterious, not much is known about him aside from his ability to perform his duties well enough. Megatron absentmindedly recalled a rumor that he was of nobility as well, but his house had long fallen out of grace. Not That Starscream would be familiar with either. They were an unlikely duo with their clashing personailites, Megatron wondered if there was more to them.

“Hmph, we weren’t greeted like that.” Starscream grumbled to Megatron. 

Megatron didn’t look up from his place next to Starscream, looking at the catalog lazily. “Would you like me to cause a scene over how we were greeted by a pauper?” 

“She’s not a pauper if she’s working here.” Starscream said, now looking at Megatron. 

“Why does it matter?” 

Starscream scowled at the duke. “You’re awfully considerate today.” 

Megatron smirked. “My reputation succeeds me.” 

“More like your temper.” Starscream quipped under his vent. 

“For someone who claims my temperament to be so short, you sure do like to test it.” Megatron said. 

“I like to live life on the edge,” Starscream said smugly. “Ooh, look at this.” He shoved the catalog into Megatron’s face. 

The marquess from earlier and his companion reached Arcee with a request. The more relaxed of the two titled the request. “How are you doin’? I’m here to pick up an order for this guy. Should be under Prowl.” Jazz said, pointing a thumb at the marquess standing a few steps behind who glared. “At least use my title you oaf.” 

“Sorry,” the lesser bot replied. “I’m here to pick up an order for Marquess Prowl, should be a long cape, red and studded with some stuff.” 

Arcee nodded. “Of course, please give me a moment.” She said as she disappeared into the curtained door from before. 

“They haven’t seen us,” Starscream pointed out. “For an knight, he doesn’t seem very aware of his surroundings.” 

Megatron, not too keen at the prospect of interacting with one of his fellow Iaconian nobles, sunk into the sofa, conveniently sitting behind some strange flora that added a touch of green to the boutique. Only to twist his helm ever so slightly to whisper a threat at Starscream. “If you utter a word of greeting I will kill you.” 

Starscream, naturally, is particularly fond of tormenting his host and set the catalog down as he called out. “Marquess Prowl! What a pleasure to see you here.”

Prowl startled at the voice and fixed his gaze upon the interruption, bowing his head when he recognized the prince. “Prince Starscream, what brings you here?” 

“Oh you know,” the prince shrugged. “Shopping with my favorite duke.” He said, repeating Jazz’s gesture and pointing to a slouched Megatron who fixed himself the moment attention was called to him. 

Jazz and Prowl seemed genuinely shocked at the prospect of Starscream and Megatron out together, much less willingly. They didn’t offer much of a response other than hanging intakes, the image made Starscream snicker as Megatron stood from his place to mark his place next to the prince. 

“Told you this would work.” Starscream whispered. 

“Die.” Megatron murmured, respectively. 

Prowl shook off his shock with a nod at his superior. “Lord Megatron.”

“Marquess.”

The boutique went dead quiet after that, the two Iaconian nobles glaring into each other like they were on a battlefield.

.:Guess you don’t get along very well?:. Starscream asked over comms 

.:You should know that I don't get along with anyone by now.:. Megatron responded curtly. 

Jazz laughed awkwardly, Arcee seemed to be taking her sweet time. “This place must be more popular than I thought if we got our duke and foreign prince in here.” 

“I don’t make a habit out of visiting boutiques. I’m only in attendance to humor our Vosnian prince.” Megatron said, as if it would save face. 

Prowl made a quiet sound to himself, "I see. That...is...awfully consdierate of you." He stated. Jazz turned away to look at the mannequin right behind him in the attempt to hide a creeping smirk at his lord's attept at small talk while Starscream continued to showcase his bemusement without a filter. 

.:I don’t think either of them like you.:. 

.:What an astute observation, Starscream. Perhaps you were an enforcer in your past life.:. 

Starscream gasped through the comms. .:As if I’d ever get my servos that dirty.:. 

.:So there’s a limit you’re willing to reach? How curious.:. 

Starscream shot Megatron a glare as he prompted another conversation thread. “So,” the prince pondered. “I'm assuming you’re here to pick up a gift for the prince’s ball?” 

“That’s correct.” Prowl said evenly, with unwavering optic contact with Megatron. 

“How nice,” The prince smiled. “I believe my kingdom already sent plenty for the excitable brat- er, prince.” Starscream noted with a cough, looking up to Megatron in hopes of shifting the topic. “But you haven’t gotten one yet, have you?” Megatron didn’t answer or glance down at Starscream amidst his staring contest with the marquess. “Any recommendations? I’m asking for my other half.” He pointed at Megatron, unimpressed. 

Jazz and Prowl exchanged looks after the question, breaking the glare the two nobles had. “Well,” Prowl spoke, deciding he was the better of the two to offer advice and ignoring Starscream’s choice of words. “Prince Rodimus has a habit of enjoying the more excitable aspects of life, perhaps a functional gift would be best.”

How vague, its weight not fully considered given the fact the Marquess was gifting a cape of all things. But it was an honest response, Prowl was more familiar with the royal family than Megatron so a sturdy recommendation that a 'functional gift' presented the options of a weapon, most likely a sword. Although Megatron would rather not delve into the nuance of suggesting the military powerhouse to bestow a gift of a weapon. Still, Megatron didn’t make a habit out of knowing his royal family, with an off-chance exception of Optimus who he interacted with more so than his younger brothers due to his soon-to-be succession to the throne. Megatron bit back a laugh at the now incorrect thought. Optimus’ once soon-to-be-succession to the throne, that sad sack of spare parts was nowhere near his old glory if the rumors were anything to go by. Megatron felt a strange sense of pride at the fact the eldest prince had fallen so far, let that be his lesson for being so meddlesome in affairs not pertaining to his own. The letter that he received played back in his memory files, but Megatron didn’t think more of it. What good was that letter now that Optimus was some amnesiac? 

Megatron nodded. “Duly noted,” Arcee had yet to make her return, so Megatron turned to Starscream in a polite hurry. The duke had found himself fed up with the tension in the air, the looks they were getting from Jazz and Prowl, and the darling seamstress that was in no rush to attend to anyone. “Have you decided what you want, now?”

Starscream’s optics flickered at the sudden intrusion of his personal space. “Huh, well, there’s a few things that I circled but-“ 

Megatron walked to the coach they sat upon and plucked up the catalogue Starscream was flipping through, skimming over the pages that were marked and huffed. “Whatever, just take all of it.” Catalogs still firmly clutched in his grip, Megatron made his way over to the other half of the desk that was not occupied by Jazz and picked up a disposable pad and a stylus from a small cube. Writing down his information, Megatron set the entire catalog down and placed the disposable datapad on top with ‘One of each.’ Written in big, crude, Kaonite handwriting. Megatron couldn’t be bothered to muster his nicer hand to ask the request, his pockets would sting a little but it would be enough to cause a scene like Starscream wanted all while not having to interact with that Primus-forsaken marquess and his witty knight. 

“There.” Megatron finished. “Now you don’t have to worry about what you’ll wear.” 

Starscream’s intake gaped as his optics locked onto the catalog and datapad. Jazz and Prowl both seemed equally impressed and distressed at the notion, Megatron ignored all three of their reactions. Electing to pick Starscream up the the quirk of his waist and begin to make his way out of the boutique. “Good day, Marquess. Jazz. It was a pleasure to see you, but I'm afraid if we linger any longer we will be late…for…” Megatron blinked, now aware of his growing appetite. “Dinner.” He finished as he hauled the frozen seeker out the door, determined to be done with it all. Perhaps dinner would prove to be a more successful feat. 

Jazz recycled his optics at the final sight of the duke and prince, then focused on the light outside and his chronometer. He hummed, then turned to Prowl with a snicker, the superior of the two shared an opposingly unamused expression after repeating the same action. 

Arcee slipped past the curtained door with a beautifully wrapped gift, adorned with the finest silk bows in a delicate orange wrapper. “All done! Here you go.” She said with a smile, then realized how empty the boutique suddenly was. “Oh my.” She said quietly, lifting her servo up to her cheek in confusion as she peered over the desk and around the shop. “Where did everyone go?”

“Dinner.” Jazz mused in response. 

Arcee’s optical ridges furrowed into a deeper confused expression. “Dinner?” She asked, looking back at the clock on the wall. “But it’s 3 in the afternoon.” 

Jazz let out his suppressed laugh at the attendents bewilderment. Meanwhile, Prowl sighed and rested his forehelm on his palm, wating for Jazz. When the knight had figured his laughing fit to be over, the two spoke at the same time. “We know.” 

Ratchets snapped the last panel into place with a grunt. “Alright, everything checks out, you’re good to go, your highness.”

By the grace of Primus, Ratchet hadn’t done a spark scan, he was mainly focused on Optimus’ helm and similarly damaged components which turned out to be perfectly fine. Somehow. Curious that Ratchet didn’t try to pry into his memory or data banks which most certainly held some strange information by this world's standards, but there was a possibility of breaching privacy or something to the similar degree. 

At least, that's what Optimus would tell himself.

Optimus was surprised at how easy it was, despite his earlier distress. “I am? You didn’t notice anything?”

Ratchet shrugged. “Nothing that can’t be helped with a bit of sunlight and stretching those struts. You’re free to go as you please or however Ultra Magnus put it.” 

Optimus skeptically narrowed his gaze. “Are you sure?”

“Oh I’m sorry, would you like me to look you over again?” Ratchet snipped. 

Optimus scrunched his faceplate in disdain. “No.” 

Ratchet finished packing up his kit and stood. “That’s what I thought. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a queue of patients I have to see after spending the entire slaggin’ cycle with you.” 

“Sorry…” Optimus mewed from his place on the berth. 

Ratchet didn’t try to quell the prince’s apology and excused himself with a gruff goodbye and closed the door softly, as soon as he stepped out of the room and made his way into the hall a comm request that Ratchet had been ignoring the duration of the cycle was finally answered. Ratchet rolled his optics and answered with a click. “Hello, Ultra Magnus.” Ratchet greeted with a disdain for the usual pleasantries that were required for greeting a royal. 

Ultra Magnus, well acquainted with Ratchet’s behavior, ignored it in favor of asking a question. “Well? How is he?”

“He’s perfectly fine, his personality components are a bit mismatched but it’s not my place to go about changing it.” Ratchet admitted with indifference. 

“Is that all?”

“It is, sorry to dissapoint.” 

Ultra Magnus hummed from his side of the comm and clicked his glossa. “Very well, I suppose we have no choice but to accept him as is, then.”

“That’s exactly right, so I would appreciate it if you didn’t go about traumatizing him.” Ratchet chided.

If the call was visual, Ratchet would get to see Ultra Magnus’ face grow cross with him. “It wasn’t my intention.”

Ratchet tutted. “Pah, you know better, next time keep your obscene standards to yourself.”

Ultra Magnus, clearly disliking how he was being lectured by his chief medical officer, tried to set him in his place. “Do not berate me, medic. I am still your lord.” 

“Yep, yep, yep, don’t start either, you know I’m right.” Ratchet said. “Either way, he’s fine, let him be himself. It’s the best chance you have to secure Iacon’s future, this nicer version of Optimus is better if you ask me.”

“Well I didn’t.” Ultra Magnus answered. “But, I suppose you’re right. Nothing good will come if I smother him with his past.” He says, mostly to himself. “Very well. Thank you for your service, Ratchet.”

“No problem, it’s my job.” The call was cut off after Ratchet finished. 

What a lie.

While Optimus couldn’t lie to save his life, Ratchet certainly could. The poor prince was suppressing his panic the whole cycle as if Ratchet wouldn’t notice. ‘Mismatched personality component’ was merely the surface of the problem. You can’t change a personality module or component with some type of foul play. Not that Magnus would know. Shadow play was the first thing to come to mind, but that was only used by sketchy figures from the seedier parts of Cybertron and it made no sense to apply onto Optimus’ new personality. Optimus changed for the worse if anyone intended to use them for their own gain, as he was now he was a far cry from the mech that would freely go about and join in questionable causes if it was ‘for the greater good.’ New-Optimus carried himself with an air of honesty, the type of bot that would abhor the idea of what his last self might’ve gotten involved in. No, something else had to be wrong but Ratchet couldn’t pinpoint the issue. 

Not only that, Optimus had patches and coding in a different language. Of course Ratchet made sure to keep calm at the sight, unsure whether or not the prince was aware of this as well or not. But better to err on the side of caution. Ratchet couldn’t read a majority of the scrolling text that enabled the important aspects of a Cybertronian identity, and to make matters worse Optimus didn’t have access to his Prime module, which made him who he used to be in the past.

The module served to compliment the personality of the Prime so that they may rule to the best of their abilities—granted they are able to gain access to it in their lives—this came in many forms but the most common was the suppression of emotions. That’s what set the old Optimus apart from his brothers, his Prime module ruled over other modules, regardless of their place in his identity; he existed solely for the ‘greater good,’ regardless of what it cost him. Ratchet never liked the module, it seemed to make the once passive prince into a detached individual who viewed his subjects as pawns. Vector Prime was able to keep his module in check, thank Primus. If only the same ability was presented onto his son. Lost in his thougths, Ratchet wondered if the module would affect Optimus differently now that his personality was so disorderly. The idea of activating it set off a few alarm bells but still the curiosity ticked away. 

Ratchet shook his head, no, it was for the better to stay locked away where it cannot control the new Optimus. The medic looked out to find the glistening sun set overtaking Iacon with a sigh, his curiosity was getting the best of him. He should be grateful that Optimus was such a sap now, who knows what disaster would have spilled if the old Optimus awoke with the same injuries. 

“Nothing good.” Ratchet tells himself.

“Dinner?” Starscream asked. “Seriously? It’s the middle of the fragging afternoon.” 

Megatron grumbled in response. 

The carriage hopped and skipped on the cobblestone path, throwing the two nobles for the occasional bounce. “I’d be more embarrassed if you didn’t just buy me a whole boutique.” Starscream shrugged. 

“Hm.” Was all Megatron could muster. He was embarrassed, if the feeling was ever truly possible within the duke. But, in the case it was, his embarrassment was exceedingly so, at least by his standards, and apparently Starscream's. While he could’ve said lunch or tea, even say they had more shopping to do, the fool had said dinner. 

The choice of word wasn’t what embarrassed Megatron, more so the fact he did so in front of his subordinates that absolutely despised him. While he could blame their distaste towards him for his background, it was safe to say they had better reasons for doing so.

Megatron made a habit out of being excessively liberal by Iaconian (more so, northerners) standards; give more to the poor, acknowledge the shrinking middle class, tax the wealthy, etc. Which are apparently all revolutionary ideals. Megatron found it amusing, it was the bare minimum, really, his real revolutionary ideas were that of eradicating monarchy entirely, that would surely get him killed. Not that it would be possible anyways, the north and south were too stuck in their ways to try anything else. Megatron hummed to himself, looking over his polished armor, better off playing along until he was capable of overthrowing the primacy himself. Coming from the southern slums he wanted reform within his lifetime so he could limit as much suffering as possible. If he can fix it in the north, he can push for it in the south. Compare that to centrist like Prowl who believed in a slower reform, while appeasing the nobles desire to remain in power, the two would never see optics-to-optic, much less when Megatron towered over the marquess. 

Given Megatron’s intentions, it was awfully convenient that Cybertron was effectively split in two halves, north and south. With the exception of kingdoms like Vos that somehow managed to evade northern and southern imperialism after hundreds of vorns. The budding helms of two imperial families whose thirst for power over a planet would never truly subside until one defeated the other. While the south had greater energon and crystal mines, the north offered greater steel and building materials. So, they split and called it even, in layman’s terms. Megatron ironically denounced his place as an immigrant Iaconian and insisting upon his southern heritage, even when the north was where he spent most of his life and would likely continue to. It was a matter of principle, really, Megatron was a southerner by blood, it would only be natural that his preferences would lean towards that of the south, right? Or perhaps it was his displacement at such a young age that developed such resentment for the frigid north? Or even the fact that he was always reminded of his southern frame and blood in degrading ways that he forced it into being a defining trait? A psychologist would delight at the prospect of picking at Megatron's patria dilemma, assuming he wouldn't bite their helms off before they tried. Still, he had to show some partiality to his 'new' home in the north where he could make the greatest difference. It was beyond Megatron why Galvatron took him in, even in Kaon he was strikingly rebellious, voicing disdain for the current political system and royal family (though not enough to be noticed outside a few districts in Kaon). Perhaps the late duke was a bit of a revolutionary himself, not that Megatron could ask. It was a curious concoction, a southern ex-gladiator turned northern noble tied off with anti-imperialist views. 

The royal family of the north knew this well, which is why they pressured him into taking on all the military power he could; it had no practical use outside of giving the impression he was some war-monger, if need be, the Lord High Protector could whisk him away to fight in the nearest war and never worry about being overthrown. Megatron’s optics narrowed a fraction, the image of Optimus’ letter coming to mind once more. For a moment the duke humored the notion that Optimus might have wanted to restore a relationship between the duchy and imperial family, but it was much easier to assume he’d have ulterior motives behind his usual facade. 

“Well?”

Megatron shifted out of thought. “What is it?”

“Have you heard a single thing I said?” Starscream folded his arms over his chest.

Megatron paused, did Starscream say anything? “No.” He answered plainly. 

Starscream scoffed. “Of course not. I was talking about what we should do now, obviously you seemed to be in your little dream land so I took it upon myself to take us somewhere far from your pesky little marquess.” 

“And where would that be?” The duke asked. 

Starscream cocked his head to the door. “Why don’t you find out for yourself.” 

As if Starscream would take the lead and open the door.

With a sigh, Megatron stood somewhat and reached for the carriage door and flicked it open, stepping out to meet the entryway of a tea house. It stood out amongst the neat and classical appearance of Iacon as a whole, as to be expected from something snatched up from Caminus. Almost instinctively, Megatron reached out his arm for Starscream while taking in the establishment before him. Despite living near Iacon, Megatron never went so far as to delve deep into the capital’s surroundings let alone the culture, he was always far too swept up in his studies. As a matter of fact, he believed this was the first time he was ever on this street. 

“How did you come to know of this place?” Megatron asked Starscream as he helped the prince step down. 

Starscream pulled his servo away as soon as he made it onto the sidewalk. “While you were daydreaming I commed Soundwave for the best place for lunch.” He punctuated. “So now we’re here.” 

“I’ve never been in uptown Iacon.” Megatron remarked to himself. 

“Why am I not surprised?” Starscream rolled his optics, wrapping himself around Megatron’s arm and began to strut towards the doors dragging along the duke. “Come on, let’s go.”

Megatron matched Starscream’s pace as the glass doors were opened for them with a bow. “Perhaps this won’t be as bad as the boutique.” He says, noting the much more graceful atmosphere of the tea house. 

Starscream hummed in agreement. 

Whereas the boutique was elegant and overt, the tea house was significantly more classy. The colors were muted pastels, typically cool-toned blues that were often associated with the north, paired with a sparkling silver much like Megatron’s base armor without the dyed polish that gave him a bronzer hue that Starscream insisted ‘made him look alive.’ The tea house was a bit busy by the looks of it, a few lesser nobles offered the two entering respectful glances, paying close attention to their apparent closeness as their optics widened and they returned to their cakes and drinks, muttering a new topic of gossip. 

Suddenly Starscream’s choice of location was obvious once again. 

A greeter off to the pair’s left greeted the nobles with a bow. “Welcome! It’s a pleasure to have you here, Duke Megatron, Prince Starscream. Do you have a reservation?” 

Megatron and Starscream looked at one another without turning face-to-face. “No, we don’t.” Megatron said. 

A polite question, albeit unnecessary considering if they did have a reservation it would be ready the moment they stepped in. Megatron felt a twinge of pity for the staff, a habit still ingrained in the duke's time as a peasant. Even breaking out of the mines to the surface proved laborious with having to take up arms to amuse patrons of the pits. Megatron hated having to deal with unannounced guests in his dinky hab who figured him capable of laying with them after a particularly gruesome fight. Whether he turned them down was neither here nor there, the point was that it was rude. And here he was, waiting on the teahouse’s staff to now accommodate his supposedly high-class aft without a moment's notice, the situation bordered on shameful. Megatron noted to make reservations next time. 

Nevertheless, the greeter remained positive, as if their unannounced intrusion was more of an honor. “Please do not worry, my lords. I will have you seated in but a moment, please pardon me.” They bowed deeply before turning and walking towards. 

“I’m guessing this is another way of getting others to talk?” Megatron asked, not taking the time to look at Starscream who was still pressed against his frame. 

“You’d guess correctly.” Starscream said, nuzzling closer for emphasis.

“Don’t be so loose, you’re still a prince.” Megatron said curtly, stiffening his posture. 

Starscream smirked and let go. “I like an audience.” 

“And here I thought voyeurism was beneath you.” Megatron remarked with little bite as his attention returned to the returning greeter. 

“Right this way, your graces.” They called out as the two nobles began to follow their lead. “I apologize for the, er, more public seating. As you can see it’s a busy cycle-“ 

Starscream shushed the individual with a wave. “No need for apologies, I was hoping to be more public today.” He said, with certain emphasis as they reached to the table adorned with a thin silk cover and ornate carvings. 

Megatron tried not to roll his optics. “Thank you.” He said plainly as he pulled out a seat and beckoned Starscream to inhabit it. After the seeker planted himself gracefully on the seat, the duke made his way to the opposite side and bowed his helm with an additional thanks to the employee as he passed their shorter frame. “I appreciate your dedication on such short notice.” He whispered with a nearly nonexistent smile. 

The greeter jolted at the sudden warmth from the duke. “Oh, uh, um, well- Of course! You’re a very esteemed guest.” They stammered as they quickly set down two menus onto the table. “There will be someone to take your order soon.” They finished with a bow and skittered away from the table with a pep in their step. 

Starscream scoffed, picking up a menu. “Since when were you so soft?” 

“Soft?” The duke asked. “Last time I checked, that's called basic decency.” He retorted, picking up his own menu with a smirk. “Not that you’d know about it, anyways.” 

The final comment earned Megatron a kick in the shin, to which he answered with a growl. “At least try to make it hurt.” 

That earned him a very hard stomp on his pede, for extra damage Starscream dug his heel into the crevasse of his joints, nicking a particularly painful transformation seam. “Better?” The prince asked. 

Megatron bit back a sneer. “Sure.” 

Starscream, satisfied, changed the topic. “I’m feeling the sample tea set, it looks like a good choice for newcomers like us.” He mentioned as he looked up. 

There was chatter off to the left, from a gaggle of bots who seemed a bit too preoccupied with the table holding the duke and prince. 

“I don’t have a preference; the portions are always too small for me anyways.” Megatron shrugged, trying to shove off his irritation. 

Another snicker off to their left. 

Starscream gave a passive glace at their surroundings, catching onto the whispers. Megatron wrote it off as his narcissism. But when Starscream looked vaguely at his date’s general direction, Megatron, assuming the inquisitive stare was towards himself, gestured at his frame in reference to the rest of those in the tea house. “Reformatted labor frame, remember?” 

There was some giggling now, but Megatron was used to it. Starscream, however, was not.

The prince didn’t say anything, his attention focused on something behind Megatron. At the moment Megatron noted that Starscream wasn’t looking at him, "Is there a probelm?"

Upon hearing this, Starscream too caught onto Megatron’s growing suspicion and the prince’s optics cycled a fraction wider as he ducked behind his menu, successfully hiding behind it. "Nope."

Megatron looked befuddled at Starscream. “What were you looking at?” 

Starscream sat up straight, face still hidden behind his choice of barrier. “Nothing!” He coughed. “How about the oil cakes? Those sound good.” 

“Starscream.”

“Ooh! Look here!” Starscream pointed, although Megatron’s view was still very much obstructed. “There’s a deal on starseed strudels! I wonder if I can get mine with extra cream...“ He trailed off as he peeked over the menu, past Megatron and ducked in the same instance when the duke optics were still planted on the seeker. 

Megatron made a confrontational noise. “What could possibly get you so distracted? What are you looking at?” 

The duke nearly misplaced a spinal strut to look behind him. His frame contorted in the chair that somehow supported his weight, shoulders and helm shifting in the direction of right-behind-him. Starscream tried to stop him with a hiss, but it was too late, he already saw the vague outline of someone far too familiar. Megatron’s intake tightened into a line when the image connected to memories in his processor, despite any efforts to do otherwise. Seated quietly at the corner of the large tea house was none other than the object of Starscream’s affections. 

Baron Jetfire. 

And calmly sitting across from him, with an untouched cup of tea was the object of Megatron’s revulsion. 

Cyclonus. 

There was a collection of gasps and giggles from those seated ariund them. Megatron turned back to face the table, dipping down to hide his very recognizable figure from the general direction of his brother and the baron. Megatron jinxed it, that had to be it. There was no other reasonable explanation for these disastrous encounters than some divine retribution. What mistake has he made to deserve this? 

Well, plenty, but that's besides the point. Prowl, Jazz, Jetfire, and Cyclonus, all on the same cycle? Agnostic as he was, Megatron began to suspect that Primus just might be real. Real enough to be this petty, they could have waited for another cycle to smite him. Or at least spread out the torture for separate cycles. 

“Why didn’t you say anything!” Megatron spat silently at his companionship.

“I panicked!” 

“You were deliberately trying to avoid it, you twit!” 

“That’s besides the point!" He defeclted. "Why are you freaking out anyways?” Starscream glowered with a general look at Cyclonus and Jetfire. 

“I have a reason for avoiding my stupid brother.” Megatron said flatly. 

“And what would that be?” Starscrean asked. 

“He’s disowned. ” 

“Oh.” The prince’s optics flickered. “Right.” 

Darling big brother Cyclonus, the disgrace of the Decepticon House and the reason Megatron was scooped out of the pits to begin with. Megatron bit the protoform that lined the inside of his intake. “Shouldn’t you be pleased at the sight of your lead-headed beloved? Isn’t this whole ruse just to attract his attention?”

“He’s not supposed to find out like this!” Statscream hissed with too much panic. 

Megatron looked over his shoulder and noted that Cyclonus wasn’t accompanied by the reason for his disownment. “So you have a plan?” He asked, turning back. 

Starscream’s lit up. “Yes!” He started to set the scene, with a dreamy expression. “It’s supposed to be at the gardens, when we miraculously meet after the latest meeting.” He began, setting down the menu and circling a particular spot with a sweet look, "You know, the one in the next deca-cycle." Starscream continued his novela plot. “Jetfire sees me with a particular crystal flower and starts to teach me about it. Then I mention how beautiful the flora is and he picks the flower I was looking at and gives it to me saying the garden will never be as beautiful as I am. Then I gasp and fall into his touch, and after tentatively sharing some romantically charged comments I realize I’m already taken by you.” He says, looking Megatron up and down with a reputed look. “I push him away, admitting I have a date and run off with coolant in my optics!” The prince finishes, holding himself for emphasis. 

“What kind of plan is that?!” Megatron nearly howled. 

“It’s about the drama! The thrill of the hunt!” Starscream wailed. 

Megatron’s helm fell into his servos. “Delusional. You’re actually delusional. In what universe would that happen? Hm?” 

“It would be this one if I was a luckier bot.” Starscream pouted. 

“This isn’t a romance novel, you crumpled up piece of aluminum.” Megatron spat, dragging his hands across his face. 

“That’s besides the point! They haven’t seen us yet so I believe it’s for the best that we just leave.” 

“Leave?” Megatron smirked. “You wanted to announce this supposed courtship by dinner, I don’t see why we can’t move it forward a few joors.” 

Starscream flared his plating. “Don’t you dare.” 

“Oh, but I do,” Megatron winked as he stood from his seat, gently pushing it aside as he took one step forward to where Starscream was located and dropped to one knee. Where others merely offered curious glances to the unusual pair, now they looked with intakes slightly agape in anticipation of what was to come. 

Even if Megatron refused to admit it, Starscrean was somewhat right, he was an entertainer when he could help it. To have all the optics locked onto him was an ego boost for them both, but under different circumstances. Starscream liked the attention for the sake of it, but Megatron liked it for the fear in the optics of those who would have once considered him beneath them. So, leaving every high class Iaconian starstruck with his decisions was always something Megatron would enjoy doing. 

“Starscream of Vos,” the duke began, just loud enough to dampen any voice outside of his own. “Light of the floating kingdom, for many moons I have found myself lost within your grace and beauty. And although the light of our two moons do not reflect onto us now, I fear that my spark, heavy with desire, cannot deny myself such torture any longer. So, I state my intentions clearly,” 

Megatron reached out his servo, the prince’s optics narrowed into two red slits and his lips pursed with distaste for a klik. Yet he did nothing to dissuade Megatron in his attempt, in the next klik his optics softened as a gentle smile crept across his faceplate while raising a limp servo out for Megatron to catch, clearly enjoying the attention even though he had vouched against it moments ago. 

“Will you honor me with the pleasure of attending the debutante ball as my partner?” 

It sounded painfully cliche as the deep voice called out, catching Starscream’s servo with a kiss on the top. The whole room let out an audible gasp. Jetfire and Cyclonus were definitely paying attention by that point, Megatron tried not to smirk at the imagined sight of his brother’s distraught face at the sight before him. By Megatron’s standards, the peck was hardly worthwhile, purely for show just like every other facet of his life as a noble. However, by Iacon’s standards it was a very intimate gesture, bordering in scandelous, but Megatron wanted to get this up and over with. Ripping the torn from his side, if you will. Starscream knew this well, he kept his face calm and content while he took in all the optics on them. 

“Oh,” the prince let out softly. “I- I’m so…” His voice trailed off as he fanned his optics with the free servo, looking up and about, taking in the jealous glares and awestruck optics of those around him. 

Megatron had to suppress a gag at the action .:By the Primes, just say yes so I can get up.:.

.:Shut it! I need to make sure Jetfire sees, if I can’t get my garden scene then I have to make sure he knows I’m hesitating!.:. 

Starscream subtly looked over to where his dearest was sitting along with the befallen brother of the Decepticon house. Much to the prince’s delight, the two were looking, staring, really, but looking nonetheless. Cyclonus was definitely the more shocked of the two, he’d be better acquainted with Megatron acting so out of character. But Jetfire looked…calm, the level of calm he’d always had about him. His reaction wasn’t jealousy, the two were hardly familiar enough to invoke such a reaction anyways, but Starscream liked to think that Jetfire wasn’t the jealous type. Too gentle, too kind, for a moment Starscream felt himself locked into a gaze with the baron. There was nothing to hint at a negative feeling, Jetfire’s optics shifted to an appreciative look as he tilted his helm to the left where a kind smile parted through. Starscream felt his world melt in that moment as his intake twitched into a coquettish grin, he ducked his chin to look back at the unimpressed duke. He couldn’t wait to stage some silly breakup and have that shuttle hold him close in flustered comfort. 

Megatron let out a quiet cough. “Any cycle now, your highness.” 

Starscream blinked out of his daydream. “Huh? Oh,” he straightened his back. “Yes, I will.” The prince finally answered. 

The room let out a dreamy sigh as Megatron stood moreover and planted another kiss on the back of Starscream’s servo. “How I know you to never deny me.” He said, parting away from the royal and back to his seat. 

The romantic atmosphere continued even when the proposed courtship had ended, what followed was an explosion of chatter when the duke’s aft plated itself on the seat as he picked up the menu from before. “I hope that was up to your tastes.” Megatron said casually amidst the new conversation surrounding them. 

Starscream checked his claws meticulously. “Not bad, you could’ve done a lot worse.”

Megatron barked out a laugh. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” His helm beckoned to the back of the room. “And what of your beloved baron?” 

“He seemed content.” Starscream noted a bit more bitterly than he wanted. The prince adored the baron for his kindness but could stand for him to be a bit bolder, not that it was his place to wish for more from a bot he hardly knew. 

Megatron’s optics focused onto Starscream at the tone. “How did you come to love him so dearly anyways?”  

“We met while I attended the academy while I was in the middle of my foreign studies, though I never mentioned him to you.” Starscream said quietly. “I didn’t know him outside of a few labs we shared but I always found myself wanting to get closer to him.” 

“And now you have derived some hard headed plan to win him over.” Megatron remarked with no particular cruelty. 

“I don’t expect you to understand me, you sparkless brute.” Starscream sighed. “Love is something I fear you will only read about but never feel.” 

“I’m inclined to agree.” A third voice said. 

Megatron didn’t flinch, he was used to this level of spontaneous action from a certain someone. 

“Hello, Cyclonus.” The named duke said flatly, not bothering to look over his shoulder. 

From where Starscream sat, he saw Cyclonus’ face bloom into a sulken demeanor. Did he try to make a joke by agreeing with Starscream? It didn’t catch with his dull tone and uncomfortable place at his brother's back. It slipped right off of Megatron’s armor like solvent. 

Backpedaling, Cyclonus offered a kinder-yet-still-inexpressive token of amnesty. “I suppose I ought to offer my congratulations, brother.” 

“Not necessary and not appreciated.” Megatron remarked with ire, raising a servo up to stop any further comments.

Cyclonus opened his intake but closed it after a moment, he appeared to be contemplating what more he could say but was promptly overtaken by Jetfire’s larger frame slipping past him with a pat on the back as he went on to greet the supposed lovers with a smile. “Congratulations! You two will be a sight to behold at the ball.” 

Starscream felt himself internally squeal, Megatron must’ve heard it too when he folded his arms over his chest with a grunt. “Thank you, baron, your kindness is always known.” 

Jetfire smiled wider. “I hope we’re not intruding, but I figured we’d offer our support before we head out.”

Starscream rested his chin on his servos. “Leaving so soon?”

“Yes, we’ve been here most of the afternoon conversing. It’s only right that I don't take up anymore to Cyclonus’ time.” Jetfire said bashfully. 

Megatron snorted, reverting back to his usual personality. “Take as much of it as you need, he has it in excess.” 

Jetfire laughed, clearly not understanding that the joke was a jab. Cyclonus didn’t react much, and Starscream shot Megatron a glare. He was not particularly keen on letting Jetfire go so soon and tried to keep him a little longer with a minor interrogation. “If I may inquire, what were you two speaking of?” 

Jetfire refocused his attention back to Starscream, who was more than happy to receive it. “Nothing in particular, we met purely by chance earlier today and I figured it would only be courteous to offer something for the sake of it.” Taking a large servo to gesture at the tea house. “Tea seemed like a good choice.” 

“I see.” 

The conversation stopped after the unimpressive explanation. Jetfire was known for his hospitality, even towards high society’s less graced, which Cyclonus certainly was. It was no wonder that he didn’t have ulterior motives, the academic tended to keep to himself without any real desire for more power. 

Granted, Starscream was too focused on the baron to pay much mind to the brothers off to his side, he attempted to continue a one-sided conversation with Jetfire. Megatron remained quaintly uninterested in acknowledging his adopted brother’s existence on the exterior but decided to give way under a private light. 

A dusty communication link opened. 

.:Why are you here?:. Megatron sent, attempting to dissuade his temper. 

Cyclonus’ optics flashed at the message. .:Jetfire speaks the truth, it was pure coincidence that we are here.:. 

.:Let me rephrase, then.:. Megatron sent first. .:Why are you in Iacon.:. 

.:Am I not allowed in my home state?.:.

.:Not when Galvatron’s dying wish was for you to never step foot here.:. 

Cyclonus audibly scoffed, which gained him a few glances. .:Since when did you care for what sire thought?:. 

Megatron’s face darkened a fraction, optics still set on Starscrean and Jetfire trailing off into talk of xenobiology. .:Since I had to take his place.:. 

Cyclonus shifted. Even through coms, Megatron always had the ability to make anyone squirm beneath him. A trait he picked up from Galvatron no doubt.

.:Take your place.:. Megatron corrected, a moment later. 

Cyclonus didn’t follow with a response, the guilt began to sink into his spark when it all came crashing down. How could he refute that? Despite his efforts to stay true to his own life, he had inadvertently ruined that of another. Deciding that hiding behind his communication line would only sour the conversation more, Cyclonus stepped closer to his younger brother and bent down to whisper properly. “Please, Megatron, try to understand me. I never intended for you to take this burden. If you would just let me-“ 

Megatron stood up in a sparkbeat. “We’re leaving.”

Starscream and Jetfire jumped at the sudden sound of Megatron’s chair dragging across the floor with a screech. Starscream shook his helm. “What do you mean? We just got here!” 

“Oh please, you suggested it first.” Megatron hissed in the confines of their space. “Get up, now.” 

Starscream’s face did not hide his anger, his tone taking on the same level of agitation. “You do not command me, duke.” 

Megatron laughed coldly but didn’t bother fighting the prince about it. “No?" He stepped close to Starscream and leaned into his audial, still saving face for them both, he spoke. "Then perhaps you would like to escort yourself to my manor, alone.” He said, being gracious enough to stand at the side of Starscream's seat long enough to warrant thought. 

Starscream's spark dropped, if he were capable of reading the room a bit better he would realize there was more at stake then the proposed social suicide. Well acquainted with Megatron's threats, stood up in silence. 

Jetfire looked at the couple confused, flashing a panicked glace at Cyclonus who faced away from the rest of the group. "Is something wrong?" 

Megatron smiled at the baron, which earned further puzzlement from Jetfire. "I'm afraid something has come up, please excuse us." Grabbing Starscream at the waist, the two began to make their way out of the tea house. Starscream pressed into Megatron to hide his irritation, but in an air of superiority, Megatron turned at his shoulder and looked directly at Cyclonus. “I have a lot of work to catch up on, so I do apologize,” he began. “Please,” The duke smirked. “Say hello to Tailgate for me.” 

Oh. There it was. The name to never be spoken.

All optics turned to Cyclonus, who closed his optics at the sudden intrusion on his figure. The air turned stale; it was so thick with taboo that everyone in the room looked back into themselves at the aforementioned name. It was deathly quiet as Cyclonus clutched his servos into fists. Jetfire looked at Cycolus gently before he straightened and turned to Megatron with an uncharacteristic glare. "Lord Megatron, I would ask you to refrain from such petty acts." He said firmly.

Megatron didn't react, "You have a good taste in character, prince." He remarked quietly. Cyclonus, not keen on sullying Jetfire's reputation, bowed deeply at the irked baron. “Extend my apologies to my brother, it appears I upset him with my presence.” More snickers picked up at the gesture, but unlike the Vosnian, Cyclonus appeared unaffected by their sneers. Jetfire only stepped back at the act. "It isn't your fault." He tried to reason.

Starscream’s spark sank at the image of Jetfire. Too kind, too noble. He would never last in Vos. But he said nothing, nodding at the two nobles. Megatron loosened his grip and the two began to make their way out of the shellshocked teahouse. Starscream met his pace quietly and walked alongside him through the tea house where a few servers bowed at the neck and said their goodbyes. Megatron stormed past the hosts and out the door with a demure Starscream at his tail end, how fortunate it was that they didn’t order anything so there was no loss for the establishment.

If anything, the drama that just occurred would increase visits and sales tenfold. The power of nobility on society was a strangely pathetic thing.  

When the pair reached the outside of the tea house and into their carriage that remained parked close by, Megatron remembered himself and took the extra step to open the door for Starscream to step in with a flushed huff. At the moment of Megatron sitting down Starscream busted. 

“How could you humiliate me like that!” He reached his servos high in frustration. “After doing so well in announcing a courtship, what is your problem!?” 

Megatron crossed his arms over his chest and growled, extending his field to better communicate his unwillingness to argue about the topic. "I spared you any humiliation, you should be thanking me."

“Oh, save it.” Starscream snapped. “Now Jetfire will think lowly of both of us."

Megatron's optic ridges shifted slightly at the comment. "Is that all you can be bothered to care about?"

Starscream bit his lipplate, but avoided a direct answer. "Whatever Cyclonus said it couldn’t have been that bad, why can’t you just control your pit forsaken temper?” 

“It’s not what he said, nor what he was planning to say.” Megatron spoke coldly, losing any of the previous anger. “It’s his mere presence. I can't stand it.” He spoke evenly. 

“You’re so dramatic.” Starscream scoffed. “Why couldn’t you just suck it up for a moment? You’re a noble for crying out loud! Act like one! You should be perfectly acquainted with that type of behavior.” 

Megatron’s optics darkened to their lowest setting, his field reeled in leaving the air still and cold. 

“Use your words.” Starscream spat. “You need to learn to better act like the position you were graced with, you’re acting like the barbarian you were when we were younger.” 

Megatron uncrossed his arms and slammed them against the cushion of the carriage, his claws slid through the delicate mesh as though it was liquid. Starscream jumped at the sound, looking down at the destroyed cushion before meeting with optics that pierced through his frame much like the talons on their owner. 

“‘Graced with.’” Megatron parroted. “The barbarian I used to be?” His expression remained flat and unwavering, continuing to stare into Starscream’s optics as if it was his spark. The two remained locked in each other’s gaze, like turbofox and petrorabbit and the fox was about to lunge. “I was graced with nothing.” Megatron snarled. “I use what I have to achieve what I must, what I need to. But do not, for one moment, delude yourself into thinking I was graced, much less by the likes of Galvatron.” 

Starscream tensed, his own claws beginning to sink into his side of the carriage as Megatron leaned closer.

“That fool, that pathetic excuse for a brother, that pathetic excuse for an heir. Is why I sit here before you now, doing his job, at his manor, pretending to be his brother while he is off delighting in a life that could’ve been mine. That should’ve been mine.” He continued with a raised voice. “I’m not sure if you can see outside your gated little castle or beyond the spears of your guards but I play along with your monotonous and obscene lifestyle because I can, because I wish to honor my title as a duke now, regardless of what it will mean in the future. But I do not owe you a damn thing, seeker. I do not owe you domesticity, tolerance, or interiority.” Megatron’s voice remained even, never breaching an octave that could be heard outside the carriage. He spoke with a cold fury that could only be akin to true anger. “Not when you represent the very thing I despise.” He finished with a hushed growl, now nearly on optic level with the prince. 

Starscream said nothing, he only looked at Megatron with cycled optics. 

Megatron straightened away from Starscream and knocked three times on the door. The coachman understood the gesture with ease and the carriage began to move. 

Another word was never uttered from either noble for the rest of the night. 

Chapter Text

The garden was quiet amidst the celebrations of an eldest son. Megatronous, now Megatron, had retreated into the assumed safety of the flora and sat down to look up at the moon in forced peace. 

It didn’t last very long. 

“You’re new.” A young prince stated matter-of-factly 

The young gladiator turned to the prince and growled. “Is that apparent?”

“You tell me.”

“Excuse me?”

”Galvatron named you his heir, so you tell me. Is it apparent that you’re new, or is it new that you’re apparent?” 

Megatron glared at the prince. “What are you talking about?” 

“Ah, so it’s both then.” The prince hummed. 

Megatron rolled his optics and looked away. “You’re annoying, leave me alone.” 

“That’s awfully rude,” The prince said, leaning over to weasel his way into Megatron’s perception. “I’m the one that should be angry. You crashed my ball.” 

“Well too bad for you, you rich glitch.” 

“I’m Optimus.” 

“I didn’t ask.”

“I think you deserved to know.” 

Megatron laughed dryly. “Right, sure, thanks a lot. Now get lost, prince.”

Optimus’ optics flickered. “So, you do know me.”

Megatron scoffed. “Who wouldn’t, you’re fragging royalty.” 

“You’re the heir of a duke now, you’re probably the only one with a rank that matches mine outside of my brothers.” Optimus blinked. 

“Great!” Megatron mocked. “Does that mean I can get away with telling you to beat it?” 

Optimus didn’t react. “Not really, but it’s the thought that counts.” 

Megatron got up and stared down at the calm prince, he didn’t flinch at the sight of the silver mech. Although they were both about the same age, Megatron towered over the pale-blue form of a frame yet to take an alt-mode.

“Do you hate me?” The prince asked.

“Primus. You love stupid questions, don’t you?”

“It's a genuine question.” Optimus replied, his demenour flipped like a switch. “I don’t like to waste time, and it appears I’ve wasted both of ours by how you’re acting, so let me ask again. Do you hate me?”

Megatron glared. “Why does it matter?”

“If you say you hate me, then from this moment forward I will hate you too.” Optimus said blankly. “Then we can safely hope our paths never cross again unless need be.” 

“You’re weird.” 

“I’m efficient.” Optimus corrected. “I'm not usually this blunt, but you did ruin my special cycle so if you wish to try and remedy it, answer quickly.”

“Yes.” Megatron replied. “I hate you. I hate you and all you noble bastards.” 

“Just me is enough, no need to be excessive.”

“It’s not excessive.” Megatron bit. “It’s the truth.”

“I see.” Optimus pondered.

“I answered your question, didn’t I? Now get the frag out of my life, short lived as it was.”

Optimus nodded. “Very well, from this moment forward I will passionately hate you.”

“Likewise.” 

Optimus bowed and began to walk away and back to his party, Megatron sat back down and tried to focus on the stars not polluted by light. 

“Oh, one more thing.” The prince called out, turning back for a moment. "If either one of us wants to break off this agreement, just say schadenfreude.”

Megatron made an unamused face. “I don’t even know what that means!” 

“It’s an alien glyph,” Optimus yelled back, still walking away. “It means to delight in another’s misfortune.” 

Megatron barked out a laugh, a bit more genuine. “Great! I’ll be sure to do that!” 

Optimus turned back with another question. “Say the word or delight in my misfortune?”

“The latter!” Megatron yelled. “The cycle I say that to you is the cycle I die!”

Optimus didn’t give way for much of a reaction, he was never expected to either. “Very well! Goodbye!”

“Get lost already!” 

Optimus stood in place, frozen. An unbridled fear of the unknown coursed through his frame as he battled every instinct to run back into his berth and hide under the covers. 

“You can do it!” Windy chimed in from behind. “I believe in you!” 

“I’m not sure if I feel the same…” Optimus trembled. 

Before him stood the great white doors of his berthroom. And beyond that would be his freedom. 

Ideally, it would be. At some point Optimus couldn’t wait to leave, to walk out the doors of his room and down the stairs to whatever this world would offer.  

How innocent he was.

After Ultra Magnus decided to pay a little visit, Optimus found that he liked his room best. No one bothered him here, no one scolded him or feared him, it was just Optimus. And Windy on occasion. Maybe an elaborate cage wasn’t so bad. 

The lingering sense of dread never did try to leave, forming an ever-present place at the back of Optimus’ mind. Optimus had now associated his room with safety. It had all he needed; a berth, datapads and books alike, a balcony in case he wanted to go out, and maids who would bring him his meals. What more could a bot need? Nothing. That’s what. Optimus threw out any of his previous desires to book it out of the castle after a certain visit. Surely Ultra Magnus would understand, dare he say he’d rather have Optimus locked up for the rest of his functioning even if he refused to voice such a thought. It'd make both their lives easier. But, alas, Ultra Magnus took pity on Optimus and granted him this apparent reward, so maybe his new sire wasn't all bad. 

At this point, his room was the closest thing to peace and quiet Optimus was going to get in this new life, he just knew it. The moment he stepped out, it would all come out with him. All the secrets, the pain, the fear, and the future. 

“Your highness?” Windy asked from his back. 

Optimus sighed. No one said it would be easy, not that there was anyone ever around to say it. It could be that an exciting life would be a fraction more interesting than a peaceful one. Orion had already lived a relatively plain, albeit peaceful, life. Optimus wanted that again, to live quietly in the shadows of his new kingdom but now that image seemed so unrealistic. An unattainable dream. He was still a prince, royalty, they’d force him to take on some responsibility eventually. Might as well take some independence when he could. 

“Alright,” Optimus breathed. “Let’s go live.” 

The prince reached for the curved handle of the door and pulled it open. Optimus then realized he’d never actually seen the outside of his room. He’d peak out when Windy or another maid came in, but other than that, the world outside his room was unknown. Optimus’ spark thrummed, maybe this was the right decision. 

Windy cheered in her own little way. “Woohoo! Hardest part is done!” 

Optimus sagged his shoulders. “That was much more mentally taxing than I anticipated.” 

It was always so easy to desire something, actually getting to it was the hard part. 

The door opened to a quiet hallway, no other bot in sight. Optimus was almost disappointed when he stepped onto the rug in front of him with nothing else to chide him on. “A few trumpets would be nice.” He tried to joke as he looked around at the hallway. 

Windy giggled as she shut the door closed. “I asked everyone to leave since you might have an anxiety attack and hole yourself into your room again.” 

Optimus chuckled. “You’d probably be right.” 

The air seemed cleaner, refreshing, unbound to the confines of a room. Freedom, in a very constrained definition of the word. Optimus felt better now, his previous worry melting away as he stepped towards the grandiose arched windows that were on the side of the hall. “This place is really big, isn’t it?” 

Windy agreed with a hum. “Oh yeah, it’s huge. Your manner, the Sapphire Palace, is one of many. But it’s the biggest residential building.” She answered. 

“So, there’s more buildings?”

“Lots of em’!” 

Optimus looked back out. “I guess I have a lot of exploring to do then.” 

“Exactly! It’s still early in the cycle so maybe we can hit most of them!” Windy’s field radiated pure excitement as she leaned as close as she deemed respectful.

Optimus laughed, thinking about how she made it sound like they were going to a theme park. “Where should we go first?” 

Windy shrugged. “It’s up to you, your highness.”

“No pressure.” Optimus hummed. 

Optimus thought about the question. He really did. Except that Optimus didn’t actually know about any of the buildings other than his own. 

So, there really was only one answer. Optimus turned Windy with a smile and reached out his hand. 

“Let’s go to the garden.” 

Windy happily agreed and took his servo as the two carefully walked down the Sapphire palace without an interruption. Apparently, no one was keen on speaking to Optimus today, with his newfound freedom and all. Windy spent their time walking explaining the artwork and paraphernalia that adorned the palace to the best of her abilities, which was promptly none, which also meant that she was most likely coming up with whatever random nonsense she could to fill the silence between Optimus’ quiet disposition and her need to keep him entertained. 

Despite this, Optimus accepted the half-baked explanations and history as truth. Whatever Windy could formulate would be infinitely more interesting than the historical truth, odds were they were just stolen or traded from villages or nomadic bots. Optimus quietly hoped that they wouldn’t get the short end of the deal and to look into the cultural differences of this Cybertron. Even if that meant making his poor maids read it all to him while he pressed on about what a certain sigil or glyph meant. 

While their pace was even and the journey filled with Windy’s endless prattle, Optimus found himself pausing to look at the portraits of the palace’s past inhabitants. Despite Windy’s attempts to name them, surer of herself this time, Optimus didn’t particularly recognize any of them. 

“What about him?” Windy pointed at Vector Prime.

Optimus scrunched his face. “He looks vaguely familiar.”

“Vaguely?” Windy whimpered. “That’s your carrier, your highness.”

Optimus jolted. “Is it?” 

Vector looked…serious, yet soft. Not exactly what one would think of when envisioning a carrier, but given Ultra Magnus as the other correspondent, it made about more sense that Vector would choose to carry. 

Optimus stepped a little closer to inspect the framed painting, taking in the details. His carrier looked on, face even but optics turned down ever so slightly; his colors were pale but not lacking, he appeared to be sitting stiffly at the time the painting was commissioned. Optimus could feel the faint cords of grief trickle down his spine. The prince shivered. “Why don’t we hurry on to the garden before lunch.”

Windy picked up on the prince’s discomfort and nodded easily, going so far to grab his arm. “Come on, let’s go.” She said, softly.

Starscream sat in his place at the long conference table amidst the room full of the highest-ranking nobles of the north. Unfortunately, Jetfire was not in attendance, being a baron and all. Starscream tried to listen to the topic at hand but couldn’t be bothered to care about what they were all fervently discussing, probably some slag about the future of the crown, not that it mattered to Starscream. He only attended to maintain relations between Vos and the terrestrial lands of Cybertron, he could only hope Skywarp and Thundercracker were having more fun in the south before they made their way to Iacon for Rodimus’ little debutante ball.

The Vosnian prince cast a sideways glance at Megatron, who appeared to be intertwined with the discussion at hand. As expected from the duke. 

Still, that didn’t stop Starscream from trying to distract him. There could be some fun in that. 

Their communication link opened with a crackle, Megatron knew immediately what Starscream’s intentions were and matched a similarly sideways glance to the prince. .:I’m busy, you should pay attention to what the others are saying.:.

Starscream scoffed internally, rebutted before he could get anywhere. .:Well that’s why I’m comming you, I’m a bit lost at the moment.:. He remedied.

Megatron narrowed his optics a fraction, still set on Starscream, before another voice called his attention back to the group. .:They're discussing trade agreements.:. He spoke simply, unlike his usual bite. .:It’s particular to the southwest, apparently there's a rumor of miners going on strike. Not an even division of resources, apparently.:. 

Starscream’s optics widened, now he regretted phasing out of the conversation while realizing why Megatron was so involved. .:Why?:. 

“I don’t know.” Megatron whispered. 

Despite their argument the cycles prior, Megatron and Starscream had a habit of ‘making up’ relatively quickly. Something they both had to learn when Galvatron insisted on hosting Starscream’s visiting family when they were still in their earlier years. An obvious attempt at gaining favor with them. The image of Thundercracker chasing for an older bot that would be willing to break off the two in the middle of a high-stakes fist fight while Skywarp cackled and egged them on would prove to be heartening after all this time. More often than not, it would be Cyclonus who would come running in and stand between the two, begging them to stop. At the sight of which Megatron would growl and storm off. Starscream would do much of the same, if not throw a tantrum at getting scratched by Megatron’s claws. They were old enough to know better, as most younglings were, but it took a very long time for them to realize the usefulness of an amicable relationship. 

Although their current relationship wasn’t particularly amicable either.

Even so, that didn’t mean they were unfamiliar with one another. Although they failed to be a fruitful coupling for Galvatron or Starscream’s creators, they did turn out to become quite close, nevertheless. Megatron knew when and where the line stood between them, and Starscream knew what he should and shouldn’t tease the duke over. 

The south was not one of those topics.

His time as a gladiator aside, Megatron spent a majority of his youth in the slums of the south doing odd jobs. Poverty was one thing but being able to indulge in Cybertron’s most diverse cultural landscape had its perks. 

Megatron adored the south more than anything, even when his priorities presided in the north, he leaped at any chance he was given to visit the south, one of Galvatron’s rewards for a vorn of good behavior and work. Abandoning his elaborate desk and room in favor of the bustling streets of Kaon’s marketplace with a worrying Cyclonus sticking to his side like an unwanted piece of armor. At time Starscream and his trine would visit alongside them, and it was the only time he would see Megatron light up and smile in a way that wasn't forced. Whether it was in Kaon, Tarn, or Blaster City the south was rich with adventure and new things to try. Especially with the abundance of wealth Megatron had at his disposal when he was adopted. Before then it was merely a curious optic behind the dumps of alleyways, and after then it was a reluctant glance at prices between matches. The time spent growing up pre-Galvatron was one of the few things Megatron held positively even though he was alone and poor for most of it. 

Megatron, in some of his lighter moods between then and now, would even go so far as offer Starscream a glimpse into the truth of his youth, usually when the two snuck a cube of high grade into the guest room long before they were mature enough to drink it. There was always reminiscing sprinkled through rose colored lenses, talks of personal freedom but scarcely avoiding the oppression. The one detail that always stuck with Starscream was that he never had a real family, long abandoned in the middle of the slums where he was passed between groups of miners as they swapped shifts in search of the precious crystals that fueled their lives. He never spoke more about his life aside from the minor detail, acting as though it was a minor footnote in his novella of a life, being adopted by a duke didn’t help with this either as such a promotion would take over his life. 

Still, Megatron managed, independently, but he managed. The seeker prince could never comprehend how it didn’t bother him, he grew up alongside nothing but close-knit family groups and his brothers. Being so far from them left him feeling hollow at times. 

Starscream adjusted himself and tried to refocus his efforts on listening in on the hushed debates of his northern fellowships. Megatron seemed as ingrained as ever, appearing passive and offering his opinions when prompted or not. 

Meanwhile, on the other side of the closed conference room doors, Rodimus leaned against the locked entryway. He could barely hear the cusp of the conversation at hand, but that was enough, all he needed to know was that all the big bots were busy. This meant he had about a joor of freedom before his sire found out he was skipping tutoring again and enough time to disappear from his tutor for them to not tell his sire. Perfect. Today was going to be a good day. 

The guards situated at the door, sworn to silence by an oath, were unable to stop the prince. Rodimus hummed at the two, aware of their inability to stop him and began to skip away as they two locked optics in silent panic from their parallel placements. 

As Rodimus slipped in and around the halls of the Onyx House until he slipped out through a back door with a pleasant sight. “What should I do?” 

The young prince peered over and around the surprisingly empty courtyard, which usually indicated that there was a heavy topic at hand. Even servants avoided the Onyx Hall when there was a meeting like this. Rodimus tried to consider what they were discussing, but he was so out of the loop it would be better not to think about it at all. 

So, he didn’t, instead he called up Elita hoping she would be free. 

The comm line crackled with the sound of his cousins spoken voice over that of a message. 

"Hello?"

"Whatcha doin’?"

Rodimus could feel Elita bristle as she hushed her voice, most likely ducking under something to hide the fact she was getting a call from a certain scholarly fugitive. 

"Rodimus!" she hissed. "Where are you? Your tutor is looking everywhere for you, I think you’re really going to give him a spark attack at this point from all the stress!"

Free, she was not.

Rodimus made a staunch sound over the line. "Pshhhh, Kup? That old coot couldn’t find me even if I was right behind him!"

Elita paused, perhaps looking over her shoulder to evade her own tutor’s suspicion. "Yeah, okay, well, he’s still looking for you and he seems pretty ticked off about you ditching for two cycles in a row so if you’re going to play hooky again, I recommend not calling a bot that can track your location."

"You can track my location?"

"You’re right in front of the Onyx House."

Rodimus jumped and quickly looked around his location in front of the Onyx house with little to hide him.

The line went quiet for a handful of nanoseconds. 

"Don’t tattle on me."

Elita’s voice sharpened. "Oh?"

Rodimus tried to muster up his cutest voice. "Please?"

Elita sighed loudly. "I won’t. But don’t blame me if you end up getting caught."

"Aw, Lita’! You love me! You really do!"

"As if! You owe me!"

Elita cut the line before Rodimus could get anymore gloating in. 

The prince was back to square one, nothing to do while unwilling to go back and do his schoolwork. Better bored with nothing to do than bored with an 8-page essay due. 

He’ll catch up to it, eventually.

Rodimus looked at his chronometer. About 50 breems left of freedom. With a confident exvent, he set his arms to his side and began to march in whatever random direction his pedes took him. 

The image of the garden from his berthroom was already quite impressive-regardless of how much it dwarfed its size due to its distance—but setting his optics upon it now and Optimus was starstruck by the sheer beauty. 

Cascading hues of green swayed in the light breeze as the details of cooler and warmer colors peeked through the base color. A few of the plants appeared native, their crystalline structure reflected rainbows onto the cobblestone path as their stems bobbed up and down. Others were certainly foreign, their petals swayed like the stems, and some even littered the path. Optimus pondered how their cohabitation worked out, more so how such a collaborative environment was reached.

“Wow.” Was all he could manage. 

If this pit forsaken life was as pit forsaken as it seemed, at least the flowers were pretty. His Cybertron didn’t even have flowers. 

Windy smiled. “It’s the crown jewel of the palace grounds.”

“I feel as though I might ruin it by stepping in.” 

Windy frowned. “How come? You're royalty, if anything your presence alone would prove to be far more significant.”

Optimus pressed his lip plates together. “I didn’t mean it like that. More like,” Optimus stepped carefully onto the cobblestone path. “I might crush something under my weight if I trip on my own pedes.”

“Oh.” Windy stepped a few paces diagonal from Optimus. “That makes more sense.”

Optimus took a few more calculated steps. “Let’s just stay on the path. Do you know about any of the plants?” He asked. “I forgot to bring a datapad that could assist in identification.”

Windy looked at the prince smugly. “You wouldn’t even be able to read it.”

Optimus flared his plating nonthreateningly. “I can look at the pictures!” 

“You’re just like a sparkling, your highness.” Windy giggled. “No offense.”

“Offense taken.” Optimus replied, though not truly wounded. He’d have to pick up the new language sooner rather than later, illiteracy wasn’t a good look. 

Windy slinked off a few more paces behind, sensing she may have overstepped.  

Aside from the exceptionally beautiful view before him, there was little else to do in the garden. But it was enough to distract the prince, albeit before his mind trailed off again.

Optimus knew where he stood, the garden sat comfortably in the middle of the palace grounds which formed a big rectangle, more or less. Optimus managed to get a good picture while he was locked away in his room, luckily his berthroom took over such a large portion of the residence hall. From the sapphire place’s entryway, the garden was directly in front, making the Prime’s residence at the very back of the palace grounds, standing alone in its great glory with its smaller maid's quarters at the sides, while other buildings formed the rest of the perimeter before. In essence, it was a big rectangle, there seemed to be about six palaces or residential halls in total. If the Sapphire sat alone at the back, there was another single at the very front and two other palaces on either of the sides. All with their collection on smaller manors and minor buildings. 

Optimus wondered what the other buildings were. If Optimus had the Sapphire palace to himself, Ultra Magnus certainly had his own as well, and his brothers would either be with him or in another. That alone meant there was at least 3 palaces that served as residential halls for the royal family, unless Vector Prime's death pushed either Magnus or the other possible Prime’s to a guest place, but that didn’t change much in the grand scope of things. The other three palaces were anybots guess, drifting a digit over the petals of Crystal flowers that danced under the specked sunlight, Optimus considered that one of the buildings had to be used for balls or receptions and catered only to that. As wasteful as it seemed. 

Optimus paused. “Windy do you know the names of the palaces?” 

Windy, who appeared to be drifting like the petals, sprang up when she was called. “I do! It was part of my training when I arrived. The first building on palace grounds is the Onyx House, or hall, goes by either or.”

Onyx. That sounded vaguely familiar, but not enough for Optimus’ processor to start ringing any bells. “The one parallel to my palace?” Optimus asked, internally cringing at the sheer privilege of the question.

Windy nodded before she tried to look around but only saw more flora. When there was nothing of their topic to note, Windly prompted to try to explain with her servos. Setting her servos parallel and vertical, she began. “At the front of the palace, after you enter through the gates, you have the Onyx House, or Onyx Hall, which is huge!” Windy widened her arms to emphasize. “I think it’s bigger than your place,” she notes. “But it’s where all the nobles meet for political stuff or whatever, there’s no berthrooms, just really big offices, conference rooms, and salons.”

Optimus, who stopped walking to face Windy properly, inquired some more. “And what of the other buildings?”

Windy pursed her lips as she tried to collect her memories. “So, after the Onyx Hall you have the Emerald Palace on the left, and the Amethyst Palace on the right. So, like, the palaces on the left side of the royal territory are basically extras. The Emerald Palace and its sister, the Diamond Palace, are mostly used for its ballrooms but have a few guest rooms and salons. Then, on the right side is the Amethyst Palace and its sister the Ruby Palace. Both are exclusively residential. Prince Rodimus and Prince Sentinel, along with our fair lady Elita-One, stay in the Ruby Palace. Lord Ultra Magnus stays at the Amethyst Palace along with the weaver.” 

Optimus recycled his optics. “The what now?”

Windy blinked at the prince, arms still in the air. “The weaver? They’re like the royal family’s personal interpreter for visions and prophecies?” 

Optimus was at a loss. “Primes have visions and prophecies?” 

Windy shrugged and set her arms down, no longer surprised by her prince's lack of knowledge on anything. “From what I’ve heard, they do. I’m not sure if you’ve had any before your fall, they’re pretty hush hush about that stuff.” 

Optimus chewed on the information. He didn’t have time to look at the novel for any help, doubting it would help. But it could be that there was something about the weaver, probably a one-off conversation about Rodimus’ future, if Optimus had to guess. He quickly noted to look into this ‘weaver,’ both in and outside of the novel.

“How come you know about the weaver? They seem secretive.” Optimus replied, stepping back into position and commencing his walk.

Windy looked at Optimus with a cheeky smile. “I’m not immune to gossip.” 

Optimus let the topic be after that short anecdote, Windy was clearly not privy to the royal family’s dirt. “Very well, do you know why my sire resides in the Amethyst Palace? The Sapphire Palace is plenty big, it seems a bit wasteful.” 

Windy giggled. “It’d be weird if your sire stayed in the Sapphire palace, your highness. He’s not your conjunx.”

Optimus looked puzzled, refusing to let his bashfulness show. “Is the Sapphire Palace exclusive to the Prime and their bonded?”

Windy nodded. “That’s right, usually you’d stay with your brothers or in the Amethyst Palace alone but since your carrier died and you’re next in line, you sorta outrank your sire and get the Sapphire Palace to yourself even though he’s acting as regent. You’re kinda living as an exception, not the rule.”

“I see,” Optimus looked away from Windy and back to the garden. “Is my sire not a capable ruler?”

“He is!” Windy insisted. “But the matters of the Northern Territory are usually split between prime and protector. Prime is usually left with civil and sociopolitical duties and protector deals with military and international politics. That’s why he appointed A-3 as his civil servant until you can succeed them both.”

“Who?”

“Your highness…”

Optimus pouted. “It isn’t my fault you know more than me.” 

Windy whined. “This is super basic stuff, your highness! Everyone knows this!”

“Everyone except me, apparently.” Optimus notes. 

The prince slows his pace and looks around, everything is starting to look the same. This garden was proving to be more like a forest. Looking down to find the same cobblestone path as before Optimus takes a weary step forward. “How big is this garden?” 

“Oh!” Windy startled, forgetting their previous topic with such a minor question, Optimus would have to keep an optic on her as much as she does for him. “They say the layout of the palace is pretty easy to follow if you don’t go through the garden. It’s easy to get lost here if you go off path,” she laughs. “Everybot says it’s like a labyrinth.” 

“How come?”

Windy pointed at the cobblestone, “The path isn’t straight, even if it looks the part. It actually weaves and twists a lot around the garden to create the illusion of a bigger garden. The odds of getting off trail, then back on, only to find that you don’t know where on the trail you are and getting even more confused happens a lot. That’s why maids or servants never pass through the garden. We just take the sidewalks outside.”

Optimus kicked a rock off the path. “Have you ever gotten lost in here?”

“Kinda,” Windy considered. “You can’t get lost in here, you’ll always make it out, it is a garden after all. More like, lost in the confusion of it all.”

“In that case,” Optimus peered down at Windy. “Have you ever gotten lost in the confusion of this forest-like garden?” 

“Well,” Windy looked around for a moment before meeting Optimus’ optics. “Does right now count?” 

“Uh.” Optimus looked around as well. "Yes, I suppose so.”

“Then yes.” 

Optimus let his smokestacks whirl a gush of air. “Best to keep walking then, perhaps we’ll find something interesting.”

“Like more flowers?”

“I think we’ve already seen them all at this point.”

Windy giggled and the two began to walk once more. It was a slow, even pace, but they floated through the garden, occasionally stopping to get a better look at a leaf or pick up a petal. All around, it was perfectly peaceful. Optimus even humored the thought of hiding out in the garden long enough to make an escape. It was exciting until he remembered how big he was, he would deflate slightly and Windy would look at his strangely but say nothing. Perhaps the young maid thought the prince heavy with burdens of the past, though nothing could be farther from the truth when all he could worry about was the future.

Eventually, the pair came across a few stained stones.

“I wonder why that one’s black.” Windy pointed at the usually grey rocks. 

“Is it dirty?”

Windy bent down and rubbed the rock while Optimus hovered over her. “Nope. It is stained or painted.” 

“Maybe someone dropped paint.”

“I think Lady Elita paints.”

Optimus’ optics focused in on the splattered rock. “Does she?”

“That’s right.”

“She mustn’t be very good, then.”

Windy stifled a laugh by covering her mouth. 

Optimus smiled, hoping he’d become (in)famous for those jokes instead of his old self. 

There was so little to smile over nowadays, he would realize. Life as a prince was surprisingly bleak, especially one with amnesia. At times Optimus would try and save his smiles for when he was observed by others (mostly because he found the shocked faces so amusing). But smiling to himself was good too, a small token of appreciation for the mundane things in life he’d taken for granted in the past. Even if it was at the expense of a cousin he didn’t know. 

“Come, let’s hurry on out. We’ll be back at the Sapphire palace by tomorrow at this rate.” Optimus said, picking up the pace. 

Windy followed suit and the two waddled their way without stopping to get any more looks at the garden, Optimus would get another chance. At this point he was growing a bit tired of all the green. 

After a few more moments and a quick jog out of borderline desperation, and the two bots had made it out of the garden. 

Given the direction they were going, it was away from the Sapphire palace, and to the Onyx Hall. Optimus would only realize this after he was met with the sight of such a gigantic building. 

Windy wasn’t kidding, the Onyx House was definitely bigger than his residence. And that was saying a lot.

The Onyx House stretched out well beyond the edges of the Emerald and Amethyst Palace’s. It was the same white as the other buildings were, but it was decorated with a medium grey and embellished with much more refined and serious architectural style. There was a grand arch in the center, a walkway made up entirely of glass separates the two wings of the building. Below the arch, Optimus could see a large road extending out to the general outline of the palace gates. The road stopped at a curb on the right side but continued on to the left. Windy was surprisingly spot-on. 

“I think we forgot to turn around.” Windy whispered.

“We forget a lot of things, don’t we?” Optimus mumbled in reply. 

“I don’t think we make the best team, your highness.” 

“Don’t say that.” Optimus scolded. “You’re all I got; you know. Everyone else thinks I’m crazy.”

“You are.” Windy blinked. “I just learned to accept it.”

Optimus scowled. “You’re stuck with me either way.”

“I’m okay with that.” Windy cooed. 

At this point, the two were nearly attached at the hip. The line of master and maid was blurred, all for the better as Optimus would go so far as to consider Windy a friend. His confidant. The only being that would listen to him and tolerate his inabilities. In turn, she kept her job. 

It was a win-win situation. 

But that was beside the point, Optimus narrowed his optics at the reflecting sunlight on the Onyx House’s windows. He could swear someone told him something about it, but his processor was failing him as always. If anything, his processor was currently far more occupied with getting something in his tanks. 

“Do you think they have anything to drink in there?” Optimus asked, suddenly feeling thirsty. 

Windy narrowed her optics as well, but more so in suspicious contemplation than anything else. “They have to! Look at the size of it.”

“Only one way to find out.”

If only he could remember what his sire warned. 

There didn’t seem to be anyone else outside, maybe a few busy bots tucked in the shaded entryways of the buildings, and for good reason, without the cover of the leaves Optimus could feel himself heating up without even trying. He shuddered to imagine how hot it got in the south if he was practically boiling in Iacon. Optimus and Windy tried to walk as quickly as they could to reach the Onyx Hall, fast enough that their paint wouldn’t melt off but slow enough to save face in case someone did see them. 

And see them, someone did. 

By the time the two reached the shade of the arched portion of the Onyx Hall with a matched sigh, optics were glued on them. For the time being, it was a single pair, but a rather impertinent pair. While Optimus looked up to see how he was dwarfed by the size of the building, absentmindedly he began to walk deeper into the shade, taking in the detailed carvings and the spotless glass that adorned the building. On his little trip down the road, something called out. 

Or someone, rather.

“Optimus?” 

It was quiet, spoken more to the self than anything else, but Optimus’ delicate finials picked up on it. The voice was drenched in awe and bemusement. Though the speaker would hardly know the definition of the word. 

The large bot whipped his helm around, looking at Windy. “Yes? Did you call for me?” 

“Huh? I didn’t say your name.” Windy shook her head.

“Optimus!” The voice said, louder. 

It was certainly not Windy this time, the voice was deeper than hers, but not to a drastic degree. It was juvenile, excited, it burned with a desire to be seen.

Optimus turned back around to see the real speaker. His spark sank.

Red, yellow, a little shorter than himself but not by much, if Optimus had to guess, he reached his chest. His armor was chaotic but neatly arranged to appeal to whatever sense of pedigree he may have considered. Pure, blue eyes dazzled in the afternoon sun as they stood on the other side of the arch, closer to the gate. 

Optimus could feel his legs buckle, he knew who that was. 

His processor began to race. What should he do? Should he leave? No, that would be rude. What should he say? Should he initiate anything? He’d already played dumb to Ultra Magnus, he had to keep his story (and character) straight. But there was little character or story to keep straight when he slipped into his real personality and nearly cried when he was scolded. If you could consider what happened a scolding. 

Optimus quietly gasped. 

Another main character! That blasted list! That young prince’s name was on it. Optimus almost forgot about it with everything that happened. Then again, Ultra Magnus was a name on it too and that didn’t seem to stop the sands of time from working against Optimus. In light of recent events, he realized that it was a stupid idea. A list of those to avoid wasn’t much good when you didn’t even know how to avoid them. That same list didn’t stop the red and yellow bot from running towards him at Mach speed. Oh, and Ratchet too. 

Deleting the list, Optimus braced himself. 

“Prince Rodimus!” Windy exclaimed, jogging over next to Optimus and bowed at the faraway figure.

By all accounts Optimus was lucky to get Rodimus this time, Rodimus was…the lesser of two—three if he counted Eilta, four if he really wanted to push it by including his sire—evils. He was loud but kind, eccentric, energetic, friendly, and daring if Ultra Mangus’ previous act was anything to go by. A real hero type. 

Except that’s exactly why Optimus wasn’t particularly keen on interacting with him. 

Heroes are nothing but trouble, and by Primus, was Rodimus trouble. 

“I don’t know who you are but hi!” Rodimus waved, smiling brighter than any star and continued his sprint.

This proved to be a bad call as he overshot his last step and tried to break with his leg, which only resulted in the knee buckling under the sudden shift in weight sending the youngest prince back, having him falling flat on his back with an unceremonious crash onto the road beneath them. Fortunately, there wasn’t a cracking sound that followed. 

Optimus cringed, he was already not looking forward to how this would go; but if was going to go anywhere, he would rather it go in his favor. Rodimus already adored Optimus, how hard could it be to fake amnesia some more and send him on his way? 

Optimus would come to find it incredibly so. 

He and Windy quickly stepped towards the fallen prince and peered down at his frame.

The elder brother bent at the waist and set his servos on his knees. “Are you alright?” He asked. 

Rodimus didn’t say anything, as soon as he locked optics with the similar deep blue as his own, he appeared to be in another world. 

The two remained in a one-sided battle, Rodimus didn’t blink as his optics dazzled at the sight of his brother. Optimus, however, was inching back in hopes the poor bot would go on to fail to recognize him. Wishful thinking.

Windy watched on hesitantly, shifting her weight from one pede to another. 

Optimus, increasingly worried that Rodimus may have gotten a concussion, lifted his arm and waved it in front of his not-new, new little brother. “Hello?”

Rodimus’ face brightened. “Hi.” His voice was blank with wonderment.

“Hi.” Optimus replied, with none of the same fervor. “Are you alright? Should I call a medic?” 

Rodimus shook his helm, the metal grinding against the road. “No, m’ okay.”

Optimus made the elective decision to not listen to him. “Windy, please fetch a medic. I’ll meet you inside the Onyx House.”

Windy nodded and began her hot pursuit of a medic. 

Once Windy disappeared from view, Optimus kneeled down to gently lift Rodimus’ helm off the ground trying to get him off the ground. “We should head inside,” 

“Gmudgh.” Was all Rodimus could say as he flopped back down only to be somewhat caught by Optimus’ quick servos. 

“We can wait a little, that’s fine too.” Optimus sat on his legs and set Rodimus on top of his lap and hummed awkwardly, making sure not to look at him more than necessary. 

Optimus could feel the bubbles of panic start to arise. He wasn’t sure if he was acting properly, he was being nice, which had to stand for something but who wouldn’t be in the circumstances he found himself in. While the real Rodimus stared at him with data-doe optics, Optimus kept his gaze ahead of him while he flipped through his copy of the novel. Old habits.  

…

…:Rodimus smiled at his companions, their softer features contorted into concern as he prepared his sword on its hilt. “That’s not what matters.” The prince insisted. “What matters is that Megatron is defeated, once and for all!”…

…

Naive little thing, wasn’t he?

…

…:”What good will that do us?” Rodimus glowered. “We need a weapon, not some silly toy.”:...

…

Arrogant.

…

…:”Oh come on!” Rodimus whined. “That’s not fair! I’m the leader, I should be the one preparing for a fight not you guys!”:…

…

And bratty, Megatron would probably just laugh at his immaturity. 

“Do you recognize me?” Rodimus asked, right below him, his words no longer slurred. 

Now, Optimus was well aware of the novel's faults. It was a terrible point of reference, as were most things when you’re left dealing with them first-hand but flipping through and skimming over the repeated use of ‘Rodimus’ quelled his worry anyway. Rodimus was a good kid, albeit a bit of a stubborn little spark. He was capable, kind, generous, all around the good-guy cliche. The only reason you couldn’t really hate the northern empire, authors love to play into a bias. 

Optimus narrowed his focus on the horizon. “Hm?”

“Do you recognize me?”

Recognize. 

Obviously, he did. 

The word held more weight than previously contended. Still, the glyphs of the novel that took up half of his HUD felt…empty. Although Rodimus made his first impression falling flat on his aft, it was charming in an unexpected kind of way. But entirely unbecoming of his character.

If this were novel accurate, he would have slipped on something or tripped into a bush. Something to catch him or lay the blame away from himself, it would ensure his safety and sense of self while building charm. 

But he fell. Flat on his aft and hurt his back. Entirely his fault. 

Just like any other youngling.

Optimus finally looked down. 

Red and yellow met him with bright optics, curious for an answer. They flowed with energy, and bright blue that, upon closer inspection, were lighter than his own. A kind of electric blue that flickers every now and again when Optimus would stare into them for a little longer than need be. Not a single blemish on his face, the metal was pristine and well kept.

The prince looked young.

Which made sense, ‘youngest prince’ would allude to a pretty good image of what young meant. 

Optimus focused on the novel again.

…

…:Rodimus refused to frown, it showed weakness, anger. Something easily exploited in the tides of war. Something Megatron would surely prey upon. Rodimus would not allow it. He was no king, no prince, or knight in the truest of matters but he was himself, that was all he could be.:…

…

Optimus made a face, puzzled but not upset. Though many may confuse it for such. 

Rodimus was not such many, Rodimus looked infinitely more intrigued by it. He merely chirped to indicate his question.

“How old are you?” Optimus asked.

Optimus couldn’t particularly pinpoint how old Rodimus was in the novel, it was never explicitly mentioned. Although he could infer that Rodimus was on the younger side if his actions and attitudes were anything to go by, he justified this thinking he couldn’t have been reincarnated too far off from the original plot line since Optimus died around the age he held currently. 

“Oh!” Rodimus brightened. “I’m 15 vorns old! I’ll be 16 for my debutante ball.”  

Optimus blinked. “What?”

Rodimus returned the gesture. “I’m 15.”

Optimus knew his age was at least 25 vorns, but certainly older, dying young and beautiful was his selling point.

But 15? Optimus was not expecting to be more than 10 vorns older than Rodimus (and Sentinel, by extension). 

That’s way too young. Optimus thought. 

Still, it added up. Optimus originally died in his late 20s, and his younger brothers would pick up the slack. He was at least a vorn or two off from the original plotline. 

Optimus expected 18, at the very least. But 15? Rodimus was basically a bitlet. 

The older brother inched in closer. “Are you sure?”

“Probably.” 

Click. 

…

…:”I will kill you!” Rodimus cried out between gasps of cold air, unfamiliar in its taste, muddling between fresh and dirty. Forever bound within the familiar and unfamiliar. Rodimus failed to achieve the tone of fear he so desperately sought after, he bore down on his feelings of fear, the regret, the pain, for none of it mattered in that moment. He existed only for his people. “The same way you have for so many others!”:…

…

Rodimus was young. 

Rodimus was so young. 

Something within Optimus broke, something within while something wholly unexisting before that moment. The same chord of greif from looking at Vector stuck once more. The touch from a past unknwon melded poorly with Optimus' current self, a sob of a distant memory never known.

He was a child, barely considered mature in the eyes of high society. And there he was, in the words of the novel Orion resided in, fighting against a mech double his age and strength; all while clinging to a two-dimensional dream and a blindsighted call to revenge. Optimus was unsure if he could fault Megatron for thinking so little of him, protagonist or not. Realistically speaking, Megatron was pitted against a glorified bitlet. Main character syndrome must have favored Rodimus highly. 

Optimus cursed himself for using that blasted novel again, it was pretty good for learning about characters when he chose to be analytical about it. However, what more had failed to reach him about the others? 

Rodimus offered a crooked smile, his perfectly aligned teeth didn’t glisten or glow, but his optics did. His paint wasn’t flashy or elaborate, it was the same shade of red his favorite brother wore and yellow like his favorite color. By all accounts he wasn't what you would consider a prince, unlike Optimus, but was that not his greatest charm? Rodimus was perfectly imperfect, perfectly average. A perfect insert for the reader. And in this moment, for now and forever more, a perfectly real, living thing. 

Rodimus was Optimus’ precious baby brother. One he once took for granted. 

Optimus could feel his spark squeeze. Rodimus wasn’t a soldier, he was barely a prince, hardly anything more than a youngling. He shouldn’t be protecting others, Rodimus was the one that should’ve been protected. He was failed by his elders. 

Fluid fell from Optimus’ optics unbeknownst to him. It slipped off of his cheeks, rolled down his face, and fell on Rodimus whose optics cycled so wide they nearly cracked. 

Rodimus tried to sit up straight, servos instinctively reaching up to comfort his brother. But Optimus didn’t let him, he gently clasped the reached servo and held it against his face as he curled over to hold Rodimus. 

“I’m sorry.” Optimus whispered. “I’m so sorry.” 

Rodimus didn’t squirm, he simply stiffened at the gesture, confused. “Optimus? What’s wrong?”

“I failed you.” Optimus' voice was soft, he gently stroked Rodimus’ helm in an attempt to calm them both. “I failed to protect you, didn’t I? How could I be so selfish?” 

It was not as though it was Orion’s fault, it was the original Optimus who was at fault, but Orion was dead and gone and so was that Optimus. The spark of Orion was all that was left having to parade around in a shell of a dead mech, a fact only he was aware of, amnesiac or not he’d have to own up regardless.

Rodimus leaned into the action, it was warm despite the unfamiliarity of it. “I…dunno.” He responded quietly. “Why are you sorry?”

Optimus cradled Rodimus, barely caressing over his helm in case there was any real damage, before letting go. “I’m not sure.” He lied. “Everything?” That was true. 

It was strange, to apologize for something yet to happen, to apologize for something that will now never happen. He knew that, but guilt was a powerful foe. Optimus officially sealed his fate. Optimus ensured that now if anyone were to fall into the role of 'hero' it would be him. He swore he’d protect Rodimus, at the very least from his past self. The plot would never go as intended if he had any say in it. Optimus was still unsure what would happen next, that’s what life was, no? The novel was useless, in every sense of the word, even when he tried everything he did, it proved to be as fruitful as a rock. It proved nothing more than what it claimed to be, a work of fiction. And a work of fiction, Optimus was determined to leave it as. A possibility, but nothing more. That novel will become a giant ‘what-if’.

Rodimus didn’t know any better, for all he knew Optimus was a couple of missing screws away from being a toaster. 

“Should we go back inside?” Optimus asked, wiping away his tears with the back of his servo.

Rodimus only nodded meekly. “Sorry I made you cry…”

“It’s not your fault.” Optimus reassured him gently. He’d have to be a good brother now. 

“Does that mean you remember me?” Rodimus asked, carefully. 

Optimus paused at that; he didn’t consider the possibility of emotions other than panic to take over. He was giving himself too much credit, he didn't anticipate this encounter at all. It seems like anything could make him cry nowadays, he swore he wasn’t this soft. Optimus sighed, closing his optics for a moment. He didn’t know the real Rodimus, but he would eventually, he wanted to. Optimus already said what he did and acted as though he did, so there was no taking that back. 

Optics closed; Optimus hummed. “A little.” 

Optimus wasn’t particularly graceful or elegant anymore, but he could be gentle and kind. Even if he was still a bit juvenile himself, Orion had been used to being tended to rather than be the one tending. 

The prime thinks back on the times when Orion would watch the lead roles of theater shows speak of their love for one another, or the soft voice of Alpha Trion comforting him during a bad breakup. Or the voice of a certain poet, deep and comforting, resounding through the dimmed light of a cafe. The warmth of oil in a porcelain glass, the soft texture of a sparklings mesh blanket, the gentleness of an afternoon drizzle. He would have to harness all the love he'd experienced in the past and return it. It was high time that Orion matured a bit more, for his sake and Rodimus’. 

The whole time Orion had thought so bitterly of what-if and what could be, he overlooked the now. He needed to live in the moment, at least in this instance. He scrunched his olfactory sensor for good measure. “I remember so little, when everyone expects so much. I feel as though there is nothing left of me to give when the world has taken it all.” He admits, his optics fluttering open to look at Rodimus with a gentle voice. “They take me the way they want or not at all, don’t they?” 

Rodimus nods bashfully. 

Optimus smiled. “But you,” He reached a servo out to pet Rodimus on the head. “For some reason my spark tells me that you’re different.”

Rodimus looked flustered, Optimus was unsure if it was good or bad. “Kinda…” his voice betrayed his embarrassment; he really did sound like a kid in that moment.

If they weren’t royalty, it would be natural that their relationship would be much closer and Rodimus would chide him for being so cryptic. Luckily, or unluckily, they were royalty, and deeply estranged because of it. Rodimus loved Optimus much like one would love a pop star, from a distance.  

Not anymore. Optimus thought. 

“Thank you. I hope one cycle everyone can treat me like you do.” Optimus says patting Rodimus’ head. “Do you feel better now?”

Rodimus shrugged, looking away a bit starstruck as Optimus lifted his servo from his helm. “Yeah, a little.” 

“Good.” Optimus replied. “Let’s get you inside, then. I’m sure Windy has gotten ahold of a medic to get a better look at you.” 

Rodimus opened his intake, prepared to refute Optimus, but closed it instead. “Okay.” 

Optimus helped Rodimus up from the ground. The two royals stood and began to make their way into the Onyx Hall. It was a short walk; it couldn't have been more than a few steps. Optimus decided to take lead in opening the door, just as they made their first steps into the building, the cold air from well ventilated rooms and expensive air conditioning systems whisked away Optimus’ tether to the past. He could feel a small bubble of pride swell.

He was getting good at lying. 

Not that he was lying, his feelings were genuine, he simply had to convey them in a light that wouldn’t make him seem crazy. Half-lying, little white lies.

Then he realized where he stood.

Optimus whipped his helm around the room, or closet? It was a very small room. “Where are we?” 

“A storage room,” Rodimus answered. “We entered from a servant's door.” 

“That was not my intention.” Optimus admitted, bashfully. 

“Yeah, but you looked so confident I didn’t try to stop you.”

Optimus’ finials flicked. “Don’t hold back on correcting me, I’m new to this.”

Rodimus smiked. “You’re older than me.”

"You know what I mean."

Rodimus broke into a laugh. “I like you more like this, I don’t like seeing you sad.”

Optimus smiled in response, then looked out and towards the door. “Windy must be waiting for us out there, along with a medic.” He said, pointing to the storage room's door with his helm. 

Rodimus blinked. “Oh yeah, maybe we should’ve gone through the main doors then.” 

“I don’t know where that is.”

“Maybe we’re both concussed.” 

“Probably.” Optimus agreed. “Come on.”

Opening the door, they were met with a hall. It was a pretty big hall, bigger than any in the Sapphire palace (and probably the Ruby palace). Only then did it occur to Optimus that he didn’t even know the layout of the Onyx house. 

Somewhere, within the same building, Megatron stretched under the table without a sound escaping him. The meeting was grueling at best and torturous worst. The topic had long shifted away from the south and onto something significantly less exciting like economics, or something to that degree, Megatron wasn’t paying attention anymore; it was most likely outside of his jurisdiction considering no one would inquire for his thoughts. Looking over to his side, Starscream didn’t appear to be any better off than he was. His optics appeared dull and his face in a perpetual state of jadedness. 

.:It’ll be over soon.:. He commed, in an attempt to comfort the seeker. 

.:If this isn’t over in the next 5 breems, I’m going to declare war.:. 

Megatron laughed, but when the others looked at him, he managed to play it off with a cough into his fist. “My apologies.” He offered sternly. “It appears that the passing joors have gotten the best of me.” 

The other noblemechs offered looks of varying degrees, some grunted in agreement, but Ultra Magnus was ultimately the one who had the final word. “Is that so?” Their lord asked rhetorically. "Then we shall have a recess for the time being, there is still much to discuss.” 

The statement forged new life in most of the nobles as they straightened and agreed in their own ways. Still, they remained seated. 

Ultra Magnus stood and curled a ridge at the lot. “Well? Off you go, we’ll meet back in a joor.” 

Everyone stood immediately and started to make their way out of the doors, which were opened by the guards who resided at their front. 

Megatron remained in his place, waiting for everyone to weasel their way out before he accidentally stepped on them. Starscream did the same, unwilling to get his paint chipped when bumping into somebot, unless they were Jetfire. Who was not present. 

“A joor?” Starscream whisper hissed. “What are we? Mechanimals? He should’ve just called it a day.” 

Megatron cracked his neck back and forth to ease the tension that built during the first half of the meeting. “I don’t think there’s a mech more of a workaholic than Ultra Magnus.” Megatron remarked, his voice light. “And that’s coming from me.”

Starscream bothered to laugh a little at the joke. “You think it’s because of you-know-who?” 

Megatron pondered the identity of such an individual. “Who? Optimus? Or the late Vector Prime?” 

Starscream leaned back into his chair. “You know, now that I think about it. It’s probably both.”

Megatron had to give him that. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

The duke looked over, expecting to find an empty doorway. Expect it wasn’t. As a matter of fact, it was packed with nobles. Megatron grunted, which made Starscream look at the bundle of bots as well. 

Only between their lack of conversation did they hear what was happening outside.

“I’m said sorry—I didn’t…really!” 

Megatron analyzed the voice, it was strikingly familiar, but much too drowned out to decipher it.

“You are to obey my commands.” That voice was definitely Ultra Magnus. 

Please…not…fault. If— “ 

Megatron narrowed his optics. A third voice? It sounded surprisingly meek given its octave. He looked at Starscream who was already standing and starting to make his way towards the doorway, forever the slave to gossip. Megatron too stood and made his way, pushing the others out of the way to make his way to the front, dragging along a curious Starscream. Granted, he could see over most of their helms, but he'd rather abuse his position to get a clearer view. Shuffling between the others the voice grew louder, and his processor was able to distinguish them. In the moment Megatron, and a Starscream hiding behind his back, reached the front they balked at the sight before them. 

Megatron wasn’t sure what he was expecting, probably a lovers quarrel or an insolent servant getting reprimanded. 

Not Ultra Magnus openly scolding two of his sons.

Which, also, wouldn’t even have been that bad if it was just Rodimus and Sentinel. Pit, it would’ve made sense, those two are a bigger threat to the kingdom than anything else. It was a deca-cyclely occurrence. 

Except there’s a certain son who doesn’t particularly make a habit out of getting scolded. And he was right there, making a quiet fuss as Rodimus was, quite loudly, proclaiming their innocence. 

“I’m telling you!” Rodimus flailed his arms around, trying to find an insult. “You! You! You shoulder padded grump! We didn’t do nothin’!”

“Rodimus!” Optimus shrieked, looking utterly disheveled, and not in a good way. His servos hovering over the smaller bot trying to pull him away from Ultra Magnus’ face.

Rodimus, somehow blatantly ignoring his sire, turned to Optimus excitingly. “You remembered my name!” 

Optimus blinked; his optics recycled at the sudden shift in topic. “Oh, um, well, yes. I supposed I just did.” 

“Hey! Maybe this is helping you trigger memories!” Rodimus proclaimed before he spun on his heel to spit more venom at his sire. “Up yours, Ultra Doofus!”

Optimus made an equally, if not louder, shriek and grabbed Rodimus and quickly covered his intake. “Please! Do! Not! Speak to our sire like that!” He pleaded, bouncing up and down for emphasis. This didn’t stop his little brother from grumbling more obscenities as he too bounced under Optimus' grip. 

Megatron and Starscream looked on in amazement at the event unfolding before them. Megatron’s intake hung open as he watched a very distressed Optimus apologizing frantically to Ultra Magnus, from “I don’t know what got over him” to “I didn’t teach him any of this” and a couple of “I'm sure he’s not usually like this” (which was not true, he was, but amnesiac prime didn’t know that yet) and dare he say Megatron might’ve heard a “please don’t kill me” whispered somewhere in there, with a special emphasis of the ‘e’ in ‘me’. Starscream, meanwhile, had the stupidest grin plastered across his face; the utter hilarity of it all getting the better of him. Even so, they shifted their focus onto Ultra Magnus. 

Who, even from behind, looked absolutely infuriated, to put it lightly. If he had an aura in that moment, it’d be pitch black. 

However, he didn’t say anything. Which was made infinitely worse at the sight of Optimus and Rodimus, still tucked away by his brother, slink back with a petrified expression.

Megatron almost felt bad, he was so shocked by Optimus’ demeanor that the situation didn’t fully register as real. 

However, he knew what was coming, he had lived it much like the two unfortunate sparks before him. Regardless of what the current lord high protector might say, Ultra Magnus was surprisingly similar to Galvatron in more ways than one. His parenting style was one of those things. 

Which also happened to be one of Galvatron’s worst suits. No one ever said that mechs trained for war would make good creators. 

Nevertheless, Megatron closed his optics, offered a half-aft prayer to the brothers and reached over to cover Starscream’s audials. Starscream looked up at him, confused, but Megatron, perfectly calm, only nodded in assurance. Starscream decided to accept the gracious offer and prepared for what was coming. 

Megatron’s processor proceeded to tune out most of the incredibly loud, incredibly long, and incredibly detailed lecture on how to treat your creators, how to show basic respect, why disobeying orders was bad, and how not to embarrass said creators in front of their council. Which Megatron snorted at, Ultra Magnus was effectively embarrassing himself.

When his audials were no longer bombarded with deep vocals of a berating protector, the title seemed overtly ironic in that moment, Megatron relinquished his hold on Starscream’s helm and stepped closer towards the family. Starscream shook his head and recycled his optics a couple of times but remained where he was. 

“Well,” Megatron spoke calmly, pace even and close to Magnus. “That’s certainly one way of going about,” he mulled over the situation. “Whatever just happened.” 

Ultra Magnus' shoulders sagged slightly, he refused to face the noble. “I request that you stay out of this, duke.” 

Rodimus, squished against Optimus’ chest, managed to wriggle out of his brother’s death grip and glare at Megatron. He was clearly unphased by the reprimand. “Yeah, mind your business!” 

“That is enough from you.” Ultra Magnus snapped. “I will not tolerate you extending your blatant disrespect to those outside of our kinship.” 

“I suppose the line must be drawn somewhere.” Megatron quipped. 

Ultra Magnus finally turned to look at the arrogant duke, glaring. But Megatron had his optics set on a certain red and yellow prince who continued to glare at him much like his sire. It was entertaining to tease the brat, but it never led to more than a single comment or two. Megatron tried to ignore Optimus, in his usual fashion, but Optimus did not extend the favor. Megatron’s height led him to accidentally look in Optimus’ general direction. He expected Optimus to be looking away, he expected his previous outburst to be exactly that, an outburst. A forgivable offense given the circumstances. Optimus would be standing straight, shoulders back, his head bowed, and tucked away from the prying optics. 

What Megatron expected didn’t manifest. 

So, when Megatron’s optics met Optimus’ perfectly, he was a little surprised. While Rodimus glared, Optimus stared, expression blank but optics cycled wide.

Time almost stopped for the two, for Megatron, it was the longest time he had spent oberving Optimus. The moment would prove to last for 10 nanoseconds. He knew Optimus' general appearence, but now he took an additional moment to stare for a moment, to match the prime’s gawking while he still had the chance.

Cerulean blue.

Hex code #2A52BE.

Dark, deep, there was not a hint of white light eminating from them. His optics were usually narrow, sharp, but now they curved wide open in shock. His face elongaged by the 'o' his intake made, his finials slightly pinned back from shock although his paint remained vibrant. His face was stiff, but oddly prepared. For what, Megatron couldn’t say. 

But what the duke could say was an uncomfortable, "Optimus?"

It was certainly out of place for the duke, but Optimus caught him so off guard with his reaction he had to have some other indicator that the frame staring at him was indeed the prince he sought out to hate.

Perhaps the faceplate was Optimus' as was the frame, and even the designation. But not his spirit, not his composition.

Not his spark.

Optimus’ optics broke their contact as they began to scan over Megatron as if he was looking for something. Anything. Alas, he must’ve found nothing when he met the duke’s optics once again, now his face was not blank or shocked. Optimus looked…terrified. 

“Megatron.” Optimus said. His voice was devoid of anything bitter. 

The duke’s spark skipped a beat at the tone, for better or for worse. The way his designation was spoken, lulled as though it were cursed, spoken with reverence. It made his lines go cold.

Rodimus broke out of his temper again and looked up at Optimus, impressed. “Yeah! How’d you know?” 

Optimus' trembling digits reached out and pulled Rodimus closer to him, who tried to protest but was ignored and pulled closer. “Enough.” His deep voice commanded compliance, one of the rare moments he mirroed his old self. “Apologize to sire.” 

Rodimus bristled. “What!? Why?” 

He clutched Rodimus even tighter for a moment before releasing him and pushing him closer to Ultra Magnus with his servos on his shoulders, only in that moment would he take his optics off of Megatron to emphasize his desperation to his brother. “Please.” He once again looked at Megatron after doing so.  

Rodimus shifted in his brother's grip a little, but given the proximity to Optimus, and his field, must’ve sensed the terror within Optimus and yielded. “Okay,” he wiggled. “I’m sorry,”

Ultra Magnus raised an optic ridge. 

“Sire.” Rodimus added, begrudgingly.

Ultra Magnus made a disapproving face but nodded. “There will be no more of this behavior, or else I will have no choice but to send you away. Understood?” 

Rodimus bristled. “Oh, I bet you’d—“

Optimus tightened his grip and Rodimus shrinked. “Yes, sire.” 

Optimus let out an exasperated vent and pulled Rodimus away and to his side, letting go for merely a moment as he bowed deeply at the waist to his sire. “Please forgive me for my impudence, I will make sure that this never happens again.” He stood properly and tilted his helm; his face was stern but held together only by threads of fear. “Please excuse us.” 

Before Ultra Magnus could say anything to that, Optimus turned and fixed his servos onto Rodimus again and began to quickly walk them both out the hall. Rodimus tried to voice another complaint, but Optimus quickly silenced him as they disappeared behind doors opened and closed on their behalf. 

At that Ultra Magnus looked rattled, but quickly recovered from the discomfort, almost out of habit, and turned to the council yo extend an apology for the scene. 

But Megatron cared little for the apology. He cared little for Ultra Magnus as a whole, his optics remained fixed on the doors. All that he could focus on was the terror on Optimus’ face. The pure, unadulterated, fear that his apparent equal held for him. 

Contempt, he could understand. Disgust, although out of character, checked out. But fear? Never in his functioning had Megatron seen Optimus afraid. 

He hoped he would never see it again.

“Are you alright?” Rodimus asked as Optimus continued to push him between corridors. “You’re shaking.” 

Optimus didn’t respond, he remained focused on whatever way led outside. And by the looks of it, he was getting close. 

This was only confirmed when Windy called out to them from the other side of the large room they entered, running towards them huffing and puffing only to be followed by Ratchet who was also huffing and puffing in an entirely different context. 

Windy looked to be on the brink of tears as she spoke between gasps for her ventilation systems. “You said you’d meet me inside! I was about to call for a search party! I thought the heat got to you!” 

“And why are you coming from the east wing? You ought to have been denied entry!” Ratchet snapped. 

“We know,” Rodimus said plainly. “We just found out the hard way.”

“We’ve been waiting for you in the main hall.” Ratchet grumbled. “You know where the main hall is, kid.” 

“I was giving Optimus a tour.” Rodimus said sarcastically. 

Ratchet’s plating flared. “You got caught, didn’t you?” 

Rodimus merely pouted in response. 

Optimus simply pushed Rodimus into Ratchet’s frame. “He fell.”

“I’m aware.”

“Please make sure he’s okay.” 

Ratchet’s face shifted from a scowl to concern, looking Optimus up and down. “Are you okay?” 

Optimus offered a weak smile. “I’m fine, just a bit shaken up.” He turned to Rodimus. “Can I trust you with Ratchet?” 

Rodimus stuck his glossa out teasingly. “We’ve only reconnected for like half a joor, I can manage.” 

Optimus nodded and extended the same gesture to Ratchet. “Keep an optic on him.”

Ratchet rolled his optics. “That’s what I’ve been doing for his whole life.”

Optimus smiled a little wider and offered a goodbye to Ratchet and Rodimus and departed back to his residence with a quick pace. The sun was still high in the sky and Windy had to maintain a light jog to keep up with Optimus’ wide steps. Optimus almost offered to pick her up for ease of travel but realized that would ruin his image more than anything else he’d done that cycle.

Without using the garden, they made it to their intended destination much quicker. Anyone in the way would scoot over or bow in his presence, the sensation that resulted from it was uncomfortable and he hoped to avoid scaring anyone if his concern manifested into a scowl, but there was a larger issue that presided Optimus’ processor. When the pair reached the Sapphire Palace, they moved quickly. Up the stairs, around corners, passing through halls. It all happened in a blur for Optimus. He didn’t care about the decor or anything that resided in the palace, all he wanted to do was go back to his room. His sanctuary.

And that he did. Upon seeing the glorious sight of those beautiful, big doors, Optimus practically ran towards them and Windy chased after him. Pulling the handle, Optimus wondered if he bent it with the strength of his desperation, but he’d find out another cycle. He needed to be safe, he needed that comfort, the panic from was eating away at his composure.

With half a sound mind, Optimus left the door open enough for Windy to come in as well and close it herself. 

“Your highness-“ She began, but Optimus crashing into his freshly made berth stopped her. She closed the door and locked it, just in case. The click of the lock somehow eased Optimus’ tense frame a little more. Stepping closer to the berth, servos clasped over her apron, Windy tried again. “Your highness?”

Optimus let out a broken sob as he buried himself against the soft sheets. A sob didn’t manage to convey his distress, his frame suddenly incapable of ridding itself of the turmoil. Absolutely nothing could go right, as soon as something went vaguely well, something would go the opposite direction. 

It was all too much, why did he have to feel so much. 

Windy took that as warning and sat down on the berth quietly, choosing to wait to be acknowledged instead. 

Optimus knew he was being selfish at that moment. Windy was worried, she deserved to know why. But Optimus couldn’t muster the ability to speak. 

He was exactly as described. Tall, broad, spiky, and silver. All he needed was the blood of innocent bots on his servos as well to complete the picture. 

Optimus shook his helm. A more rational voice telling him that he already changed the story and there likely wasn’t a tragic death awaiting him. But another, much louder, voice told him off for leaving Rodimus in the same building as the wretched duke. Megatron could go on a rampage at any moment!

Probably. 

No, he wouldn’t. 

Megatron was competent, he wouldn’t do that. 

But what if he did? He’s capable of it. 

Megatron was unpredictable, powerful, and downright scary. Optimus couldn’t even remember if he was handsome or ugly, upset or happy, all he could recall was those piercing red optics staring through his very essence.

Maybe he was being delusional. 

Optimus tried to pull up the novel in a desperate bid to justify his panic, to warrant the fear he felt, to ignore his resolve for a klik.

…

…:Megatron watched on as his foe unsheathed his sword. “What is your purpose, prime? Why do you fight so confidently over something you understand so little of?”:…

…

Now knowing his voice, deep and eloquent, like the blades he would wield, the words penetrated through Optimus.

…

…:The silver duke chuckled darkly. ”I care not for the failures of your predecessors. Merely how you will continue to follow their example.”:…

…

The prince gripped on the pillow he got a hold of to the point it would start to tear. He could feel the soft sides spilling, it was strangely comforting. To know what this frame was capable of; protecting himself and others, perhaps, but another thought crossed his mind. This same strength could be used to hurt. Much like Megatron’s. 

…

…:Megatron blocked the attack, he subdued his enemy as he swiped his leg and Rodimus Prime crashed down. “You’re inexperienced.” He said, coldly. “You’re replaceable, Elita-One fights better than you. As does your brother.” He spoke without resolve, merely observing his opponent. Megatron spoke as though he read a book, pointing out the obvious failures of its message and the inability to convey it. “Get up.” He commanded. “Prove to me you aren’t this pathetic.”:…

…

Megatron could kill him. Easily. He already did in the novel. Optimus may have been a warframe, but he didn’t operate like one. If Megatron could get away with killing Optimus while he was at his best, there was no way Optimus stood a chance now. All Megatron had to do was get close, lift a single servo to his neck and squeeze.

Optimus caught himself with a growl before he could begin to hyperventilate. “No.” He hissed to himself. “It’s different. This time it’s different. It has to be. This is before everything. Now is not then, it will never happen again.” 

Windy peered over at Optimus, only hearing the whispers of what he was talking about, unable to understand it. 

Something clicked within the prince as he looked over the pages of the novel. The words led him on with their pretense, the promises of what if and nonexistent hypotheticals. The story of good and evil meant to make sales, not dissect the inherent wrongs of a suffocating monarchy. 

“Hypocrite.” He whispered. “I’m such a hypocrite.” 

All he was doing was pushing a self-fulfilling prophecy. Rodimus was good because he said so, because the novel told him to expect it, and Megatron was bad for the same reasons. 

Optimus was aware of his misconceptions and bias; he was prepared to face them head on. It was wrong to force the novel on one character—no, individual, and not on the other. But the moment he laid optics on Megatron, all he could feel was fear, a primal fear that came from his frame rather than himself. Perhaps it was a mixture of the two. 

It made him feel…dirty. 

Megatron was scary, and Rodimus was cute, sure, but relying so much on a novel when he steeled himself to disobey it felt hypocritical. And it was. But the novel was safe, it was reassuring, it was a guide.

A guide that was also a lying con artist. 

Optimus never considered he’d have an unhealthy relationship with a novel of all things. But he did, and that novel was starting to ruin his new life. Abandon the novel and abandon everything you thought you knew. Listen to the novel and you’ll push for the worst. There was no winning. 

Optimus wished he was still as naive as he was a few deca-cycles ago. 

Optimus sighed, defeated. He needed to let go; he couldn’t let himself be pushed around by a PDF. How could Optimus anticipate being treated differently, when he would enforce the same preconceived notions onto others as well. For all he knew Rodimus liked to dissect turbofoxes, and Megatron liked to paint his armor pink on even numbered cycles. Optimus couldn’t let this fear control him, not after what happened with Rodimus. It was the proof he’d been looking for the whole time. Proof that he could change, that this world was real, and it didn’t have to behave like the words of a novel. 

Optimus had to continually remind himself that he was not dealing with characters on a linear plot line, they were real bots with their own complex lives. A lesson he forgot amidst his selfishness and stress. He could not strip them of their autonomy just so he could get away with being terrified of a mech he didn’t know.

Worthless thing, that novel was, but the chokehold it had on Optimus could not go unsaid. 

Optimus would relay the dictum in his helm again and again, however many times it took to finally ground him. 

The realization eventually settled and the bloodbath in his mind eased into a droplet as he slumped into the ruined pillow, opening optics he was unaware were closed. Optimus released the pillow from his grip and adjusted himself slightly. Tears stained his faceplate as he started to note how his breakdown had affected everything around him. The berth was in disarry, sheets splayed all over and falling onto the ground. Windy hovered over him, worried, but didn’t say a word. Much too caught up in what she could do she failed to do anything. Optimus did not fault her for this, she was a poor bystander in his constant whirlwind of emotions. He was enternally grateful for her mere presence. 

Optimus cleared his intake, sat up straight, and slapped his cheeks. “Windy?”

Windy jumped. “Yes, your highness?”

“Tell me what you know about the duke.”

Windy set her servos to her sides as she kicked her pedes up and under her thighs, sitting gracefully on the berth. 

“Yes, your highness.” 

He deleted the novel from his database.

When Luna 1 and 2 were visible in the sky, Megatron and Starscream entered the Decepticon manner, huddled in a profound conversation. 

Most would simply call it gossip. 

“Did you see the look on Optimus’ face when he saw you!” Starscream chittered. “He looks like he came face to face with Unicron!” 

Megatron didn’t like that. He didn’t like that one bit. “I’m aware, we were staring at each other.”

Looking his companion up and down, Starscream clicked his glossa. “Why are you in such a slump about it?” 

“I’m not.” Megatron scoffed. “It was merely…shocking.”

“Shocking?”

“Surprising.”

“Surprising?”

Megatron bit the claw of his thumb, settling on the final adjective. “Strange.” 

Starscream snickered. “Right.”

Megatron scowled. “Enough, it’s late, go get your beauty sleep or whatever you call it.” 

Starscream shrugged. “If you insist.” And scampered off to the east wing. 

Megatron watched him begin to disappear into the shadows of the closed curtain manor. Only then did he call out. “And don’t even think about telling your brothers!”

“What?!” Starscream yelled back. “I should tell my brothers?!” He spun on his thruster heels and continued his pace backwards. “Good idea!”

Megatron bared his fangs. “No, you idiot! Don’t-!” He threw his arms up when Starscream finally disappeared from view. “Oh, forget it.” 

Megatron turned and began walking up the stairs in the opposite direction, to his office. He still felt enough energy to try and get something done. 

Considering the hour, no one stood in Megatron’s way as he made his way to the confines of his office as his thoughts on Optimus overtook other, more pressing matters. 

Too different. 

Much. Too. Different. 

Past the staircase, through the hallway and into a doorway. Megatron now understood Magus’ discomfort with the topic of the prince, he finally reached his desk but had yet to take a seat. Instead analyzing every little thing Optimus said, acted, and possibly thought. Not once had he anticipated Optimus to change to the point of fearing him. Shy? Sure. Uncomfortable? Understandable. Fearful? Preposterous. It was an unusual thought, one that should’ve brought him great joy. Optimus Prime, his greatest competitor for power, so unlike himself that he couldn’t even react at the sight of Megatron. How could someone change so much? Was helm trauma that bad? Megatron let out a sigh, bringing up a servo to cover his face as he tried to stop overthinking it. Optimus was amnesic, and Megatron looked scary, anyone would be scared of Megatron. Easy as that. 

So why did he know his name? 

Megatron felt a bit accomplished at the fact he was so openly recognized, but he was not aware that amnesia was so selective. He should ignore it, as he always did. Brush it off to the best of his abilities, it was not his problem. Not his responsibility. Instead, he should sit down and look over previous trade agreements, read over past letters he received from southern connections and respond or send his own. 

Megatron’s optics narrowed. Letters.

Personal letters were intimate gestures in Cybertronian culture, north or south. They were disposable, single-use, and typically wasteful. If you wanted to reach someone for the first time, you’d send a letter. After that, you’d typically exchange communication lines.

Megatron’s optics narrowed at the thought. 

Optimus never sent letters, if he did, they were on behalf of his position. They lacked character, they were straightforward and short. Megatron respected that, he wouldn’t read anything more than a sentence or two from Optimus; for he never sent more. Letters were emotional, they had to be handwritten and the glyphs you chose were explicitly picked for a reason. Letters coveted attention, conveyed a desire, it showed genuine interest. 

Or restlessness. 

Megatron’s face twitched. 

An introduction, and a sentence and a half. Half a sentence would eventually lead to a full one, and neither of those two sentences explained much of anything, they only implored. Optimus never implored anything, it was either, do it or I make you do it. So naturally there had to be a third sentence after. But was there a fourth? 

Megatron’s face twitched into a deeper expression. Optimus failed to figure it out when he was still himself, so why should Megatron?  “It’s not my problem.” 

But what if it was? 

Optimus is not desperate or wanton, Megatron never particularly desired for him to be so either. They had an agreement, they hated each other, he was keen on keeping his end of the deal. So, what if Optimus was scared of him? All the better if it meant he was out of his life for good. 

But what could that third sentence have to say?

Megatron’s first curled. “It’s not my problem.” He repeated, louder to an audience of dusty books and powered off datapads. 

It wasn’t. Surely it wasn’t. Optimus struck the deal; how dare he try and disregard it. How dare he be the one to try and break a decavorn long promise. The gall. The north could fall into ruin, and he’d celebrate, the south could riot and he’d applaud their efforts. To the pit with the monarchy. Let that bastard know fear every time he sets his optics upon Megatron, let it be his punishment for a continued existence.

How dare Optimus preside in his mind for longer than a moment. “It’s. Not. My. Problem.” He hissed; anger flared over him like a white fire. 

Apathy breeds compliance. A voice whispered. 

Megatron’s optics cycled wide, and he released all the tension he didn’t know he had built up in an exhaustive vent. He vented heavily as he keeled over a bore his weight onto his desk. 

In a small town on the outskirts of Kaon, in a rundown shack in the middle of the slums. An old miner shifted under his own weight as he lectured a small frame. 

“Apathy breeds compliance, Megatronus.” 

“What does that mean?” A hushed little voice asked.

“It means you can’t stand around doin’ nothin.’”

“Why not?” The little one pouted. “It’s fun doin’ nothin’!” 

The greater figure chuckled and flicked the top of Megatronus’ fore helm. The little one yelped in return. “No, not like that you lazy brat. I’m sayin’ that if there’s a problem, you can’t sit around and not care. It’s always gonna be someone else’s problem before it’s yours. You gotta nip it in the aft before it becomes everyone's problem. Ya gets me?”

“Mm, I guess.” 

The old miner lifted Megatronus and set him onto his lap. “You gotta be better than me, kiddo. You’ve got a whole life ahead of you. Live up to the name we gave you.” 

Megatronus giggled as his caretaker bent down to kiss him on the cheek. 

Megatron frowned. “Terminus.” 

Megatron didn’t make a habit of dwelling on that part of his life. It was a fine memory, one that would continue to fuel Megatron as he was trained by Galvatron who taught him a similar thing. But Galvatron was no good at explaining it, no wonder Cyclonus could barely convey what he felt. Terminus was good at dumbing it down for an uneducated bitlet Megatron, unable to read or write for half of his youth. 

He tapped his claws against the desk. “Temper, temper, temper.” He mumbled, in the same tone Galvatron would when Megatron would snap at him. 

Terminus died soon after their little talk and Megatron was whisked away to a gladiatorial arena to be used as bait for some of the non-sentient creatures they bring in. Jokes on them, he crawled out with more than his life after that. That same arena would boast about his newfound fame the cycle after they beat him senseless. Not like he really had a choice, either.

Megatron forced himself away from the thought and looked for his wastebasket, right beside his desk. 

Empty. 

Of course, it was. Servants clean every cycle. 

Megatron groaned. “That worthless glitch made it my problem.” 

And with that, Megatron picked himself up and waltzed out of his room in search of the collective garbage. He didn’t know where it was, much to his chagrin, and he wasn’t about to ask. But he had a rough idea. Not that there was anyone to ask. Megatron checked his chronometer, it was well past midnight. Yet he didn’t feel tired in the slightest. 

Megatron stepped quietly through the manor, trying to avoid making any unnecessary sound. It felt juvenile to do so, he was the master of the house, why should he stalk around his own home like he was sneaking out to go with friends. Not that he ever really did that either. 

By the time Megatron made it down to the kitchen, no one seemed to notice him. They wouldn’t question him either, but Megatron found solace in the fact he wasn’t humiliating himself quite yet. 

That would come next. When Megatron slipped out back and found the garbage, neatly stacked in its container. Megatron stood in front of it, contemplative. There was no guarantee it was in there; they usually burned or discarded the trash every deca-cycle and it’s certainly past that point. Megatron took a safer option for the time being and looked around the large container in case it had fallen out by some grace of Primus. 

It wasn’t. Just his luck. 

Megatron grit his dente. Was it really worth it to go dumpster diving? Maybe Optimus had a spare letter laying around, or an abandoned draft tucked away. 

Well, even if he did, the new Optimus sure as slag wouldn’t know. 

Scratching the back of his helm, Megatron kicked a rock and sighed. “I’m already out here,” he muttered to himself. “Might as well.”

Taking a final look around him, in case anyone did manage to follow him, he looked up, down, and all around. 

No one. 

With a final grumble, Megatron hopped on into the garbage container. It smelled rancid, but Megatron’s pride would not allow him to make the situation easier by disabling his olfactory sensors. Something about Kaon and the stench of pollution. He was fortunate enough that some of the debris was from the carriage interior he accidentally ruined when he snapped at Starscream. Brushing himself down, Megatron began to talk to himself. “Alright, small bag, it should be in a small liner…”

Refusing to get down, Megatron kicked around and shuffled with his pedes but couldn’t find the accursed liner. It didn’t do much with the cushions from the carriage in the way, it was also dark. Which wasn’t the worst problem, Megatron had pretty good night vision. But it wasn’t very useful when he refused to get close enough to examine the contents of the garbage. So, he did what any perfectly reasonable duke would do. He got down, swearing that Optimus would pay for this one day. 

Taking his sharp claws, Megatron began to rip into bags hoping a smaller one would roll out. It never did. Megatron began to think this was a lost cause. That or the fumes were getting to him. How spoiled he’d grown to be. 

Standing up straight and reaching for the edge of the container, Megatron hoisted himself up enough to break free from the stench. “Guh.” He didn’t gag, but the entire situation was anything but pleasant.

Resting for a moment on crossed arms that were folded over the container edge, Megatron saw the outline of a familiar figure. It was a good figure, at least, but one that would never let him live this down. 

“Ah, Soundwave. Lovely night we’re having.” 

Soundwave’s visor flickered, mockingly. 

How one flashes a red light mockingly was anyone's best guess, but Megatron knew. He always knew.

“Inquiry: Lord Megatron: Intention within garbage?”

“Hm.” Megatron wondered if there was any point in explaining, it’d be easier to take the loss. “Am I in the garbage?” He looked around. “Funny. I thought this was the kitchen, I was feeling quite peckish.”

Soundwave remained unimpressed. “Request: Lord Megatron: Get out.”

“Splendid idea, why didn’t I think of that.” Megatron jumped out of the container and landed on the ground neatly. “It appears I still have much to learn about my manor.”

The duke began to walk off, in a bit of a hurry, as dear as he held Soundwave, he was not keen on letting him in on his little…whatever this was. Investigation, perhaps. 

“Lord Megatron: Looking for something.”

It'd be nicer if he phrased it like a question, rather than an observation, Soundwave had that kind of habit. But Megatron stopped his smelly steps and faced Soundwave. “Nothing gets past you, does it?”

Soundwave shrugged. “Probability: Low. Estimate: 0.000000001% Chance. Alternative: Lord Megatron; Make it less obvious.”

“Yes, yes, my apologies for not coming to you first. I got caught up in,” Megatron waved his arm. “Some stuff.”

Soundwave glossed over Megatron’s apparent inability to explain himself, one of his many quirks he faulted to Cyclonus but not himself. “Inquiry: Lord Megatron: In search of [Item]?”

Megatron huffed. “If you must know, I’m looking for a letter. I…” He looked at the garbage. “Threw it away by accident.

“Inquiry: Letter: Important?” 

“I wouldn’t say it’s that important.”

“Lord Megatron: Lying.”

Megatron really couldn’t treat Soundwave like he did Starscream. “Alright, fine, yes. It was an important letter.”

Soundwave made a sound akin to a giggle. “Lord Megatron: Courting?”

“No.” Megatron snipped. “It was political.” He explained, then shrugged. “I think.” 

Soundwave’s visor blinked, a little different from a flash, for one it was a lot less bright. “Soundwave: Understands.”

“Do you?”

“Affirmative.” 

Soundwave bowed his helm down, Megatron thought it’d be in respect to him, but instead it was to pull something out of his subspace. “Megatron: Seek: This letter?” He tapped the screen and the royal emblem popped up. 

Megatron grimaced. “You fragger.” 

Soundwave started to laugh. 

“Give it to me.”

“Negative.”

Megatron stomped towards Soundwave. “Why not? I am your superior!”

Soundwave stepped back for every step Megatron took, he teasingly brought his empty servo to cover his already masked face. “Lord Megatron: Stinks.”

Soundwave would go on to deny Megatron entry into his own home, claiming he’d drag the stench along. 

Which is how Megatron, mighty duke of the northern empire of Cybertron, found himself getting hosed down by his advisor at 2 in the morning in his front yard. 

Chapter Text

Fire blazed the once manicured terrain of the palace grounds, buildings that once held life and priceless artifacts were engulfed in a deep, gray smoke as a dark figure loomed over it all. Glass of varying colors, shapes, and sizes shattered from their place leaving gauging holes in the crumbling ashes of residential halls, strewn about the confines of the territory, precious memories ripped from their frames and left to writhe in agony, screams of those who dared to survive echoed like grinding nails. Their pleas went unanswered as they clung onto the hope of something capable of salvation. Sharp claws curled in satisfaction, the tipped ends producing a quiet chime that was drowned out by the chaos, fangs glistened in the light of the fire like the diamonds of a crown, dark, warm optics curved into narrow joy as energon flowed at their pedes like a river. 

Alone, they stood proud. Alone, they would set their world ablaze. Alone, they would rise. 

Optimus’ optics shot open as he bolted into an upright position as he gasped for clean air unsullied by soot. He was panting. But the horrors did not follow him into the waking world. Searching his room for any explanation, Optimus only found the moonlight glistening against the shiny tile of the floor. 

“A nightmare.”

A maid screeched in the early joors of the morning, just loud enough to startle Megatron out of his recharge.

It seemed that someone found the remnants of his little excursion the night before. 

One wouldn’t think a maid capable of screaming loud enough to breach the 3rd story of his manor where his master bedroom was. And they’d be right, they couldn’t, the walls were nearly made of steel. Galvatron knew how to build a sturdy house. 

But Megatron heard it so loudly that it booted him awake, because wasn’t in his room; he was splayed across a couch, in a salon, in the first story of his manor, with a twisted neck from trying to force himself comfortably on the chair that was three sizes too small. 

He sat up with a grunt and cracked the joints on his neck, carefully. “I’m not old enough to be experiencing this level of discomfort from my frame.”

Soundwave, conveniently in the room with him, stood tucked away as he usually does and tilted his helm. “Suggestion: Recharge Location…:Garbage container: Large enough for Lord Megatron.”

Megatron didn’t even face Soundwave, he merely pointed a digit and flailed it around at the mech while he cradled his neck with the other servo. “You. Do not speak to me, I don’t even want to see your face.”

“Soundwave: Masked and visored.” 

“Shut up.”

Soundwave laughed in his own way, the crackle of binary was paired with his bobbing helm. 

Soundwave rarely showed emotion, but he was well and comfortable enough with his lord to do so. The quiet bot was like an extension of Galvatron’s grand adoption scheme, although Galvatron adopted Megatron to distract his fellow nobles from a different controversy and fix his failing reputation, he would have his servo forced when a couple of vorns later Megatron adopted Soundwave. 

More or less. 

Despite being younger, Soundwave served as the de facto brother that Megatron wanted rather than the one he got. The two had met during one of Megatron’s trips back to Kaon, roughly 3 vorns after being adopted himself. By that point, Megatron had grown to openly dislike Cyclonus much to Galvatron's delight, and while on one of his walks through the marketplace, alone—a test bestowed by his new sire as he went about his own business—Megatron would promptly fail when he was pick-pocketed by a sneaky cybercat pretending to rub his leg. Not keen on getting yelled at for losing his allowance, and his wounded pride, the young duke-to-be tracked down the cat and found an equally cunning mastermind shifting through his bag of shantix. Neither could be bothered to remember where this place was other than it was not particularly hospitable. Within the poorly lit location, the two fought with their words, snapped and rebutted as one insisted for his keep and the other demanded it back. For both of their sakes, it was a fair attempt, for about half a breem as they hurled insults and threats at one another, by the time the breem was near completion, Megatron resorted to violence. 

The two tussled, as one does, yet neither seemed particularly interested in landing a fatal blow. If anything, Megatron found himself impressed by the number of mincons in Soundwave’s possession, and his fighting spirit, even when he stood no chance. So, when Megatron had the smaller bot pinned down he offered an ultimatum. 

“Come with me and I will give you triple of what you stole, but only as an extension of a debt you must now repay to me. If you refuse, I will take my dues with interest all at once.” 

Granted, the threat was spoken in a thick Tarnish accent paired with a Kaonite dialect as his Iaconian accent tried to slip through. Not to mention there were a handful of expletives sprinkled about, the threat was not remotely as clean as Megatron chose to remember it. But the point was that it served its intended purpose.

Naturally, given his position, which was not a very good one only to be worsened by being pinned down by a freshly reformatted warframe, Soundwave quickly took the offer with little more than a nod and they’ve been amica since. They even went out for iced energon right after.  

“Do not mock your savior,” Megatron grumbled.

“Lord Megatron: Did not give Soundwave a choice.”

“Of course I did.” Megatron insisted, leaning back into his seat. “Come with me or die, it was a perfectly fair offer.” 

Soundwave flashed his visor to indicate his amusement. Forever the mech to match Megatron’s awful sense of humor.  

Megatron cracked his neck again and checked his chronometer, his optics dull with lack of recharge and the early hour at which he was met with. “It’s still early. Do I have anything that can’t wait on my schedule?”

Soundwave shook his helm. “Negative.”

Megatron sat up straight. “Very well, let’s take a look at that letter then.”

Soundwave nodded and stepped closer, reaching for the subspaced letter. He revealed it in a dramatic manner, lifting it out of his subspace with a small wave as he stepped closer to hand it over to its original receiver. But, just as he was in the middle of handing it to Megatron, he paused and ducked his helm into himself. 

Megatron queried a ridge at the involuntary gesture, his servo in the middle of reaching. “Is something wrong?”

“Negative.”

Crimson optics flashed. “Something is wrong.”

Soundwave shifted uncomfortably, his helm ducked a fraction deeper, unable to face Megatron. “Negative.” He repeated, although much less sure of himself.

“No. Something is bothering you.” Megatron insisted, he sat closer to the edge of his chair and narrowed his optics at Soundwave. 

“Nothing.”

“Nonsense, if you can see through me I’m just as capable of doing the same.” 

Soundwave looked at the closed door of the salon and then back at Megatron’s sharp gaze. 

“Breaking news.” He finally says. 

Megatron’s face shifted with the prompt in anticipation. “What is it?”

Soundwave bowed deeply. “Lord Megatron: Congratulations.” 

Megatron’s optics widened momentarily as his HUD too began to be flooded by messages and communication requests. He quickly skimmed over the text communication requests and forgot entirely about the letter; he slammed his servos onto the couch, throwing himself up and stormed out of the room.

Optimus flailed over the data pads that were splayed out in front of him. When was the last time he recharged? Refueled? Defragged? It didn’t matter. 

The vision of burning lands and ruined lives was so deeply ingrained into the forefront of his processor he feared what would come if he closed his optics for even a moment. The guilt, the regret, the fear. It all played out within the confines of his spark chamber, bleeding out into the cold, empty air surrounding him. 

The prince let out a deep vent, “Why me?” He whispered. “Why now?” The soft glow of a torch illuminated the messy room he occasionally called his own. Optimus picked up a single-use datapad and began to write on the small screen in a weakish fervor. He didn’t have time, he had squandered far too much of it with useless thoughts and arrogant acts.

Running. Windy was running. She was sent to the Onyx Hall that morning to pick up any mail for Optimus, a special privilege for his favorite maid. She was particularly pompous with other maids sent from the other residences, but they paid her no mind. Those older maids carried much more important news, news that was not written on a datapad, it was fresh off the press and spread through the grid like a virus. Now, she carefully carried the letters in her arms while she sprinted full speed back to the Sapphire Palace. If her legs were a little longer she might’ve broken the sound barrier. 

When she managed to sprint across the sidewalk past the other residential buildings in record time, Windy knocked incessantly in the glass doors of the Sapphire Palace to be let back in. The time it took for the guards to shuffle their way to the doors and accept her plea lasted an eternity, which was condensed to about a klik. Windy thanked the guards quickly and continued her marathon, nearly slipping on the waxed floors of the entrance. The scuffs would certainly get her into trouble later but Windy could not be bothered to care at that moment. She hopped over stairs and formed creases in the rugs when she made a sudden break to preach her newfound knowledge. Her fellow companions would go on to reprimanding her for being so careless; but as soon as she uttered the latest news their intakes hung open, their optics flew wide, and they squealed, ignoring their little messenger and speaking amongst themselves in renewed interest. Then Windy would kick her pedes and start up once again. 

Chromia tried to stop her, scolding her between snappish insults of her childish behavior. Windy didn’t mind, although, she might later on when all her collateral damage would tally up. Not that it mattered, Windy could hide behind Optimus and whine to avoid the punishment. Windy jumped and jogged backwards, yelled her news, turned again, skipped two stairs, and her short heels picked up again in a rhythmic fury. 

Once Windy reached the top, she only stopped to catch her breath, which was taken in one big gulp before she ran over to the doors of her prince’s room.

She didn’t even bother to knock. 

The white doors opened with a SLAM!

Optimus yelped from his seat at the center of the room, his precious study time interrupted by the act and the small shock wave that would shake the table in front of him. The datapad with basic neocybex he was holding fell into a pile of another dozen datapads with similar premises of grammar, sentence structure, and spelling. The impact made them sprawl all over the small table and spill onto the floor. 

“Your highness!” Windy wheezed.

Optimus shot out of his seat. “Windy! Are you alright?! You look exhausted!”

“Nonsense!” Windy gasped, and lifted her precious cargo. “I brought the mail!”

“You didn’t need to run! It couldn’t possibly be that important!” 

“Oh, it’s not.” Windy said between vents, waddling over and setting the letters down. “I think it’s mostly boring, political stuff.” 

Optimus was befuddled. “You read them?”

“No, I’m just assuming.”

She was frazzled, Windy always got frazzled when she was excited. “Right, well, then what was the rush?” The prince asked.

Windy let out a squeal and clapped her servos. “Oh! Yes! You won’t believe this but it’s about Duke Megatron.”

Optimus’ intake fell into a frown. He had a bad feeling about this. 

After deleting the novel from his files Optimus had felt calmer, more at ease. Resigned to the strings of fate. Granted that was also less than a cycle ago and since then he has resolved to holding himself up in his room to get a better grasp on things that actually mattered (that being his illiteracy). 

Even so, novel aside, Megatron would go on to become a conflicting figure in Optimus’ life. Not because of their encounter, but because of what every other bot would go on to say about him.

Windy’s account of the duke was the most irritating, however. 

Born in Tarn, raised in Kaon, matured in Iacon. Megatron was a collection of cultures. He stood at 35 mechameters tall, his energon type was pink and he was 29 vorms old. His favorite foods are oil cakes from anyone willing to make them and rock candies from Kaon, specifically a vendor on Bismuth street. He loves sweets while despising anything lacking in flavor, yet always willing to try something new. Megatron loves to write poetry and solve equations in his spare time. His favorite subject is math and his favorite hobby is debating. His ideal type would be “anyone who is a good listener.” 

Why this information was important, Optimus wasn’t sure, but Windy was very incessant about nailing it into his processor. 

Nevertheless, the only thing that mattered to Optimus was that Megatron was approximately 3 vorns older than Optimus. Windy nearly fainted when he asked for his own age. With this, Optimus would learn that he was 26 vorms old, soon to be 27 about an stellar cycle before Rodimus who would be 16 for his ball. As it would turn out, Sentinel and Elita turned 17 earlier that vorn before his fall. 

Even so, in the cycle prior as Windy was explaining the duke to Optimus at length, it would turn out that her adoration of the mech was not unfounded. 

Megatron was quite popular with the lower class of the north. From Windy’s idealized perspective, and her poorly hidden flushed face and airy voice, she admitted that she found him alluring and mysterious in the scant moments she’d see him walking between buildings.

Optimus regretted asking her about the duke at this point. 

Still, Windy explained that despite Megatron’s appearance, he always treated the servants well. He’d thank them quietly, bow his helm, and make simple requests only when absolutely necessary. Megatron was never snippy or rude, if anything, he berated those who were. Windy went so far as to tell Optimus about a time when he bent down to help a maid pick up what she dropped after bumping into him. He started to receive many small gifts in the form of sweets set on his chair at meetings after that. Other rumors would suggest he left thank you notes after every meeting. 

Windy sighed dreamily as this account and Optimus had long forgotten about his mini meltdown, staring at Windy with glazed-over optics hoping she’d stop talking. 

She didn’t. 

Windy went so far as to tell Optimus about a few short stories tucked into romance anthologies targeted at lower-class bots that made him the love interest, under a different designation, of course, but the similarities were obviously there. Gladiators were already seen as tragic martyrs for their people—dying for the entertainment business and all to put it lightly. When this was paired with the fact that they became popular choices for romance leads (which didn’t need explanation according to an increasingly disillusioned Optimus) it made for a very good story. Amidst this gladiator class, strong labor frames became quite popular when paired with the color silver, or lack of paint entirely, which was effectively a majority of them. When Optimus asked how she knew all this, Windy looked at him dead in the optic and said "don't worry about it."

He did. 

Surprisingly, the thought of a couple seductive love interests painted in the image of the duke wasn’t remotely as shocking as it should’ve been. Granted that Optimus was viewing it against the image of a warlord, so the entire conversation bordered on comedy. The derailing of Windy’s strange obsession was oddly comforting. And humiliating. Optimus was grateful for the information, as strange and far-fetched as it might have been, it helped quell the image of a ruthless killer that he had wound so tightly in his processor. Windy spoke more about gossip, considering it was all she, a maid, could get a hold of. She’d tell him at times Megatron would slip into a Kaoni accent, when he thought he was alone. In a particularly excited mood—one which Optimus was unsure his foreign processor was able to label, she even tried to show him a recording of it.

Optimus stopped her before she committed the offense with a blank face and a raised servo, insisting that he had heard enough. Windy pouted, clearly wishing to fawn over the duke like she would her coworkers but Optimus was starting to feel vaguely annoyed. 

After Windy’s general…intrigue with the duke was established Optimus had started to feel a bit better, albeit not fully convinced, and decided to leave his room to interview others. 

It didn’t go any better, the guards would commend him for his strength, the servants would admire his common decency, and the maids would swoon. After his twelfth interview, Optimus was getting snappy, and the humiliated feeling grew. He was scared of a bot all his maids fawned over. What was so great about him!? 

By the time he had reached Chromia, she was the only bot who proved to be useful in the strange endeavor. Optimus was able to learn that both Chromia and her conjunx, Ironhide, were nobles as well. As it turns out, watching over a prince’s manor and being the Lord High Protector's personal bodyguard were positions only for the elite. Nevertheless, Optimus was glad to finally get some real information about Megatron, confirmation bias be damned. 

This presentation of Megatron would go on to explain his partiality with the lower class beyond personal attraction. For one, he was more a part of them than with his noble companions (which would go on to influence his, apparently, very liberal political stance). Chromia presented him in a chronological order. Megatron was an ex-gladiator, and distinctly southern. Born in Tarn, he lived there for a portion of his life before he moved to Kaon and started to train as a gladiator from a young age before he was scooped up by a desperate Galvatron. Recounted much to the same degree as Windy had. Unfortunately, Chromia didn’t touch upon more of his past, she seemed about as in the dark as Optimus was. Still her demeanor shifted into ire as she spoke to his present self. Megatron’s defining trait to the other nobles was how he was adopted by Galvatron and preferred over his real son, Cyclonus. 

Intrigued by this, Optimus pressed the topic of Cyclonus, but Chromia shook her helm and apologized, saying that their family secrets were well guarded. Instead, Optimus prompted further conversation on how Megatron presented to nobility, which would be significantly different to what the lower-class saw. 

Megatron was said to carry himself with an aura of pride, he was untouchable, no matter what some of the more old fashioned nobles thought of him. Megatron never cared to maintain a spotless image, so there was little to bother him over it, when he spent his whole life demeaned for where he came from he simply built himself to be immune to it. 

Nobles painted him as barbaric for fighting in the pits? He became a capable swordsmech, trained by Galvatron himself, and learned proficiency with any weapon he could get a hold of. Well, what did strength matter when he was illiterate and dull? He learned fluency in a dozen languages, became a poet and a skilled mathematician, attended and graduated as valedictorian from one of the best private academies. Nonsense! He could never be a noble! He was too crude, unsociable, unapproachable. What good was smarts when you weren’t popular? No matter, when he desired to be, Megatron could be charming to a psychopathic degree. With more of Galvatron’s apparently phenomenal teaching skills, he had learned to smoothly talk his way in or out of anything. 

With his collection of capabilities, Megatron would become the most sought after noble for his ability to develop, plan, and implement bills that benefited every party involved. He attended galas and gatherings, donating exorbitant amounts of shantix to altruistic causes.

All around, a bit too perfect as far as other nobles were concerned. Even Optimus was feeling a bit off-put by his accomplishments.

And at the ripe old age of 25 vorns, with all his trophies in tow, Megatron started to become a bit bolder in his proclamations; voicing favor for equal rights and better working conditions, just to start. His critics and inferiors alike were gobsmacked with his desire to spite them by becoming better than they anticipated, Megatron proved to be a better heir than Cyclonus by sheer will alone. It was only a vorn later, a few stellar cycles before he turned 26, Megatron was titled Duke after Galvatron had come to pass after succumbing to illness. 

Apparently neither son grieved him more than what was socially appropriate, they turned to living very separate lives after that as Cyclonus retreated from the limelight and disappeared off to live a more private life on the outskirts of the northern lands.

Also vague, but Chromia continually refused to build upon Cyclonus. 

Still, Megatron’s titling was a big deal, commoners from far and wide would celebrate him as their hero in silver plating. Megatron made promises of protection, care, and support for the lesser citizens of their monarchy, he never explicitly said anything about dismantling the monarchy but there was a reason nobles were not keen towards the new duke, they could read between the lines. 

Nevertheless, it was an occasion that deserved celebration, the pickier nobles could stand to congratulate Megatron a little even if it was through grit dente. And they would. Northern nobles from the farthest corners of the frigid lands collaborated to thank him for all his hard work.

By stripping him of his political prowess and forcing him to take on the military and all its matters. 

Optimus never took the time to look into the sheer size of the military, let alone the size of the northern hemisphere of Cybertron. Chromia was kind enough to show him a holo projection of the lands he was said to once inherit, and it was enormous. Spanning essentially one half of the planet. Naturally, the lands were divided up and different nobles took care of their respective city-states in coalition to their respective kingdoms, but that did not take away from the fact that a military had to exist to protect half of the planet's population. 

It was no wonder Megatron essentially retired from his seat at the conference tables. 

According to Chromia, Megatron was left in utter ruin by the time his emergence cycle had arrived. He had to force a smile and sign the documents to take on the military. As one would imagine, such a responsibility was typically divided between houses to allow leverage for other work. Allocating all that onto a single house would never give Megatron the chance to make good on his promises. It was political sabotage, one that Megatron could not save himself from when every noble in the north turned against him or passively allowed it to happen. Megatron became a general overnight, his reputation tanked. The image of a bloodthirsty mechanimal was thrust upon the newly appointed duke once more. All the time he spent fixing and fighting against the cruelty of nobility was all for not. Megatron was the laughing stock of Iacon. The villagers and laborers were disgusted by his shift, their betrayal left a permanent scar on the Decepticon house as many outright denied Megatron a chance to explain himself. Galvatron would have declared a civil war at such an act, but Megatron merely accepted the fate handed to him. Perhaps far too exhausted to fight back any longer.

No longer deemed a threat, Megatron was primarily left to his own vices forever drowned in paperwork and training cadets from his office. On the off chance he did leave his manor, it was only by the direct request of Ultra Magnus or getting pulled along by a Vosnian Prince, sometimes three. 

Despite all of this, when asked about her own thoughts on Megatron, Chromia huffed and said ‘he needs to learn some manners.’ Which left a bad taste in Optimus’ intake. Even so, Chromia was surprisingly unbiased about the whole fiasco, admitting that Ironhide benefited from Megatron’s new status as he still tried his best to implement what was best for the military. 

Nevertheless, Optimus couldn’t help but feel bad. Where once fear gripped his spark, it had now melted into something else entirely. Granted, it did not shield him from who he would become in the novel, but Optimus admitted he could sympathize with such a villain now. Not that he is one anymore. The mech was forced to become this way, impervious to criticism by willpower alone. It couldn’t have been easy, all his accomplishments would be rounded in about half a decavorn. Megatron had initially arrived at Iacon a decavorn ago, give or take. How many sleepless nights would plague the young bot as he sprawled datapads and books alike in a library as his sire would look down upon him and snap at every mistake made? How many times did he think to escape before he realized he was living the lesser of two evils? It was no wonder he was so guarded, all that hard work only to be denied the power you were promised by the mechs that put you in such a position to begin with. The power you didn’t even want. The expectations he had to live up to in land that was never his. 

Optimis empathized with the duke, even if all he was working with was the mismatched interviews of others. 

By all means, Megatron was as close to perfect as a bot could get, albeit a bit more tragic than Optimus expected. He was currently dealing with a significantly subdued version of Megatron, with all his military duties and lackluster image to deal with. Not that he cared to fix it anymore, not that Optimus could blame him either. By the short history lesson alone, it was no wonder that Galvatron preferred him to Cyclonus. Chromia described Cyclonus to be a wet rag when compared to Megatron. Although the head maid tried her best to speak kindly of Cyclonus, the mech was about as good for Galvatron as a dead petrorabbit. Where Megatron was intelligent, Cyclonus was a dunce. Megatron strong, Cyclonus weak. Megatron powerful, Cyclonus meek. 

But there was one great difference between the two. 

Cyclonus was kind. 

Incredibly so. He was gentle, fair, generous, and a loving brother to Megatron, who only turned to spit in his face. And as far as Galvatron was concerned, such a pathetic attribute did not make Cyclonus a worthy heir. It was a fair trade for Galvatron, to lose your weak cyberlogical son in exchange for the one that you forged in the flame of your fist. 

That was, until you meet him in the mesh. 

Megatron was nice, but that was the extent of it, he was nice to maids and respected servants, but he was never kind. 

Chromia brushed down her delicate silks as she tried to deflect from the tragic history of the duke as she went in for what Optimus was really asking for, all while Optimus and his maids would lean in. 

Megatron. Was. Insufferable. 

This all came from what Ironhide would tell Chromia, but Optimus preferred it to whatever the maids would say. 

According to Ironhide, Megatron was proud, and rightfully so, but he was arrogant, unsympathetic, uncaring, cold, distant, and temperamental. He really was psychopathic by the way he easily clicked on his charm out of convenience. Most nobles would loathe being near him, he’d be courteous and show basic manners but he was never respectful towards them. Megatron belittled them with witty remarks, ignored them, and used them to push his own agenda when he got the chance. Optimus could easily contend with that, and he’d only met him once. The fact that Megatron humbled the Ultra Magnus in front of his sons and his council without hesitation showed that—

1. regardless of his political power, Megatron was incredibly influential. 

But that didn’t matter because 

2. He didn’t care. 

Not anymore, at least. 

And that alone placed him at the very top of the pecking order. The nobles of the north stripped Megatron down and humiliated him, and yet Megatron looked down on them with the same contempt he always had, perhaps more so. There was no real winner after all.

Optimus tried to look into the duke some more later that night, to no avail. He found himself fascinated by the conflicting images of the duke, like a wayward celebrity that always got into controversy for the most petty reasons. But it was more of what he already heard from Chromia, rehashed into variations of the same thing. For some reason, Optimus failed to find anything else about him, only a handful of news articles about his charity work and ‘defying personality.’ There were plenty of articles about his fall from grace when he took on the military, some journalists happy to point and laugh. As it turns out, Windy was right about one thing, Megatron was quite allusive, by no choice other than the fact the media refused to touch upon him more than necessary, it appeared that most were ready to bury him away while he was still alive. 

Still, Megatron was held in a different light for Optimus. He was still going to try his best to avoid Megatron, but there wasn’t the outright fear that enveloped him with the utterance of his name. 

Ah, the power of a hearsay. 

Windy jumped up and down. “Ready?”

“I’m not sure what’s the big deal, but yes, I’m ready.” Optimus said, wearily. 

“Wait!” Windy stuck her arms out. “You have to guess.”

“Guess? What could I possibly know about the duke to make a good guess?”

Windy gestured indifferently. “I dunno, but it’ll be more fun this way!”

Optimus sighed. “Alright. Perhaps he got rid of some of his militant stakes and is reestablishing popularity with the general public?” 

Windy stopped jumping and looked at Optimus painfully. “That’s the most boring thing you could’ve said, your highness.”

Optimus' vents flushed at the deadpan. “Hurry up and just tell me then!”

Windy smirked. 

“Duke Megatron has officially announced his intention to court Prince Starscream of Vos.”

Optimus’ optics cycled wide. “What?”

Windy smirked wider, waiting for the realization to hit the prince as it did all the others. In the blur that was Windy skipping up to the top, she made sure to remember everyone’s reaction. They all followed the same script; optics go wide, servos go up, and then an exciting squeal escapes. 

Windy was curious about how Optimus would react, however, she mostly wanted to hear him squeal in that baritone voice. It would make for a very amusing clip. But, as it would be, Windy did not get what she wished for. 

Just as Optimus’ optics went wide, they narrowed and his face pulled into one of blank disinterest, openly unimpressed. “That’s it?”

Windy sputtered. “What do you mean ‘that’s it’?!”

Optimus sat back down and picked up his datapads. “I thought you were going to tell me something interesting.”

“Interesting?! This is way better than interesting! This is the courtship between the duke of the north and a foreign prince! This is what everybots been waiting for!” 

“Who cares.”

“Literally everybody!!” 

“Count me out.” Optimus began to look over the datapad he dropped. “I want nothing to do with it.”

Windy pouted. “You want nothing to do with anything, your highness.”

Optimus lifted a stylus and waved it up and down at Windy in conjunction with his words. “That’s exactly right. Now come here and help me with this exercise.”

Windy slouched over and dragged her pedes to the small table, sitting down on the floor she rested her chin on the surface. “You’re no fun, your highness.”

Optimus clicked through the datapad in his grip. “I no longer have a connection nor a relationship to either Duke Megatron or Prince Starscream, what they do together is none of my business.”

“You don’t get it!” Windy pouted. “They’re gonna be like Cyberton’s power couple! Their sparklings will be beautiful!”

“Getting a bit ahead of ourselves, aren’t we?” Optimus hummed as he read, writing a few things down on a blank space. “I thought most of you wanted to be a part of Duke Megatron’s love life, and now you’re celebrating?” 

“It’s called being realistic.” Windy said plainly. “None of us stood a chance. We’ll live vicariously through Prince Starscream.”

“Oh,” Optimus ignored Windy’s overdrawn hurt. “That’s a big word for you.”

“Blegh,” Windy’s face elongated to depict her revulsion. “You’re starting to seem like your old self and I didn’t even know him.” 

Optimus playfully smacked the stylus on Windy’s forehelm, she yelped. “Don’t say that. Now tell me if I did this correctly.” 

Windy’s optics narrowed at the bright light of the datapad thrusted upon her. “Yeah, it looks fine.”

“Fine? Or good.”

“Fine.” Windy shrugged. “It’s legible.”

“Another big word.” Optimus said, surprised.

“It’s all these exercises you make me read over! I can feel my wires getting thicker!” Windy hissed, curling her digits and rubbing them against her helm in a scratching motion. 

Optimus looked confused at Windy’s distress. “Learning is always good.”

Windy stopped her movement to look at Optimus directly, optics narrowed and lips drawn in a pout. “Except I don’t have to, I’m a maid. I should just stand in the corner going ‘yes, your highness’ or ‘no, your highness.’ I didn’t get this job to read! I got it for the drama. ” Windy enunciated, picking her upper body up by her arms and walking on them to get close to Optimus. “And the pay.” She added with a less hushed tone. 

“Alas, you show me your true colors.” Optimus teased. 

Windy flopped back onto the table. “Can’t you practice in a fun way?” 

“These datapads are designed to maximize efficiency. I desire literacy as soon as possible.”

“GAH!” Windy exclaimed, her face telling far too much as it always did. “Who are you?! You are not my prince! My prince would delight at the chance to slack off!”

Optimus lightly tapped Windy again, hoping she’d get off of his datapads, she let out a dramatic howl and sprawled on them even more. “Oh, hush. I was anxious and needed an outlet, and I’m grateful for your role in that. But now that I am feeling better about myself I need to be more mature. I’m a grown bot.” Optimus sat straight on his chair. 

Windy looked at him with big, sad optics. Optimus sighed. “We can play later.” 

“I don’ wanna play, I wanna gossip. Now.”

“Speak clearly, Windy. And get off the table.”

Windy drawls. “Fine. But if you must practice, can’t you try reading the article that came out about the duke?”

Optimus chuckled. “Very bold of you to assume that I’m skilled enough to read it.”

“I’ll read it to you.”

“That would defeat the purpose.”

“Okay!” Windy finally got off of the table, and began picking up the fallen items. “But you can practice writing with a letter congratulating them.”

Optimus narrowed his optics. “I just told you I don’t want to get involved.”

Windy’s optics sparkled, she brought up her servo to her chin with the index and thumb sticking out. She smirked. “I never said you had to send it.”

“I immediately lost trust in your intentions.” 

Windy whined. “Spoil me.”

Optimus sighed, again. “A maid should not have this level of influence on me.” 

“That’s because I’m your favorite .”

“No,” Optimus smiled. “It's because you’re my friend."

Windy face fell at the glyph, the suddenness caught her off guard for a moment, but she recovered within a blink her intake tugged into a loose, warm smile. She kneeled back down to the edge of the table and nuzzled herself into a comfortable position on the floor, tucking her legs under her weight. “Yeah, I am.”

With a final click, Optimus locked the datapad, he was greeted by the floating emblem of the imperial crest and Megatron’s designation and title tucked away in a corner; no one would dare to open it unless they were the receiver, Optimus had to count on that. 

But he didn’t, he didn’t trust anyone anymore. Megatron was his first and final resort. In the case the letter was found by anyone other than Megatron, his life would be over, even if the letter was hardly a letter, its structure convoluted and messy, but some things were better off said than written.

The prince stood up and began to quietly step outside of his room where two guards slept in their positions. Making his way down and out of the Sapphire Palace, Optimus passed the box that the courier would take up in the morning. He could not risk it. He could not risk losing this letter no matter what, its contents were damning and even the scant mentioning of agreeing with what Megatron thought would have them both exiled for treason. Optimus needed to deliver the letter, personally. To the one bot that would listen. The one bot that could take the burden with him. 

The one bot who might have hated him above all else. 

Shutting his optics tight, Optimus clutched the datapad tightly as he wrapped a tarp over himself. He slipped beyond the gates of the palace, running until he was far enough to transform. 

Optimus sped down the roads towards main Iacon, hoping his tires were faster than the disappearing moons.

Courtship. 

By extension, the behavior exhibited by a mechanimal to attract a mate.

Figuratively, the act of trying to solicit a favor or support from someone.

Tentatively, the act of wooing a bot to enter into a romantic relationship or bonding; hence, the period during which a couple falls in love.

None of the definitions would even touch upon what Megatron was doing with Starscream. 

Lying would be the best way to put it. Fraud, if you will. 

“Starscream!” 

Megatron’s voice boomed through the Decepticon manner like a shotgun blast. He opened his communication line without another thought. 

.:Where are you?:. He spat through the lines.

The connection was silent, his message had been received, but no response followed it. He was being ignored. 

Irritation blossoming, Megatron growled deeply from his chest and vibrated the plating surrounding it. He would have to do this the hard way. 

Such a way would be no other than a special game that had long gone undone; Hide and seek. 

Many—those of which being a bunch of rich, old coots in their last vorns of life—would consider hide and seek a game for low-class juveniles without a stable, mature presence in their lives. Their reasoning was that it was a chaotic game, one could get in trouble for a plethora of reasons. It Imposed rules of secrets, manipulation, and made it easy for a youngling to develop habits of defiance. 

Naturally, such a game was commonly looked down upon by the higher houses of the northern class. 

And as luck would have it, hide and seek was a young Megatron and Starscream’s favorite game to play. Granted, they got more scrutiny because they were nearly matured by the time they developed the habit, but it didn’t manifest for the reasons one might anticipate. 

No, it was not their favorite because they enjoyed it, rather, when you and your companion were well known for your ground-shattering temper, every time something went wrong between their tentative, loosely defined friendship, one of them would revert to hiding in hopes of waiting for whatever happened to blow over. Nine times out of ten, it was Starscream hiding and Megatron seeking. Ironic as it was. 

Which was precisely the situation Megatron found himself in. 

With a communication line gone cold, he accepted the prompt to play easily, falling into the familiar routine even when it had been quite some time since their last game. 

Luckily for Megatron, after so many vorns of playing he could say that he was good at hide and seek. 

Really good. 

Megatron narrowed his optics and scanned the area of the foyer, not bulging from his spot. He wasn’t about to waste his breath more than he needed to. Clearly, Starscream was not visible. But it mattered not when Megatron was so good at this little game that he had Starscream’s hiding habits down to a science. 

Megatron let out a stream of hot air from his ventilation systems in preparation. 

The Decepticon manor was easily divided into three floors, within each of these floors there was an even number of rooms and an odd number of ‘extras’ that were made up of closets, storage rooms, and other miscellaneous things. From the start, Megatron could remove any of the odd rooms as Starscream’s hiding place. As per usual. He was still a prince after all, Starscream would sooner shoot himself than hide in a closet. 

From there Megatron looked over the surroundings of the main floor. Said floor had a kitchen, dining room, living room, ballroom, library, and three salons spread sporadically between the bigger rooms. 

Megatron eyed the dark, intricate marble staircase leading up to the higher levels adorned with the bronze railing of delicate, organic patterns. The second floor had four guest rooms, two offices, and two salons. The third floor had one guest room, a single salon, a master bedroom, and an office suite. Starscream’s room was on the second floor, the guest room was practically reformed into his personal room; whimsical Vosnian furniture and all.

For what it was worth, Starscream was dumb, but he wasn’t stupid, he wouldn’t risk hiding in his room, it was too obvious. He would have made his mistake with the confines of his home-away-from-home and fled the scene soon after. 

The second floor was out of the question. 

Still staring at the staircase, Megatron looked up ever so slightly to catch a glimpse of the secondary set of stairs that led to the final floor. 

The third floor would also be too risky. Megatron’s master bedroom was there, as well as his office. If Starscream accidentally stumbled across something he shouldn't, it would only worsen the punishment.

That left the first floor. 

Red optics snapped back to the entryway, Megatron cracked his neck and began to analyze each of the rooms in rapid fire. 

Starscream would not be in the kitchen as it was full of servants preparing for their morning and the upcoming breakfast joor, which would risk his cover getting blown. As an extension of the kitchen, Starscream would not be in the dining area as the table was most likely in the process of being set. The living room was too big and lacked hiding areas. Megatron just exited one salon, Starscream, however, would most likely know this considering he was up before Megatron if the news was anything to go by. The maids would comment on Megatron’s place in a salon on the first floor, and, unsure of which salon Megatron had used as a berthroom the night prior, Starscream would safely try to avoid all of them. 

That left two areas.

The library and the ballroom. 

But Megatron stayed put, he folded his arms over his chest and tried to collect himself. The ballroom was locked, and even if Starscream could make his way in, there were no viable hiding spots with the area not actively in use, thus making it unfurnished. Not only that, but if the seeker managed to weasel his way in the evidence would be obvious to anyone who passed by. All around, a terrible hiding spot. 

Megatron released his arms from their place, his tension failing to go away with the act, and they fell to his sides without issue. 

One area. 

Starscream was in the library. 

The process went by especially quickly. Starscream could not have made it out fast enough to anticipate Megatron finding out this quickly. He never did. 

Megatron whipped his helm and reared his figure towards the east wing of his manor, his steps were heavy and loud, uncaring if they were heard. If Starscream was in the library as Megatron deduced then there was no point in trying to flee anymore, simply accept the cards he’d been dealt. The Decepticon Manor was simple enough in its architecture, the direction towards the library was a straight shot from where Megatron had once stood and was only closed off by large doors. As Megatron reached the library doors, which were already opened, the warm air welcomed him in with a warm embrace and confirmed his suspicions.

The library was a point of pride within Decepticon Manor. It was simple in its design, being one of the largest living areas aside from the ballroom, but it certainly wasn’t lacking. It extended up through all three of the floors and resided at the very end of the east wing in direct contrast to the west wing that held the kitchen and dining area. The roof was pointed, a cylindrical shape formed through all three floors, taking up most of the east wing before the cylinder was cut off and began to form the more concise, rectangular shape of the rest of the manor. A small,  third-floor, cone-like area was the smallest of the library’s floors and dedicated to astronomy—but a younger Megatron preferred it as his hiding area—a telescope was tucked in the confines and a small window took over the farther side of the roof. The cone-part of the ceiling was painted with constellations as short, darkly colored steps led down to the other levels. The steps would grow in number from the second level back to the first; windows started to form from the second story down, they all varied in size until a large window presided over the rounded area of the first floor. Deep, purple curtains were tucked away to let the light in. The dark, rustic, metal of ancient shelves handbuilt for a single purpose contained the precious collection Galvatron prided himself on. A remaining token of his endless pursuit of knowledge, which managed to rub off on both of his sons, although only one would be able to access the collection now. Otherwise, the library was quite gloomy to those unfamiliar with it, always messy yet maintained; the maids were unwilling to organize for fear of getting reprimanded but the area always remained spotless and dust free. Megatron preferred the mess, anyways. There was order to his self-inflicted chaos.

Stepping in, he scanned the room for any signs of a meddlesome prince. Megatron didn’t care to hide himself as he searched about. He wouldn’t go so far as to try and climb the steps to reach the highest points. When looking around proved to be a fruitless endeavor, he let out an exasperated sigh and activated something with a silent click. 

In the confines of his overworked processor, there existed remnants of primitive coding, bestowed onto him by Galvatron while he was still learning to shoot a bow and arrow. It was, specifically, honing coding. Starscream and his trine held a similar coding, but it was far more impressive in its reach and lack of processor-scrambling nonsense, and preemptively exclusive to seekers. What Megatron got was warframe-specific and had been long banned from use or implementation, not that Galvatron particularly cared. 

Plainly speaking, a hunter’s coding. 

This was the real reason Megatron always won. Even if it was cheating.

In a flash, the lines of code elevated the senses, extending one’s ability to detect spark signatures or EM fields from a farther distance without betraying your own. It was the type of programming you’d find in a marksman or general, born from the warriors of a tribe eons in the past, meticulously cultivated to pick up on the smallest beat of life that existed outside of one’s own while picking out the most sensitive areas in which to exploit. 

Precisely the opposite type of rat-bat crazy coding you give to the mechling that could snap your neck like a twig and harbored nothing but ill will to an entire empire. Galvatron’s trust in Megatron was wholly unfounded, but he was never known to be a sane mech. 

Questionable as it was, the coding was incredibly useful and worked well and without fail. 

The coding snapped on and off in an instant, Megatron refused to activate it for longer than a couple of kliks as Galvatron advised. It was to be used sporadically, there was a reason it was banned after all. Just as there was a reason why warframes and warriors weren’t exactly known for their long lifespans. The coding was corrosive, it elevated the senses and gave the user considerable advantage over their prey, but in the instances where the coding was activated for too long it would begin to take a toll on the user. High sensitivity to other life forms, regardless of their type, would flare up battle protocoles in an effort to preserve the user’s life or seek out that of the other. Keeping it on for an extended period of time would increase paranoia, anxiety, and violent tendencies. Many lost themselves to such madness. 

And here Megatron was, wasting it on a seeker. 

In the fleeting instance in which the coding was activated and deactivated, Megatron knew for a fact that Starscream was in the library, the remnants of a warrior's whisper pointing him the right direction as his pedes followed. 

In those quick, wide stomps, Megatron found Starscream hiding behind a couch. He smirked at his own detective work, and convenient coding. Megatron realized that the poor fool hadn’t had enough time to truly hide as he heard the large mech's heavy steps. 

Stepping closer to the couch, Megatron placed a servo on the backrest and leaned over. 

“Found you.”

Starscream jolted as a personal multi-use datapad tightened in his grip and a handful of other datapads sprawled on a floor beside him served as his companions. 

Starscream looked up at Megatron, and laughed weakly. “Alright. I can explain.”

Megatron’s field flared. “ Can you? ”

Starscream cleared his voice box. “Before you get mad-“

“I’m already mad.” 

“-Before you get more mad, I have to say that I too am a victim.” 

Megatron leaned in closer, the backing of the couch now holding a majority of his weight. “And why, pray tell, would that be?” His voice plunging deeper into that of a general.

Starscream pushed the datapad in his servo towards Megatron’s face, who stumbled back on the intrusion. “I didn’t expect them to say you were courting me!”

Megatron bounced upright and pointed a digit. “So it was you!”

“Not on purpose!” Starscream cried.

Megatron snatched the datapad from Starscream and scrolled through its contents.

Frigid Duke Warm Under Vosnian Sun! 

Duke Megatron officially announces courtship to Prince Starscream of Vos.     

Megatron’s face twitched at the gaudy headline. Courtship was a serious matter on Cybertron, it marked an explicit intention to bond, if you were going to court a bot then you were certainly romantically involved up to that point. Which, for Megatron and Starscream, was promptly never outside of their creators not-so-subtlety hinting at it. 

That desire fell through about 5 breems into their official meeting when Megatron was halfway strangling Starscream for some off hand comment about his temper. 

Never really did get any better after that. 

Still, the word official stood out. Hearsay was easy to deal with, make an official statement refuting it and spend a few deca-cycles getting passive aggressive comments and you’re good to go. 

Unfortunately, the official-ness complicated things quite a bit. It meant that someone with Megatron’s authorization would send out a statement saying that he was going to begin openly courting Starscream. It could easily be faked, but he’d risk far too much by refuting it without looking into it. Especially if the agency had proof. Although the article insinuated far more than Megatron was comfortable with, the problems that pesky word caused allowed for him to overlook most of it. 

“I never made an official statement.” Megatron growled. 

“Of course you didn’t, or, uh, wouldn’t.” Starscream snapped far too quickly before he folded into himself. “So,” He looked away and to the floor, beginning to play with one of his claws. “I may have taken the liberty of doing so on your behalf.”

Megatron relinquished his focus on the article, his helm snapping up to show his utter befuddlement mixed with a ire. “You forged my name?!” 

Starscream yelped and reached his arms out to set distance between the two. “It wasn’t my intention! I simply made an official statement announcing our pairing at the ball.” He followed the next part with a murmur. “…under your house's seal…” 

Megatron looked back at the article. 

…official sources say that the two have only recently officiated a pairing, but many may find otherwise.

“Pairing. You officially announced that we had a pairing.”

Starscream said nothing. 

“Pairing. As in, ‘exclusivity to one another.’”

Starscream looked at everything but Megatron. “Perhaps.” 

Megatron took back thoughts regarding Starscream’s intelligence, the prince was beyond stupidity. “Did you fall too?”

Starscream’s wings tightened into a flare as Megatron tapped the flowing datapad to distract the seeker from throwing a tantrum. 

“Phrasing, Starscream, phrasing is everything.” Megatron sighed, belatedly. “This isn’t going to go well if we outright come out and try to dispel it. The source came from ‘me.’” He used his free servo to make air quotes.

Starscream merely shifted under the duke’s scrutinizing gaze.

“But,” The duke offered, appearing more contemplative. “I have an idea on how to do so much more efficiently.”

Starscream lit up a fraction, looking up to face Megatron for once. “Really?”

“Of course.” The duke smiled. 

A chill ran down Starscream’s spinal struts. 

Bad news. 

Immediate red flag. 

Sirens were blaring in Starscream’s helm as he felt his plating stiffen.

Megatron reached a servo out, softly beckoning. “Come here.”

Starscream’s voice shook. “No…I don’t think I will.”

“Nonsense, Starscream. You are one of my closest companions, I will merely do what I must to save both of our reputations. What I have in mind will spark headlines even greater than this one.” 

Starscream stepped back, clasping his servos together and squeezing them against his chest. “A-and what would that be?” 

Megatron’s smile widened, showcasing rows of sharp teeth and long, narrow fangs. Beyond the saws that Megatron called dente was a jaw that could crush anything within its confines. He was a predator in the plating of a noble. 

“I’m going to kill you.” 

Starscream screamed loud enough to shatter glass—fortunately the manor had long been updated to have anti-seeker screeching and anti-Megatron temper glass that was more akin to very well made plastic—and booked it out of the library, ducking under Megatron’s massive size. 

Once he drifted out of the doorway, his heels clicked against the floors as the heavy steps of a sprinting duke followed close. 

Megatron was out for blood. 

“Soundwave!” The prince called out, shuffling up the stairs between heavy vents. “Soundwave! Soundwave! Help me!”

Megatron's looming figure was merely steps behind Starscream’s, he didn’t even mutter a word and not a single vent could be heard escaping his systems. 

“How are you fragging fast?!” Starscream snapped as he turned into another corridor, almost slipping, failing to realize that he was coming up to the third floor. 

Just as Megatron planned. 

A particular thing about Megatron was that all his intelligence was instinctual. He was fast, calculating, and manipulative by no real means other than the fact it came naturally to him. His inclination towards mathematics and poetry came from a desire to control his surroundings, to understand how he saw fit, a sense of dominance that must perforate throughout all aspects in his life. One could argue that this may have stemmed from his inability to do so in his youth, and they would be right, but it too came from the fact that the mech was effectively built for this lifestyle. 

Megatron’s creators, whoever they were, were mechs not of high perigee but neither were they likely born to function as disposable. Perhaps tribal mechs of the forbidden plains who abandoned him for a plethora of reasons, good or bad, which would explain Megatron’s robust appearance. It was likely they resembled a labor frame while presenting as such or not at all; not that the two were wholly different. Megatron’s original scanned altmode of a loader served little good in the pits, but being so convinced he was a labor frame and unable to scan anything else left him better off not leaving root mode. Up until he was reformatted into a warframe and into his chosen alt mode of an aircraft. 

Within his time as both, Megatron could safely say that laborers and warframes were comparatively broad and powerful, one simply had a higher social standing. If you took either and swapped them the only real difference would be their knowledge.

Which is what it always came down to in the end. 

Megatron had more knowledge on war, battle tactics, and hunting than he did mining or construction, no thanks to his time as a gladiator and adoption into a house that would go on to carry more military power than anything else. Megatron could only guess he was a labor frame that reformatted, he had no qualms with presenting as such, considering it was what he presented to others. In a sense, he did it all to honor Terminus, who was the only bot Megatron would consider a real creator-figure in his life. Or else he’d be a warframe with more warframe junk tacked on top, and that would be embarrassing. 

Nevertheless, Megatron’s poor youth did nothing more than emphasize this inheritance from his unknown creators. He was a wild spirit in the moments he let such a part of himself slip, a born-in-the-wrong-century type of bot. Megatron would have made a fantastic tribe leader or president if time was kinder to him, but fate decided that ‘duke’ would somehow suit him. Even so, in the present era, it did nothing to changes the fact that Megatron was a hands-on mech, so he picked up on hunting—not the murderous kind—very well before it came to be he was equally, if not more, efficient in the murderous kind as well. He would go on to blame Cyclonus and Starscream for this. But it did not take away from the fact that Megatron was a special kind of bot, and Galvatron was the only one in the south that realized his potential.

Not that it mattered anymore. 

Galvatron was, of course, dead, and his keen optic for unique variances of intelligence were worthless when his somewhat beloved son was currently running amuck in his home because his weirdly-close frenemy was stupid enough to run his mouth to the tabloids about their fake-dating plot to win over a baron neither of them were familiar with. 

Megatron's face twitched. On second thought; Megatron realized how utterly insane he was to agree to this, Galvatron would disown him for being so silly, perhaps he deserved this fate by sheer idiocy on his part. 

The moment he had this realization, Megatron had chased Starscream up to the top floor and had him cornered. Megatron shrugged off the internal debate and decided to simply commit to the bit until he got bored, which, again, was the exact same mindset that got him into this mess. 

His intelligence was instinctual, mechanimalistic, he was a mech of jump now, think later. Not exactly what one would associate with common sense, try as he might. 

By this point the duo had reached the end of their high speed chase, and now began their cornering (not to be confused with courting). 

Somewhere amidst the high speed chance Soundwave had, somehow, yet typically, appeared off to the side of their little stand off with a blank stare.

“—Soundwave!” Starscream gasped. “Beloved in this wretched house! You have got to help me! He’s officially lost it!” Starscream pleaded and pointed a claw at his predator. 

Soundwave’s gaze followed Starscream’s digit, seeing how it pointed to his amica. Soundwave paused for a breem, waiting to see if Megatron would snap out of it by matching Soundwave’s gaze. He didn’t. So, Soundwave remained where he was, and offered the shell shocked prince a sympathetic shrug, though it came off as patronizing. 

Starscream lost any warmth towards the advisor at the act. “Traitor!” The prince bit. 

Megatron brought his frame low, as Starscream pressed against a wall. “ Stay still, I’ll be quick.” He spat.

Starscream, well acquainted with Megatron’s tirades but never brave enough to slap him out of one, raised his voice into a shrill whine. “But I never said anything about a courtship! They just took the statement and ran with it!”

Soundwave, also well acquainted with Megatron’s tirades, but always brave enough to slap him out of one, sighed and would do exactly that as he stepped closer and brought a servo up and landed a heavy handed slap! Onto his lordship. “Lord Megatron: Be civil.”

That seemed to do the trick. 

Megatron stood back up and growled at Soundwave. “Must you strip the fun in everything?” 

Soundwave faced Megatron. “Murder: Not fun.”

“Agree to disagree.” 

Soundwave paused, as though he might change gears and agree. Instead, he shook his head, re-evaluating the circumstances. “Murder Trial: Not fun. Death penalty: Not fun.” He offered, then followed up with. “Confirming stereotypes: Not fun.” 

Megatron’s helm tilted slightly at the last bit, his face shifted in thought as he finally eased. “Alright.” He rolled his shoulders back into a proper posture. “Fair enough.”

Starscream let out a heavy vent as he sagged his shoulders, this made Megatron’s attention allocate back to the flailing prince with a glare before he stopped himself. “Ugh, civility. Right.” He flung his arms up in frustration and started yelling—the perfect picture of civility. “What were you expecting?! That they’d take it at face value?!”

“Y-“

“No!” Megatron answered before Starscream could finish. “This is Iacon, not Vos. The north. The colder half of Cybertron. Not your dinky little floating island, where everybot is holding hands and singing hymns. These northern fragging pressbots find a scrap of interesting news and they’ll milk it for all its worth! Not to mention that the news will be molded into whatever they see fit. Why do you think every noble here is so damn secretive! The press will rip you to shreds!” 

Starscream set his servos, open-palmed, onto his chest plate. “How was I supposed to know?!”

“You’ve spent half your life here!” 

“I thought they’d treat me differently!” Starscream sobbed as he dragged himself down the wall into a seated position.

Megatron covered his face with his servos and dragged them down. “Then why did you use my name?”

Starscream, who was in complete hysterics at this point, shook his head as coolant fell down his face. “I don’t know!” He sobbed between hiccups. 

Megatron let out a deep ex-vent, much calmer now that Soundwave ‘grounded’ him. “Oh suck it up, you can’t cry your way out of the mess you made. I’m immune to your theatrics.” 

Starscream sniffled. “I can’t?”

“Unless your definition of it means I get to put your helm in a trophy case, then no.” 

Starscream stopped crying at that comment, thus setting into stone that it was more of his phenomenal acting than anything else. “Must you be so vulgar?” 

Megatron shrugged. “Made you stop crying.” 

“Oh, yes, because I’m feeling so comforted right now.”

Megatron barked out a bitter laugh. “My apologies, dearest , would you like me to get down and cradle you? Kiss you until you feel better?” The duke mocked.

Starscream hugged his knees and shrieked. “Absolutely not! Do not get within 10 steps of me.”

“Gladly.” The duke snapped back. 

Starscrean rested his chin on his knees. “How was I supposed to anticipate this outcome! This is detrimental to my image! What will Jetfire think!?” Starscream listed, as he gazed in the direction of a large clock set against the wall, his face furthering into a state of panic. “In the next couple of groons, when the sun rises in Vos my creators are going to call me, congratulating me, thinking that their stupid plan worked in the end!”

Megatron rolled his optics, clearly not sympathizing with the prince. “What will you tell them?”

“It’s a baseless rumor.” Statscream grit his dente. “We need to get damage control on this, immediately.”  

Megatron choked on his growing amusement. “And how will you do that?” He asked. “Half of Iacon already knows, and the news will reach the outskirts of Kalis by tonight. Not to mention that this entire situation can be tied back to my name so there’s no point in trying to deny it.” 

Starscream grumbled. “I don’t know! We need a plan.” 

“No,” Megatron corrected. “ You need a plan. I’m out.”

Starscream shrieked again. “What?! Why?!” He pleaded, scrambling back up in preparation to chase Megatron. 

“What do you mean ‘why?!’” Megatron pointed at Starscream, “You got us into this mess and I no longer desire to be involved in your ridiculous plan! It didn’t even work!”  

“It takes time!” Starscream argued. “Are you just going to abandon me and ruin our reputations?”

Megatron’s face fell into a smirk. “Yes.” He answered plainly, turned on his heels and began to walk away. 

“Wait!” Starscream called out. “You can’t do this!”

“News flash, moron! I just did!” Megatron yelled. “My reputation is already in the bin, I could care less if it goes into the dumpster.”

Soundwave snickered. 

Megatron stopped only to look at Soundwave. “And you. Shut up.”

“Soundwave: Suggestion?”

Starscream bore his focus onto the usually quiet companion of the not-quiet duke. “Yes! Yes! What do you suggest?” 

“Suggestion: Open Relationship.”

Megatron, too proud to walk back without a viable reason, but too curious to stop completely, slowed his pace a fraction. 

Starscream’s excitement dwindled. “What?”

“Suggestion: Open Relationship.” Soundwave repeated. 

Starscream looked at Soundwave for a moment hoping he’d elaborate, but he didn’t, so Starscream looked at Megatron’s disappearing figure hoping he would do so instead. “What?” He called out a little louder. 

Megatron stopped mid step and rolled his optics so hard something popped at the back of his helm, he set his arms down to the side and strode back over to the shorter bots in a not-quite walk of shame. “He’s saying we need to act as though we’re losing interest in one another.”

Starscream’s face looked a bit more puzzled. 

“You know? Cheat on each other?” Megatron tried.

Starscream frowned. “That’s worse.”

Megatron looked angrier in turn. “Do you want to fix this or not?”

“Can’t we just pretend to hate each other long enough to get it annulled?” 

“We already hate each other quite openly, for all they know it’s how we flirt.”

Starscream bit his lipplate. “Fair point.” 

Megatron let his helm fall back and sighed. “Okay.” He spoke, allowing his voice to fall from its scarier pitch and tried to explain in a way that would make it through the prince's thick plating. “We’re not in a real relationship, let alone courtship, but as far as every other bot on this planet is concerned. We are. So,” Megatron waited for half a breem so Soundwave could nod in agreement. “In order to effectively annul our courtship, we’d need to act like we’re over our honeymoon phase. We need to show a failing courtship. Make mistakes. Pretend to be offended at certain things. Pick up a mistress, or two, and we can create enough evidence of infidelity that we can get away with cutting the tie without ruining our images even more.” 

Starscream narrowed his gaze. “So…”

“So it means your plan is still in motion.” Megatron grit out. “You can openly pursue your beloved baron, except you’re trying to make it appear as though you want me to be jealous. Not him.”

Starscream brightened and clasped his servos together. “I’m a genius.” 

Megatron flicked Starscream’s helm on Soundwave’s behalf. “No you’re not, the reason we have to do this is your fault to begin with.” 

“Ah, you say that now, but this favors me entirely. No? I get to paint you as the unloving mech that you are while seeking out the company of who I actually want.” 

“Hardly.” Megatron snorted. “Make it as dramatic as you want, pull out all your theatrical capabilities to ‘make me jealous’ but in the end all you’ll be seen as is a loose prince that ends up with a lower class baron over a duke.” Megatron pauses for a moment before bending down to smirk at Starscream. “Granted that he’d be willing to accept you.” 

“Quality over quantity, my dear duke.”

“There’s dozens of barons, Starscream. I’m the north’s only duke by line of descent.” 

“Oh you know what I mean!” The prince snapped. “Titles are just titles. Dukedom is worthless if you’re just an aft.”

“Sticks and stones.” Megatron hummed to himself. “Still, this is merely one option, are you willing to effectively destroy our public relationship with one another?”

“What other options are there? If we openly refute the courtship claim then we’ll be worse for wear, and your house’s integrity will be in shambles. And I’m not going to bond to you because of it.” Starscream tsked. “I suppose it’s inevitable, I’m sure we can fake another bid of amnesty later on to patch up our reputations. But what about you? You’re not exactly the kind to waltz around with any bot.”

Megatron made a pensive sound. “I’ll figure something out, as long as it gets me out of this.” 

“Then what about your servants? They can help this spread too. Given they bore witness to,” Starscream looked back at the wall he was up against moments prior. “ That .” 

“No need to worry about that ,” Megatron waved his servo dismissively. “They’re well acquainted with our habits, and I doubt they believed this ruse from the beginning. And if they did, our little argument will quell that and our newfound infidelity will give them more to talk about.” 

Starscream agreed with a nod just as his face darkened into a scowl in record time. “My brothers are calling me.” He said as he reached two digits up to his audial and cringed. 

From where he stood, Megatron could hear the yelling of Thundercracker and Skywarp’s incessant taunting. “Word travels fast.” Megatron mused. 

“Skywarp will never let me hear the end of it.”

“Seems like he already is.” 

Starscream shot Megatron and glare and started to answer his brothers in short, bitter sentences and insults. He only stopped to hastily excuse himself from Megatron and Soundwave with an, “I’ll see you later.” 

Megatron slightly bowed at the hip. “Then don’t let me keep you, I have something I need to take care of as well.”

Starscream waved him off and disappeared into one of the guest rooms trying to save face from his brothers. 

Soundwave watched Starscream disappear and turned to Megatron. “Inquiry: Office?”

“I’m guessing you brought that inconvenient letter with you.” 

Soundwave nodded. 

Megatron sighed. “Will I ever know peace?” 

Soundwave set a servo reassuringly on the duke’s shoulder and escorted him in the opposite direction of Starscream towards Megatron’s office.

Optimus gently closed the door behind him as he breathed out a sigh. It was safe, the letter was safely delivered at Megatron’s abode, safely set in the elaborate mailbox. 

Exhaustion began to catch up to Optimus, he slipped off the tarp, trying to step quietly up the stairs towards his room. Each step was agonizing, but a reminder of the good he’d done. 

When the moment came that he reached the top, his heavy steps were matched by soft clicks. 

“Well, well, well, back so soon?”

Optimus turned in an instant to face his confronter. “You.” He gasped, though it fell into a hiss. “What are you doing here?” 

The gloss of slick black paint reflected the moonlight with a white glean. “Am I not allowed to visit my northern companions?” 

Optimus ignored the rhetorical question. “How did you get in here?” 

“Same way you got out.” They smiled.

“You’ve been here the whole time?!” 

“Of course!” They smiled, uncaring of the ruckus they might cause. “I would have thought you’d know, you disappeared is such a rush after all.”

Optimus stepped back without a word, attempting to analyze the severity of the situation.

The dark figure laughed. “Are you scared? Is that what this is? I’m flattered you see me as such a threat.”

“That’s because you are a threat, A-“ 

“Ah, Ah, Ah.” They interrupted. “You must be quiet,” They brought a digit up to their lips before they waved their servo around to the perimeter of the place at the top of the staircase. “There’s optics and audials everywhere.” 

“You won’t get away with this.” Optimus growled. 

“Oh, darling.” The assailant beamed as they clicked closer and closer to the fretful prince. “Don’t you get it?” They sung. 

“I already have.”

Dear Duke Megatron, 

On beehive of my coordinates resodance. I give you Congraltuations on you’re coortship. I wish your well in all any futon expediting…

Windy’s face scrunched up in confusion as she tried to decipher whatever Optimus was trying to write. She’d bring the datapad closer, then farther away in hopes that blurring her focus might make it make sense of the jumbled words. It didn’t really help. 

Optimus watched on, embarrassed. “I didn’t do a very good job, did I?” 

“Um, well,” Windy turned the datapad length-wise. “You got a few things right.”

Optimus hid behind his servos. “I tried my best…”

“I can tell.”

Optimus looked up. “Can you?”

“Well, I mean, I can—now that you’ve said so.”

Optimus’ composure wilted. “Don’t tease me.”

Windy giggled softly. “Sorry,” She began to scribble over what Optimus had with a different color. “It’s not awful, I think you’re just messing up some key distinctions between glyphs. And your handwriting…could use some work.” 

Optimus rested his arms on his knees as he watched Windy correct his attempt. “I’m surprised you’re so knowledgeable in this stuff.”

“Don’t be,” Windy dismissed as she finished up her corrections and handed the datapad back. “All the palace maids have to be educated to even apply. Bare minimum, really, if you really want help I can grab Chromia. I’m sure she’ll be happy to look over your stuff.”

Optimus considered the suggestion. “I would, but,”

“But?”

“I find her frightening.”

Windy let out a gruff sigh. “What happened to being a big bot?”

“I can be mature while being scared of Chromia.” Optimus countered. “Just as I am with my sire.”

Windy laughed. “That makes one of us.” 

Optimus let out a small laugh in turn and decided to look over the datapads corrections after their exchange. 

To the prestigious Duke of Iacon,

On behalf of my cordial residence, I offer you my congratulations on your courtship. I wish you well on all your future expenditures with the Crown Prince of Vos.

“Oh, this is good.” He blinks, impressed. 

“Can you read it?”

“I can, surprisingly enough.” 

“Hey!” Windy clapped excitedly. “You’re getting better already then!” 

Optimus brightened at the compliment. “I guess so, I have been building up to this after all.”

Windy grinned, as darkly as her sweet face could. “Now write more so we can send it.”

Optimus smiled and chuckled in turn, his expression dipping into one that would be increasingly precious to the maid. For a moment Windy was feeling hopeful, until her prince lifted his servo, tracing digits softly over the letter and turned it off without a fuss, tossing it across the room without breaking optical contact with Windy. 

The letter clattered and Optimus continued to smile softly.

“Absolutely not.”

…

The sound of scribbling reverberated through the wide, usually quiet study. Dusty books were piled high alongside a collection of their modern equivalents in the form of datapads, some held myths, others mathematics, but they all pertained to the knowledge a royal must attain in the early vorns of their life. An elderly figure was writing on the board in earnest, almost forgetting the small collection of students an arms length away.

A-3 remained attentive to the perfect hand that wrote even, legible text across the large screen he dubbed as his board. Elita-One, Sentinel, and Rodimus sat at a long table as a board looked over them with scribbled glyphs of key words pointing at simplified drawings of complicated concepts, each with their own collection of materials for the cycle. The three youths were disinterested in what A-3 detailed as he lectured on the civil responsibilities they would all come to serve in the case that Optimus was found unfit to rule. Every now and again Sentinel would snicker when the mentioning of his potential replacement of Optimus as crown prince, but it would turn into a scowl when A-3 would reprimand him for this saying he was no better fit to rule that Optimus in his current state. Elita and Rodimus would stifle their own snickering in turn. 

It was a heavy topic, A-3 spoke sternly as he tried to convey the bleek themes to the audience of younglings. None of them were old enough to take over from Ultra Magnus, none of them were particularly interested in doing so either, all while none of them were paying A-3 any more attention than they usually would. They would whisper and hush one another as soon as A-3 turned his back to write something on the board of their study room. 

The future of Iacon , A-3 would bitterly whisper to himself. 

Nevertheless, A-3 persisted, if he had learned this all at some point, so would the latest collection set out before him. He sighed and voiced a few more key points as he wrote the glyphs out in the same ridgid hand. 

“You three are the future, do you understand me?” He asked.

“Yeah, yeah, and you’re the past, so what?” Sentinel groaned as he leaned back in his seat. 

A-3 had to stop himself from snapping the stylus in his grip. “This is well beyond your understanding, it seemed.” He whispered under a deep exvent before picking up with his usual tone. “The past I may be, but that is what makes me imperative to your futures. Learn from me, through me, and you shall thrive.”

Rodimus hummed. “That sounds like something outta' myth.”

“‘Out of a myth,’ Rodimus.” 

“Uh-huh.”

A-3 felt a similar twinge of irritation, but kept it concealed behind his pen against the board, back turned to the younglings. “I need you all to realize that Optimus it no longer in a position to rule–”

Sentinel groaned again, loudly. “Ugh, we know. Can you please let it go?”

A-3 set the stylus he was writing with harshly on the mount of the board, whipping himself around and thus placing his irritation on display. “I will let it go when you show yourself to be capable enough to take the place of your sire.” A-3 reprimanded and pointed at the board. “Which, clearly, none of you are.” 

Sentinel made a face, which somehow ticked off A-3 even more and he slammed his servo against the board which made everyone, including A-3, to flinch. “The situation in which we find ourselves in is increasingly dire, I do not expect you, or any of you to understand enough to take his place soon but I do need you to understand this,” 

The three younglings, even Elita who was primarily innocent leading up to this, to inch back at the lashing. 

A-3 did not relent. “I do this, because I have no faith in any of you to make it in Primacy for longer than a breem. If you do not learn from me, a piece of history, you will become the history itself. I know this is tedious and boring, but you are graced with the power of a thousand suns and the riches many can only dream of. It is your responsibility to wield this wisely, and I cannot ensure any of you do that if you do not listen to what I have to say. To what I have to teach . Am I making myself clear?”

Elita, Rodimus, and Sential were so far ducked into their seats A-3 could only assume they were nodding their heads by the bobbing motion they seemed to be making. The elder hid himself behind the back of his hand and sighed. “I apologize, it was not my intention to frighten you. But, please, at least try to pay attention.”

The three made another, similar, bobbing motion.

Taking this at face value, A-3 turned and picked up his stylus once more and continued on with what he was making a fuss over. 

The room fell into another state of strained silence as A-3 found himself writing once again, the habit calmed him, distracted him enough to focus only on what to write and nothing more. The civil advisor hoped that the trinity was listening to him now, he assumed they were with the sudden silence they found themselves in. A-3 almost patted himself on the back for getting the group back in order.

Just as the old mech was finishing his latest example of the courtroom branches, he was met with the first words to escape from his students in a while. 

“Oh. My. Prima.” Elita gasped as she slapped a servo over her intake.

A-3 wondered if such bewilderment was necessary, but at the very least it was indicative of something. 

“No way…” Sentinel hissed.

To hear Sentinel say such a thing made A-3 spark glow in excitement, he was starting to think he was finally getting the severity of the situation into their underdeveloped processors, but then Rodimus spoke with a typical volume and A-3 had to acknowledge that this was not the case. 

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

A-3 turned around. “Rodimus. This is a very serious topic, I would like it if you did not treat it so casually.”

Sentinel snickered and Rodimus bristled. “No! Not you!” 

A-3 set down the stylus he was drawing on the board with and placed his servos on his waist. “Then what are you referring to?”

Rodimus looked at Elita who pointed at her wrist where a small attachment projected a small screen that the others were hovering over. “The Decepticon Manor has officially announced Lord Megatron and Prince Starscream’s courtship.” 

A-3’s servos fell from their place in an act of surprise. “Oh.”

“I believe it’s caused quite a ruckus already.” Elita added. 

A-3 nodded. “I can imagine. Although,” the older mech paused for a moment. “I cannot say I have ever anticipated those two to be romantically involved.”

Sentinel folded his arms over his chest. “No? Those two are practically attached at the hip whenever that flier is here!”

“Please refrain from referring to visiting royalty so crudely, Sentinel.”

“So it’s okay if he’s not here?”

A-3’s gaze sharpened at the second-born who promptly looked away to avoid it with a smirk.

Rodimus ignored his brother in favor of more gossip.“Yeah but aren’t they always arguing?” 

“Maybe they do it differently in Vos.” Elita said with a sultry tone.

“I wonder when they're gonna’ have their bonding ceremony.” Rodimus said, looking up in thought. “I betcha’ it’ll be huge.”

“Do not say ‘betcha,’ it’s uncouth.” A-3 corrected.

The fearsome threesome continued to ignore A-3 when he was not actively participating in their chosen topic.

“I’ve always wanted to go to a Royal bonding ceremony.” Elita mused. “I hope they do a mixed ceremony...”

A-3 sighed. “Announcing a courtship is merely expressing desire to bond, there is no guarantee it will be completed.” 

Sentinel scoffed. “I hope they don’t go through with it, imagine how funny it’ll be when it falls through and those two see each other in public.” 

Rodimus giggled. “That’s mean.”

“Then why’d you laugh?” Sentinel quipped. 

“Cuz’ it’s still funny.”

“Because , Rodimus.” A-3 corrected, again.

Rodimus made a soured face. “Because, it’s still funny.”

“Thank you.”

“Bleh.”

Elita pitched into the conversation once again, shifting the topic slightly. “Do you think I’ll ever be courted?” She asked, sweetly bringing her servos up to frame her face. 

Sentinel started to laugh. “With a face like yours? Nah.”

Elita smacked Sentinel across the helm. “I suggest you go look in the mirror,” She spat, in direct contrast to her precious act from before. “Vector wasted his beauty on Optimus and you two got stuck with Uncle Magnus’ ugly mug.”

“Hey!” Rodimus cried. “Why’d I get dragged into this!”

“Because,” Elita mocked with a shrug. “You didn’t say yes.” 

A-3 optic twitched. “Elita-One.”

“I’m just teasing.” She said sternly. “Am I not allowed to tease? I am the oldest.” 

“Yeah! By like three kilks!” Sentinel added, rubbing his helm.

Elita scoffed. “And those were the best three breems of my life anyways.” 

“Elita-One,” A-3 began, pinching the space between his optics. “I find no fault in teasing your cousins, for I find that it is indicative of a good relationship, but I request that you do not drag Lord Ultra Magnus’ name in doing so.”

Elita shrank a little. “My apologies.”

Rodimus stuck his glossa out. “You’re just sorry you got caught.”

Elita brought her servo up. “Watch it, or else I’ll make you even uglier.”

“I dare you!” 

Rodimus giggled as he picked himself off the floor and dashed around the room. Elita, not one to back down from a fight, got up too and chased after him.

A-3 tried to stop them. “Elita-One! Rodimus! Please do not partake in such behavior!” When they refused to listen, A-3 stood to his full height to chase after them with a speed walk. “Rodimus! I request that you put an end to this, you may worsen your condition.”

Elita stopped dead in her tracks. “You have a condition?”

Rodimus stopped a few short steps ahead of his cousin and unconsciously reached for his helm. “Oh yeah, I fell yesterday.” 

Elita recycled her optics, and walked towards Rodimus apologetically, losing her childish behavior in the process. “I’m sorry, why didn’t you tell me? I wouldn’t have been so hard on you.”

Rodimus brushed her off. “Nah, I’m fine. Ratchet said I just gotta be a bit careful for a while.”

Sentinel leaned into his seat, watching the two. “How’d you fall anyways, you klutz?”

Rodimus blinked. “I saw Optimus.”

Sentinel jolted up and Elita stepped back, ”What?!” 

Rodimus blinked. “Didn’t I tell you guys?”

“No!”

“Oh.” Rodimus laughs. “Well, now you know.” 

“Hold on. Hold- hold on .” Sentinel grumbled as he got up. “When did you see Optimus?”

“Yestercycle, duh.” Rodimus answered. “When I was skipping tutoring I saw him by the Onyx House.”

A-3 re-entered the conversation with a quizzical appearance, overlooking the guilty admission. “Ultra Magnus was in a meeting that cycle. Neither of you would have had access to the Onyx House.” 

Rodimus shrugged. “We didn’t know that. Doesn’t matter anyways, that grouch gave us an audial-full for going in before Optimus got all weird.”

A-3 brought a servo up to his chin and spoke in a tone that was reserved more for himself. “That explains why Ultra Magnus was in a foul mood when he returned to his office.”

Sentinel ignored A-3. “Optimus was acting weird?”

Rodimus nodded. “Yeah, it was after he saw big M.”

“Megatron?” Elita asked. 

“Who else would it be?” Rodimus retorted. “He even made me apologize to sire after they started at each other for a breem. Then he dragged me out and left for his residence.” 

“That is weird.” Elita said.

“Optimus has always been weird.” Sentinel butts in. “Plus he’s all loopy from his fall so obviously he’s missing a few screws. Megatron’s a scary fragger, who wouldn’t freak out seeing him.”

“Yeah but he was really nice before that!” Rodimus insisted. 

“Nice?” Elita asked, baffled. “That’s even weirder.”

Rodimus sat down on the floor, sprawling his frame out to a big stretch. “I guess—” He paused to make a sound akin to a sputtering trash compactor, “But he wasn’t weird about it. I think he was just worried about me when I fell.” 

“You’re a terrible point of reference.” Elita grumbled as she sat down on the nearest seat, dissecting the information. “I wish I saw him instead, at least then I could explain him better.”

“You’re acting like he’s some kind of experiment.” Sentinel pointed out. “If he’s weird, he’s weird, if you have an issue with it go to the weaver.”

Rodimus and Elita shot Sentinel a glare and shushed him.

“Do not speak of the weaver so plainly.” A-3 commented as he began to pick up his personals. “He holds a high rank for a reason.”

Sentinel groaned and rolled his optics. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” 

“If you are aware of it, then I suggest you practice it.” A-3 scolded before he walked towards the exit of the study, officially giving up on the younglings. “I will conclude your class for today, but I expect the reading to be done by tomorrow. And for this unbecoming behavior I expect a page long essay summarizing the contents.” The collection of youths groaned, but A-3 was already halfway out of the door. “May Primus light your paths.” He bowed deeply and departed. 

Elita grunted as she matched Rodmius’ place on the floor, listening for the soft steps echo as they faded enough to guarantee her safety before she smirked. “You think he’s Magnus’ mistress?” 

Rodimus and Sentinel groaned and gagged loudly as their faces twisted into disgust by the image of such horror. Elita fell into a fit of laughter at her success. 

A-3 heard the comment, naturally, but was no longer in the mood to deal with the younglings and their boisterous behaviors. How did they come to be so immature? A-3 berated himself for a moment, believing himself the reason for such a failure in lieu of Vector Prime’s passing. But there was little he could do either way, the lot acted much more becoming when they needed to be and that was all he could ask for, really. The same couldn’t be said about Ultra Magnus, however, he held the younglings to an unrealistic standard, borderline archaic. Although A-3 never made such comments about it, the mech was under an obscene amount of stress, it would naturally blend into other parts of his life. 

A-3 stepped out of the Ruby Palace and walked the short distance to the Amethyst Palace in deep contemplation of the cycle’s lesson. They would learn, as all younglings do, it was only a matter of time and an exuberant amount of patience. 

The civil servant entered the Amethyst palace with little fuss, the guards were well acquainted with his presence and he served little threat despite his height. 

A-3 did not bother with pleasantries, not today at least. 

As soon as he stepped into the magnificent feat of architecture, A-3 poked around the first floor in search of Ultra Magnus. Well aware of his schedule that cycle, he knew that the Lord Protector would be tucked away in a study or salon looking over the cycle's work without any more meetings to bother him. 

By the last room A-3 searched, he had come to the conclusion that Ultra Magnus was not on the first floor. It was fortunate that the palace was usually empty, otherwise A-3 would be making an absolute fool of himself. 

Far too embarrassed to open their communication line directly, A-3 opted to continue his search in hopes of finding him and brushing it off as a mere coincidence. 

Such a juvenile mindset led to A-3 poking about the second floor with no avail, he was only met with gradious portraits of mech more ancient than he and uncharacteristically simple furnishings. So, he brought his aging frames onto the steps that lead to the third floor. 

And yet, he still found no bot in sight. 

A-3 was growing weary at this point, unsure if he’d make it all the way up the fourth and survive the search there. But A-3 was relentless when he wanted to be. 

It would be easier to comm Ultra Magnus, really, but A-3 had no reason to contact him outside of the presumptive gossip that plagued his mind. Despite his inclinations for civility and order, A-3 was surprisingly like the young bots he’d reprimand for being so dense. A small piece of who he was back when he was studying alongside Vector Prime and Ultra Magnus in their youth. 

Which was most assuredly, a very long time ago. The fact such a childish part of him existed at all was impressive, he could not say the same for Ultra Magnus. But he could for Vector Prime. 

Just as the thought of Vector Prime came to his consciousness, A-3 began to notice all the small paraphernalia devoted to the late prime. A vase with a crystal flower from his bonding ceremony, curtains in his favorite shade of blue, a tapestry he embroidered while carrying. All tokens of a joyful era long gone, and A-3 passed every treasure as though it was a painful reminder. A-3 refused to look at them for too long, lest he need to be reminded of more bittersweet memories. But, he did note that there was little of Vector Prime's image to be seen, A-3 found himself morbidly intrigued by the lack of Vecotor’s smiling face plastered across the halls of his windowed Protector.

And as luck would have it, as A-3 turned away from another one of Vector’s paintings from his youth he passed by a stand by the edge of the last set of stairs. A-3 thought little of it, its dilapidated appearance served as more of an eyesore than anything else, but just as the graying bot stepped up the glisten of a golden frame caught his attention. 

It was tucked between a small, crystal sculpture of a foreign flora, hardly noticeable if it were not conveniently getting hit by a stray beam of light. A-3 reached down carefully to pry the curious object from its place. 

A-3 was met with the image of the Vector Prime, surprisingly. He stared at the image of his lost prime with a blank expression, in contrast to Vector who was laughing like a fool, clutching a barely-emerged Optimus swaddled in the finest silks. It was a photograph, likely snapped from a video recording and imprinted onto the picture frame, prime’s were never photographed or painted in such a common light. A-3 could only imagine the shotty snapshot was taken from Ultra Magnus' memory banks of him insisting that his conjunx put down the frail new life form. A-3 tried to imagine the scene outside the single frame.

Vector would likely dance away, bringing Optimus up and down, careful not to harm the bitlet but enough so that he would shriek with the same delight as his carrier. Ultra Magnus would have none of it, insisting Vector to stop the behavior in a soft, panicked tone while insistent with his plea, arms out and reaching for whichever of the two came crashing first. 

The memory was common, it was one of a family, one of a simple family. New, bright, and full of life. Young and innocent, not yet sullied by the blank paint of power. 

A smile tugged at A-3’s lipolates.

His darling older brother, Vector Prime. 

It wasn’t well known that A-3 and Vector were related, they didn’t look the part, for one. 

No one treated them as such, either, Vector was the glistening beacon of their people, time intertwined in the digits of his servos, and A-3 a bookish quirk who ducked away from the limelight. Far too different to be anything other than estranged. 

Vector emerged from the Lord High Protector at the time, and A-3 the afterthought of a mistress a vorn later. Half-brothers as the result of a negligent Prime with too much time on their servo’s. The two were presented as cousins when the threat of truth loomed over the then-prime; there were only a handful of mechs that knew the truth. 

One of them, namely being Ultra Magnus. 

A-3 let a soured expression pass over his usually stoic face at the recollection that now tainted Vector’s smile. He never resented Vector for anything, A-3 was smart enough to know he had no reason too when it was as out of Vector’s control as much as it was his own. But it certainly stung that Vector lived such a good life over A-3 with his binary designation and life dedicated to study. But it was expected, Vector was the crown prince, he lived better than anyone, his future bonded to be as well. 

Vector was fortunate to pass around his middle age, idealized and immortalized for his grace and beauty. He would not have to suffer from the same aches and pains his bonded or brother did and he would not have to cry at the sight of his amnesiac son. Even though he would delight at the voices of his younger sons and niece chasing each other through the study.

A-3 gently caressed the edges of the small photograph, deciding no longer to dwell on it. His digits slowly lifted away as he tucked the frame back into its hiding spot and continued on his search for his in-law and boss. He stepped up through the staircase, taking in a fresh breath at every second step until he reached the top. 

He really was getting old. 

By the time A-3 reached the top, he was nearly breathless. But his pride, likely inherited from his sire, refused to let it show as he looked around quickly to confirm it was safe, and only when it was, did A-3 let out a deep vent to ease his systems. The hot air made the atmosphere dance for a breem until A-3 was able to settle into what his systems may call normal.

As the quiet finally settled, A-3 heard the echoes of the mech he sought. 

A-3 looked around quickly, pride be damned, and paced to the left when he deemed it the focal direction of the voice. 

“…nonsense…absolutely ridiculous…” Ultra Magnus’ voice would snort. 

A separate, delicately pitched voice spoke quietly and what it said was unable to be deciphered by A-3.

A-3 slowed his pace, suddenly intrigued by the second voice. Now, no better than the youth he scolded, A-3 quietly pressed himself against the wall in case he was not to be allowed to listen in. 

How childish he was indeed. 

A-3 inched against the wall, scooting closer with painful steps reminding him of his age until he finally reached the cracked door that contained Ultra Magnus and the second voice. Now, he could understand what they said. 

“You don’t possibly suggest I keep Optimus as crown prince?”

“Oh, but I do.” A soft voice assured. “Your other sons are unfit to rule, far too young and shrouded in mystery.” 

“Speak clearly, Rung. I am not in the mood to understand your code.” 

A-3 recycled his optics. 

The voice was increasingly familiar now that A-3 could understand it, but it did little to change the curiosity of it all. Ultra Magnus was speaking to the weaver. Although no one called him by such a casual designation. 

Rung—the weaver, sighed. “I cannot see into their futures, nor am I able to control it.” He pressed. “They’re too young, immature. They are in the most formidable vorns of their life, what happens now will affect them greatly. Vector Prime’s passing already has. Placing even more pressure onto them with the crown will only make things worse.” 

Ultra Magnus clicked his glossa. “Then neither will assume power, only when I pass shall someone within my generation rule.” 

Rung sighed, again. The shuffling of a couch’s cushions indicated his movement within the room. “Then you risk losing power within the reigning family. The line of succession only favors Optimus in this case. Sentinel will never be a proper ruler, and I assure you that Rodimus would sooner flee the north than assume position. You are better off trying again with Optimus, I still see potential in him.” 

“There has to be another.”

“If you wait until you pass, A-3 will be too old and that would leave the House of One to take over and disgrace the Primal House. Then it will all fall onto poor Elita. Out of all in her generation, I trust her abilities to rule, but she is prone to naivety. She will be manipulated by her family.”

Ultra Magnus’ voice was followed by a similar shuffling sound. “I truly am the most unfortunate Lord High Protector.” He chided. 

A-3 jumped a little at the joke. Ultra Magnus never joked, certainly not with him, at least, A-3 never expected it to be with the weaver of all individuals. It was certainly not the time in which A-3 should get involved, he contemplated turning around and scampering off to the Onyx Palace and finding something to do, work was not in short supply. However, by the time A-3 decided on his path in the opposite direction, his step betrayed him with a creaky floorboard. 

To the pits with these ancient buildings. 

A-3 shivered, waited half a breem, and decided to bite the bullet and called out in hopes to downplay his guilt. “Hello? Lord Ultra Magnus?” 

There was a quiet stillness in the air, A-3 nearly considered himself insane and explained everything away as delusion until Magnus spoke out. 

“In here,” He answered calmly. “I’m in the salon.”

A-3 stiffened and strode over to the door, knocking it open with a quiet, rhythmic tapping. “My lord?”

“A-3.” Ultra Magnus replied. “Were you looking for me?” 

A-3 passed a quick glance over Ultra Magnus and the weaver. They sat around a table, with four sofas surrounding it. They both sat in different sofas but diagonal from one another. The Lord Protector dwarfed the orange bot in an extreme level, yet the two appeared comfortable in their seats across from one another. Ultra Magnus reclined into his chair while the weaver sat straight in another, and offered A-3 a smile. 

“Hello, A-3. It’s been a while.”

Something twitched within A-3, suddenly, intrinsically, like sand had slipped between his transformation seams and his frame was only now reacting to it because solvent dislodged it to a less sensitive place. To better hide this twitch, A-3 bowed deeply. “So it has, your grace.” 

Rung’s smile faltered. ”There is no need for such displays, rank is nothing more than frivolity to me. Please, sit.” 

A-3 lifted himself back up, looking at Ultra Magnus momentarily for further instruction. The bigger bit simply nodded his head and used it to point at an empty couch diagonal from his own and directly across that of Rung’s 

“Thank you.” A-3 said as he walked towards the coach across Rung and sat down. 

“What brings you here, A-3?” Magnus asked when the civil advisor sat down properly. 

A-3 considered what to answer, it was shameful to admit seeking the mech out simply to gossip. Much less if Rung were present, so he opted for a safer option. “I wished to discuss future lessons for the princes and Lady Elita.”

Ultra Magnus’ expression fell to that of what he might usually turn to, a scowl. “Was today’s lesson any good?”

“Unfortunately not.” A-3 admitted, meekly. “They spent most of the time…” A-3 almost bit his glossa, but the words had already slipped out and formed a sentence. “Gossiping.” 

Rung’s interest piqued, his face lit up in direct contrast to Magnus’ deepening scowl. “Oh? What could they possibly be discussing that was more important than their lesson.” 

A-3 felt that twinge of irritation again, as if it wasn’t obvious enough that younglings would deem anything more important. “It appears that Duke Megatron has officiated a pairing to Prince Starcscream of Vos.” 

In the end, A-3 got what he wanted with a bit extra.

Both Rung and Ultra Magnus’ optics blew wide, nearly cracking in the process, dare A-3 say he saw their intakes fall open before some logical part of their processor remedied against the act. The room fell into a perfect quiet as the two tried to process the news. 

Ultra Magnus was the first to collect himself, shuffling up into a more upright position. “That's absurd.” Magnus huffed, he shifted again in obvious. “Those two? Courting?” He asked none other than himself. 

“Well, that is…certainly news.” Rung tried to offer kindly.

Magnus gave up trying to understand and fell into the couch in an even more slouched, yet comfortable, position than before. “Now I know this empire is destined to fall into ruin.” He groaned and shielded his face.

Rung offered Magnus a sympathetic glance and gently reached for his knee to tap it reassuringly. The gesture made A-3’s optics widen much like the other two. That was a suspiciously intimate gesture. It made the advisor shift in his own, hidden way, and that uncomfortable sifting only lead to the sand in his seams to seep into the gears of his chest, trickling into the corona of his spark. 

“Change is constant.” Rung said with a couple of taps. “There is no destiny in which we follow, merely the one we pave for ourselves with the decisions we make.” 

Ultra Magnus huffed, again. “I need not your prattle, Rung. I need an answer.”

“To which I have none, I am not a fortune teller. I am a humble weaver.”

There was that designation again. A-3 chewed at the inside of his cheek. Since when were these two so close?  

“If I may be so bold.” A-3 tested. Rung returned his servo to his lap and focused onto A-3. “What do you do?” 

Rung smiled. “I help.” 

A-3 furrowed his ridges at such an answer, if one could even consider it an answer. “I see.” He says, unfurrowing said ridges just as quickly. 

“Do you need help?” Rung asked. 

“No.” A-3 answered, tone even. “Thank you, but I would never bother you to waste your time on me.” 

“Everyone is important, there is nothing to be wasted if I can be of service.” Rung replies with another soft smile. He was a pretty bot, A-3 realizes, simple in appearance but drenched with an aura of grace and humility. 

A-3 felt himself growing insecure at the sight of the surprisingly pretty mech. He decides that this expedition was not a successful one after all. “Well,” He stands up and bows. “It was a pleasure to see you again, weaver. But I have a few more affairs I must attend to.” A-3 quickly turns to Ultra Magnus. “If you would like to further discuss lesson plans, do not hesitate to notify me.” 

Ultra Magnus waved him off. “Yes. Of course. Thank you, A-3.”

“I exist to serve you.” A-3 says with a final, deep bow. “I will be departing now. May Primus light your path.”

“And to you as well.” Rung answers with a tilt of his helm. 

Ultra Magnus hums weakly in response.

A-3 picked up his pedes and began to walk out the salon door, refraining from allowing his flushed appearance to make itself known. 

How shameful it was to feel such things.

Optimus stepped back, measuring the distance set as his battle systems activated. “No. You have won nothing, you-!”

“Do you really think they’ll believe you!?” The sweet voice barked, suddenly turning bitter. “Do you think they’d believe you suddenly had a change of spark and want to do what’s best for the people?!” They threw their helm back in a hearty, cold laugh. “They were wrong! You do have a sense of humor!”

Optimus could not find an insult as his processor scrambled through possible escapes, but the voice denied him the chance to execute one of the dozens that scrolled across his HUD.

The intruder's voice sharpened like a knife. “You’re free to try as you please, prince, but this whole time you’ve been no better than your predecessors or I.”

“I have made many mistakes,” Optimus bit. “But I would never do them to undermine Iacon or the north.” 

“Of course not.” The voice cooed. “Tell me, Optimus, will your precarious little duke read that letter and come to your rescue? When that poor fool has nothing but hate for your kingdom and for you? You feel the touch of the matrix once and now you think you’re capable of change?”

Optimus’s HUD went blank at the nonchalant remark. “What?”

“Oh, you heard me.” The figure spat. “You will not be saved by the hero you defiled.”

Optimus’ optic cycled to their widest setting. “How do you know about—“

Black paint flashed white in sudden movement against the moonlight, their amusement was fading, fast. “About the letter? The vision?” They finished for him. “Come now, Optimus. I said there’s optics and audials everywhere, but I never said they were there for your protection.” The delicate servo of a lean-framed bot placed itself into Optimus’ chest and traced over the flames. “You know,” They mewed, reverting to their facade. “If I were you, I’d really be regretting that letter right now.” 

The sensation and sentence made Optimus’ internals go cold. “What?”

Dark optics matched Optimus’ blue. “Optics and audials, prime.” They repeated. “There is a reason I get to be this bold.” 

"No." Optimus' battle protocols betrayed him as he closed in on himself, almost as though his system was now fighting against him. As if he was the threat. The panic that plunged into his spark was dull and dreary, dragging out his clear defeat with obvious cruelty. “No.” He stumbled, trying to find himself as he backed away from his opponent, wrapping his servos around his audials. “I-it was only you, my vision only showed you.”

“My, is that so?” They asked, rhetorically.

“How—” Optimus wheezed. “How did you manage to infiltrate my court, you witch.” He spat.

“Oh,” they pouted. “If you couldn’t figure it out, what's the point of me telling you?”

The dark figure closed the distance between them for the last time. Optimus felt himself lose touch with the world around him, the desperation of survival failed him at the sight of betrayal. He fell to his knees at the edge of the staircase knowing he could not go any further. “You’re lying,” He backtracked. “None of my people would ever do this.” 

“Perhaps.” The shrouded figure shrugged and began to look at their long, manicured claws. “But they’re not just your people, you know. They are the people of a duke, a baron, your brothers, and any other noble. A collection of cultures, bots, and beings condensed to a single term. The ‘North.’” They flicked their wrist to inspect the opposing side of their servo. “Such a limiting term, don’t you think?”  They finished by looking at Optimus. “There’s dozens like you, clutching onto whatever power they can while clawing at whatever scraps within their grasp.” The prince could not muster the strength to answer, but his opponent continued. “I can't say I’m any different.” They smiled. “But my claws,” The figure kneeled down and forced Optimus’ chin up, in a dragging motion starting at his neck. “Are very sharp.” 

Optimus looked up into the deep Tyrian optics looking down at him smiling sympathetically. “It’s alright, in the end your attempts will be futile so you have nothing to worry about.” They reverted to a sweeter tone. “You can go out with a clean slate, saved by your selflessness, remembered for your bravery, praised for your salvation. Isn’t that nice?” Their clawed servo cupped Optimus’ cheek. They leaned down and touched foreheads with Optimus in a quiet sigh, closing their optics in the process, an intimate gesture akin to a kiss. “Goodbye, Optimus.”

Megatron sighed and pushed his weight deeper into his office chair, lulling his helm back in the hope that the stress would dissipate from his frame at a faster rate. Not that it would anytime soon, but the duke had long given up with the morning's disaster. Instead, he adjusted himself accordingly in preparation to shift his focus onto another disastrous topic. 

Helm still reclined against the chair, the duke reached his servo out towards Soundwave without a word, beckoning for the supposedly all-important letter. 

Soundwave complied with the gesture easily, stepping forward and taking out the letter from his subspace again. This time he managed to hand it to Megatron without any outside distraction to which they both thanked their respective celestial object. 

Megatron plucked the letter from its place as if it was a treat. “Let’s see what the fuss is all about.” He mumbled.

He clicked the datapad open and unlocked it with a swipe. 

Dear Duke Megatron of Iacon,

A familiar beginning, one the duke was well acquainted with, exactly how he recalled it inside and outside of the letter. Crimson optics continued on lazily.

Southern territories have grown disorderly.

“I know that now.” Megaton whispered to himself, vaguely irked at the reminder. Pity how it took so long for the news to travel all the way to Iacon, Megatron wondered if the other nobles really knew, doing everything in their power to hide it from Megatron while they could. How infuriating. At least Optimus was good for one thing.

I implore you to…

That was as far as Megaton had originally read, and just by quickly skimming over the length of the passage it was as he hypothesized, there was more. 

A lot more. 

Soundwave watched on, visor and mask hiding his visible curiosity while his field smothered it with calmness. He wouldn’t dare to read the letter himself, that was a length he was unwilling to reach when the letter had been sent from Optimus of all mechs. Given that Megatron had thought little of it, going so far as to throw it away, Shoundwave had thought the same even when he plucked it from a babbling maid. Such a letter was not worth Megatron’s rage, let alone Soundwave’s, the quiet bot’s patience would prove to be fruitful when he hears the contents from a frustrated Megatron soon enough.

The receiver in question rested his arm on the armrest of the chair and laid his helm upon his knuckles as he continued to read over the letter. His field was weak, weary, but not enough to be worth much, he was calm enough to allow for it to extend out and match Soundwave’s equally calm field. Neither of them uttered a word, every now and again Megatron would mutter a glyph out loud in reference to the letter before him but it was hardly much outside of a grammatical component made of an adjective or verb. In the confines of the large office, both mechs quietly hoped the letter would prove to be forgettable. Nothing more than another selfish request or uninteresting remark that the cycle prior would go on to confirm. 

Blasted letter, Megatron would come to consider it. His curiosity had bested him once again and trapped him in the depths of a beat’s belly. As his processor continued to read the glyphs in perfect pen, his educated processor picked out the meaning with little fuss as the gravity of the situation would slowly descend.

The sun shone brightly as the day had begun to slip into her day dress to head off onto town, beckoning an joor closer to noon. Megatron had little work to maintain, a luxury he would have rather spent by himself in the library, pointedly ignoring comms and congratulations from unaware bystanders. Pity it was, such a lovely cycle spent reading an old letter, much less from an author far from precious.

As crimsons optics scrutinized the words on a bright screen, it all began to unravel, slowly, like the loose thread of a silk cape. The further Megatron continued to read the more the single thread was tugged at, the gentle force pulling the delicate structure in on itself, reveling in the poor craftsmanship of such a prestigious garment. 

…take the time to visit your home district to see for yourself. 

The smooth fabric curved inward, slightly. 

Megatron’s face shifted in confusion, that was not what he expected. However, Megatron was unsure of what to expect in the first place. There was so little predictability as of late, and the duke did not revel in the world of the unknown. 

In all his life, Megatron could not recall a single time in which Optimus traveled outside of the Northern Territory. He would regularly tour throughout the villages and city-sales that decorated his land, but never to the heated sands of the south or the chilled air of Vos. At least, not publicly. Megatron, meanwhile, traveled more than he probably should have. At the drop of a helmet, he pounced at any chance to parade around the north and march into the south. He even traveled to Vos regularly. Which is how he could safely contended to the fact that despite Starscream and his trine, Vos was a very lovely kingdom. 

Why would Optimus suggest such a thing? A preemptive measure to deflect on the severity of the situation in the south? A genuine bid for Megatron to seek the truth for himself? Megatron allowed that curiosity to grow as he continued.

Your people are in a state of fear, resources are being squandered, the rations they are employing are not enough and trade ports are starting to wain. 

The delicate form of a cape twisted and folded in on itself, chasing after the fleeting thread in hopes its return would make the garment whole once again. 

Megatron felt the bubble of irritation begin to boil within. This was already the longest letter Optimus had ever sent, perhaps ever written. The mech didn’t make a habit out of being reachable, and yet he decided to send something so long out of the blue. The sheer length of the letter was frustrating as is, and it didn’t help how much Optimus tried to lay blame to the south.

I fear that the worst is to come, the north is in danger and the kingdom of the south is hoarding precious resources.

Obsessing tugging, nervous pulling in anticipation of what would come, agonizingly slow the thread continued on and the cape reaped its poor rewards. 

Megatron made a deep rumble escape from his engine, irritation simmered down into mild annoyment. Optimus was many things, many of them questionable at best, but he certainly was a credible source. Still, it was nothing he didn't already know as of late.

Gray optical ridges twitched at the sudden connection, recalling the time he had originally read the letter and passing a glance at the date tucked away in another component of the datapad. 

It was sent approximately 3 stellar cycles ago, dating the letter considerably by a political perspective. Megatron was almost shocked by how long it had been, and the sheer amount of time it had spent collecting dust in Soundwave’s subspace. In a small square at the top of the screen was a date that read 07/23/XX. The seventh stellar cycle of their 10 stellar cycle vorn, on the 23rd cycle out of 80.

Megatron chewed his lipplate, annoyance dissipated further into intrigue. 

“Soundwave?” He asked, not looking up from the datapad, beginning to rhythmically tap his claws against a hard surface in a nervous tick. 

Soundwave perked up. “Inquiry: Assistance?”

“When did Optimus fall?” 

Soundwave paused and looked away for a moment, appearing to collect the information as quickly as possible. Megatorn waited patiently for the response, denying himself the pleasure of reading on without the supposedly vital piece of information. 

Soundwave got the information quickly, as expected. “Date: Acquired.” The deep static of Soundwave’s vocalizer spoke.

“Well?” 

“Accident: Dated: 07-24-XX; 4:05 Morning Cycle.” 

Megatron blinked as a sudden feeling overtook him, like claws of an escort ghosting over his armor in a bid to feign passion out of responsibility to a client. 

Distant, familiar, yet depleting like the blood of a wound. 

He blinks again. Cold, Megatron realizes. The feeling is cold. 

It was not a freezing cold, more akin to a chill, a breeze on a winter morning after a heavy snow. Where rain might fall in a pattern of ticks, the snow would move at its own pace in no hurry or hope for its destination. Compared to the once considered the thrum of his spark—a constant ticking akin to a clock—what the information had left him was with the irreparable pattern of water dripping. 

The next drop would come, of course, but when? 

Megatron could feel his field flicker with the stun, nodding along with the information slowly. Intrigue dies into indignation, although he cannot attribute the feelings to a specific target. 

The clicking of claws picks up at the sight of a thread that will not relent. 

A hum of contemplation escapes the duke as he tries to dissect the limited knowledge he could say he had. 

Click…click…click…click…click…

Optimus fell at four in the morning, the letter was sent the cycle before. 

Megatron did not read the letter until the evening of Optimus’ fall. 

Megatron did not know Optimus fell until the cycle after. 

The letter never came to mind then, Megatron could excuse his neglect for a number of reasons, namely being forgetful or simply refusing to remember Optimus more than needed, but that did not change the fact that the prince fell so soon after the letter was dated and sent.

Every thought arranged into a bullet point in his processor, Megatron tried to further form a timeline by shoving minor details he could only say were presumptions. 

Optimus fell…the letter was sent…the letter was likely taken out of the mailing box at seven in the morning…

“Why did Optimus fall at four in the morning?” Megatron asks in sudden resignation, optics dimming in tandem with his processor’s speed picking up. 

No sane noble would get up that early; even Megatron, who is arguably not a sane noble, gets up an joor later. 

“Soundwave.”

“Further assistance required?”

“At what height did Optimus fall?” 

Soundwave’s visor flickered, now his patience was paying off. “Report: Top.” 

“The very top of the stairs and onto the following floor?”

Soundwave nodded. 

“How high was the staircase?”

“Staircase: Approximately: 80 Mechameters.”

Click, click, click, click…

The nervous tick grew in its volume. 

The palace halls were always large, to an excessive degree, the first story was always the biggest, as were most residential buildings in Iacon. But that was a minor footnote in the fact that Optimus fell at the time the sun had yet to rise. Much less when his berth was on the top floor.

Megatron huffed. “What was he doing there at that hour?”

Soundwave could only shrug.

Megatron rolled his shoulders back to look at Soundwave. “What damages were inflicted upon Optimus?”

Soundwave stood straight. “Damage: Blunt force trauma. Location: Varied. Cause: Staircase. Report: [.:Fall resulted in various damages to helm, frame, and protoform of individual as a result of coming into repeated contact with staircase…:.]”

Click-click-click-click-click

Megatron’s lipplate arched into a sneer. “That’s vague.”

Soundwave opted to send Megatron the databite for his own viewing. 

Megatron opened his messages to find the compressed file, projecting it onto a hologram that manifested in front of him. Unfortunately, at the sight, Megatron was met with a terrifyingly short memo on the prince’s supposed damages. The duke reached out to try and swipe to other pages but was met with only three. 

Megatron’s digit paused at the lack of further pages. “That’s it?”

Soundwave tried much of the same and was met with the same three pages. “Correct: ‘That’s it.’” He replayed. 

“Nonsense.” Megatron scoffed. “Their prince fell off a staircase at a suspicious hour and all they can say is that he’s got a few dents?” 

Megatron could feel his scowl grow and peered over the letter again. 

“What were you doing, prime?” The duke hisses between swipes at the depressingly short file. 

At that, Soundwave tried his best to scour whatever the grid could offer regarding Optimus’ fall, sending it all to Megatron in the process. It amounted to little, which only left the two even more confused. There was a shocking lack of detail that existed regarding the prince’s fall. The media grieved the accident, the forums had mixed thoughts, but official documents did little to build upon what was basic knowledge. When the surface grid proved useless, Soundwave went so far as to hack into various databases, with the same results.

The worst of it was that none of the files offered the notion of redacted information, which meant one of two things.

The two met optics at such a conclusion. 

Megatron waved the letter at Soundwave, carefully. “Does this mean what I think it does?”

Soundwave gave a half nod, hesitant in his own right. 

The two paused, avoiding what was about to be spoken into existence. 

Megatron looked at the letter with a soured expression, then back to Soundwave, then to the original file reporting Optimus’ damages. He gave the information another skim, hoping that new information would suddenly manifest, but all that met him was more of the same and a few concluding remarks by the physician at the time. Megatron narrowed his optics to read the designation in charge. 

Ratchet. 

“They’re covering it up.” Megatron suggests. 

Soundwave hesitates, again. “Probable” 

The medic from the palace, one that never liked Megatron, the duke could say he felt much the same. Although, he never did know the reason for the medics distaste towards him, it would be easy to chalk it up to functionalism or pedigree, but that would be too easy. Ratchet was as much of a mutt as Megatron, but he was a damn good medic if he worked so closely with Vector Prime and his declining health. There was a fleeting sense of comradery from Megatron’s side of their acquaintanceship, even if it was met with a glare by the medic. That must amount to something. 

“...or.” Megatron tries, squinting at the designation. 

Ratchet is a good medic despite his ever-present grumpiness, and he clearly has no problem with showing disdain for his employer so he can’t be biased towards them. However, there was a possibility of an alliance with the south if Optimus’ alluding meant anything, and it certainly did if he contacted Megatron over it. But Megatron would not humor the thought, it made too little sense, and if it were true there would be no reason to skimp out on details; if anything, there would be an excessive amount, detailing the direct cause and the direct effect, no room for another possibility. 

Megatron deactivated the projected file with a chuff. “They’re as clueless as us.” He laments bitterly.

Soundwave ducked in on himself, perhaps now sharing Megatron’s thought process. “Also: Probable”

Both were terrible options. 

Megatron’s nerves relocated into a single digit as it relentlessly tapped away. 

Clickclickclickclickclickclick

At the prospect of such cluelessness, Soundwave had taken it upon himself to further commit white-collar crimes on the floor, uncaring of his dignity, continuing his worthless attempts to find more information. “Soundwave: Will find out.” 

Megatron rolled his optics and leaned out of his chair to rest on his knees, letter firmly clutched in his servo. “Would you give that up? There is obviously nothing out there.”

“Lord Megatron: Cannot be certain.”

Megatron scowled, but before his temper could flare at something so petty, another thought caught up to him. “Did you say that the height of the floor was 80 mechameters?”

Soundwave did not look up from his place, clicking away at a small, personal console. “Correct.”

Megatron’s face detached itself from its display of anger. “80.”

“Correct.”

“As in, more than double my height?”

“Correct.”

“And he hit the stairs on his way down?” 

Soundwave’s shoulders sagged at the childish questions. “Correct.”

Megatron ignored the visible frustration, projecting the same file and pointing at it. “Optimus is 28 mechameters tall.” 

Soundwave’s visor flashed in realization. 

…

Starscream paced about the corridors of the third floor, rejecting yet another congratulatory call or blocking a message. Every now and again he’d try to open his grid account, but closed it in the same vent when the dreadful reality sank in once again. The prince clicked one of his heels incessantly and shot a few glares down the hall where Megatron’s office resided. 

“Worthless fragger.” He spat, among a few other expletives and repeated the cycle as before. 

Starscream habitually ignored all the teasing images and files that Skywarp would send even well after Starscream had (begrudgingly and humiliatingly) told his brothers the truth. The laughing that followed after Starscream had admitted the farce was worse than any stab wound. Skywarp’s hilarity for the situation was expected, even Thundercracker staring blank faced with a gaping maw was tolerable before he covered his face and let out a snicker. 

Starscream decided at that moment he would be okay with dying.

Starscream curled his digits into balled up fists. “Just you wait, I’ll be the one laughing in the end.” He hissed out, savoring the shocked faces of those who doubted him and his flawless plan. “I’ll be prosperous.” His voice grew, adding to the number of cheers of those in his helm. “And in love! I’ll be happy!” He brought his servo’s up and grinned darkly, pretending to place a ruby-studded crown on his helm. “I will be Winglord of Vos, with my-”

“What are you doing?” A deep voice spoke from behind. 

“Primus almighty!” Starscream screeched, jumping and folding in on himself, turning around lightning fast to find Megatron and Soundwave gawking at him. 

Well, Megatron was gawking, Soundwave just stood there with the same ame air of smugness he always did. 

“How do you two not make any noise?!”

“Starscream.” Was all Megatron could counter with.

“Who else would I be?”

Megatron’s face, stone cold and in contemplation at the beauty before him, hummed. He turned to Soundwave “Good enough?” He asked his advisor. 

Soundwave titled his helm in a manner of contemplation, but only shrugged when turning to face his lord. “Good enough.”

Starscream blinked and moved his helm back in confusion. “Excuse me?”

“Alright, good enough.” Megatron decided to begin a march, except now just as he passed Starscream he reached back and yanked the seeker by the wing, dragging the flailing prince to the staircase that led up to the final floor. 

“Hey–” Starscream wriggled around. “What are you–Watch it!” 

Soundwave simply followed along, marching behind his lord and a wriggling prince to their decided destination. 

Despite Starscream's initial struggle, Megatron reached the location without so much as a vent of exhaustion. 

Staircases. One of the most foundational pieces of modern architecture, only to be rivaled by an elevator, but those were not as visually appealing as a hand-made staircase. Which is why many nobles opted for such worthless displays of opulence.

The Decepticon Manor was no different.

Starscream had accepted whatever this fate was halfway into getting dragged. “Do I even weigh anything to you?”

Megatron began to inspect the area at the top of the staircase. “No.” He says, only to look at Starscream to lift him up the wing with a single servo to gauge his weight. “Not really,” He notes with a sudden, bitter tone gripping his voice. 

“What are you getting at, Megatron?” Starscream grumbles as he lets himself get picked up.

Megatron, without batting an optic or thinking twice, speaks. “I’m going to throw you down the stairs.”

Starscream tenses up like a potassium-opossum at the face of a predator. “What?!”

“Well,” Megatron simply hoists Starscream away from him as claws barely pass his face. “Was.” Megatron pays the prince little mind, who is now effectively frothing at the mouth and flailing like a fool trying to break free of his captor's gasp. All while Megatron is peering over the edge like an inspector. “This won’t work with you…” He mumbles to himself.  

“Put me down! Put me down this instant–! You stupid, dull, pompus- OOF !”

Megatron drops Starscream like a dirty rag and snaps at Soundwave. “Get me one of the training dummies from the storage, the big ones, that we use for the knights.” He points at Starscream, irritated. “This one is too light.”

Soundwave nodded obediently and disappeared down the stairs in the opposite manner in which Megatron desired. 

“Excuse me?!” Starscream bit. “Do not objectify me like one of your–”

Megatron snapped his attention back to Starscream with a glare. “Watch it, do not impede on our investigation or else there will be another with your name on it.”

Starscream squeaked and stumbled to the back of the hallway, making sure to stay a safe distance from the duke. Only to shuffle a little closer to watch Soundwave frame disappear from view. 

Megatron continued to analyze the staircase set out before him; it was smaller than what one would find at the Sapphire Palace, standing at about 65 mechameters. That was not to say Galvatron was a bit more humble than the royal family, 80 was simply a bit more impractical. And expensive. 

Megatron grumbled. Starscream watched the duke’s analytics carefully.

“What are you planning?”

“An experiment.” Megatron answers quickly. 

“About?”

“Nothing concerning you.”

Starscream scoffed. “Well it was going to be just a moment ago. I deserve to know the fate that was about to be inflicted upon me.”

Megatron shot Starscream a skeptical look. “You really think I was going to throw you?”

Starscream opened his intake but nothing came out. Of course he wouldn't. Starscream stammered when the sudden embarrassment caught up to him.

Megatron let out a short chuckle at the sight. “You are surprisingly naive.” 

Starscream looked away. “It doesn’t help that you're so serious all the time."

Megatron merely hummed. The hall fell quiet after Starscream’s final comment. The sun was still comfortably high and Megatron stood like a statue waiting for his advisor to arrive with the apparently important dummy. Starscream found himself waiting as well, curiosity far too piqued to let such a strange opportunity pass.

Curiosity, the feeling Starscream notes. The same one he’s been feeling since he was put down. 

Starscream pouted. “You avoided my question.”

“Hm?” Megatron vocalized, looking at the staircase below.

“You avoided my question by flattering yourself.” Starscream growled without any real heat. He stood up and stomped about two steps to emphasize his annoyance, yet never getting close enough to risk actually getting thrown. 

“Did I now?” 

“Suspicious.” Starscream grumbled. “This is very suspicious.” 

“I’m sure it could seem that way.”

“Tell me what you’re doing.”

“I see no advantage in doing so.”

“Why not?”

“Because I said so.”

Starscream’s field flared with annoyance but did not bother to try and pry the information. It was a fight he would lose. So, just like a sparkling, he folded his arms over his chest and sat down on the floor. “Fine. Keep your secrets. But I’m going to watch.”

Megatron shrugged a shoulder, leaning over to peer at a silhouette down below. “Do as you please.” 

"I do."

"Of course."

Soundwave's slinking figure began to make itself apparent. He waddled up the steps dragging a dummy with an energized rhythm, visor glowing bright with excitement.

Megatron matched his fellowships excitement and greeted him with a smile. “Alas, I was beginning to think that you were defeated by such an opponent.” He quipped.

Soundwave arrived to the side of his lord with a vent and set the dummy down between their living frames. "Soundwave: Superior."

“So much effort to bring it up. I do apologize for what will come.” Megatron offers the faintly venting mech. 

Soundwave quickly waved Megatron off. “Fun part: Begins.” 

Megatron smiled, a little more off-putting and blood-thirsty than anything soft—but it was genuine. “That’s exactly right.” 

Megatron took two steps back, raised his servo high and slapped the dummy across the back; sending it flying. 

Starscream gawked.

The airborne dummy flew down the stairs, a tear might have escaped its non-existent optics of it had the coolant for it. Betrayed by their master, never to see the light of a simple sparring match again.

Starscream felt a sudden twinge of pity for the dummy, it felt nothing from the fall, but their ascertained kinship resulting from the cruel duke left Starscream sad to see the thing go. All while Megatron and Soundwave peered over the staircase, faces blank with intrigue, watching on like Lazerbeak. 

A sickening crunch would be heard, varying in volume as the dummy picked up more than a few fatal wounds as gravity brought it down onto the stairs. 

“Ow.” Soundwave voiced with little emotion. 

“I concur.” Megatron replied in the same vein. 

“You’re both insane.” Starscream observed. 

Megatron and Soundwave only barely turned to offer a bored look to Starscream before focusing back onto the dying dummy. 

The final crash! Made the two observers straighten up and scramble down the stairs in anticipation of what they might find. Starscream, begrudgingly curious, tip-toed behind their frames as their collective mass made its way down the stairs. 

At the bottom of the stairs—on the second floor, the trio had found a very much broken dummy. 

It wasn’t a horrid sight, a few limbs were twisted. Maybe a broken strut, or two, or three, four…most of them. The dummy’s lulling helm fell to the side in a dramatical manner, as it was vying for a final goodbye. 

Megatron and Soundwave stood over the metaphorical corpse with scientific stares, analyzing every broken piece. 

“Hm.” Megatron hummed.

“Hm.” Soundwave clipped back. 

Starscream offered a pitied goodbye in the form of a scoff. “You killed him.” 

“‘Him’?” Megatron asked, only turning his helm to raise an optical ridge in questioning towards the seeker. “Since when was it a 'him'?”

“Does it matter?”

“If you were acquainted with the dummy you ought to have said so,” Megatron said, gesturing at the very-obviously not-real dead body. “I would hate to have killed your friend.” 

“And yet none of that sorrow for me?” Starscream bit. 

“I would have bought the dummy a bouquet and offered my condolences.” 

Starscream raised his servo up in preparation to slap Megatron but Soundwave piped up to quell their soon-to-be argument. 

“Starscream: Correct.”

Starscream snuffed his temper. “I always am.”

Soundwave promptly ignored the remark. “Injuries: Severe. Real Mech: Survival rate…:12.57444449013%:…” 

Megatron’s smirk disappeared at the comment. “That’s low.”

Soundwave paused to analyze the severity of his claim, only to nod curtly. “Dummy Damages:...” Soundwave looked back at the frame, envisioning the outline of a more noble figure. “Similar.” 

Megatron’s optics widened, then narrowed almost instantaneously. Servos balled into fists and he let out a gruff sound.

Starscream, confused as ever, swapped focus between the duke and his companion. “What’s going on?”

Megatron let out a sigh, reflecting on the increasing severity of the experiment's results, forcing his grip to loosen to bring up a servo to shield his intake. He didn’t look over to Starscream as he spoke his reply. “It doesn’t concern you, it shouldn’t.”

Starscream flared his wings. “But-“

Megatron shot him a glare. “I mean it this time.” He raised a talon to point at Starscream “Do. Not. Get. Involved. I humored you enough already, I will not be so merciful now. I don’t need you poking your wings in this of all things.”

Starscream lowered his own voice, a surprising show of courage. “I don’t even know what ‘this’ is.” 

“Keep it that way.” Megatron ordered and stormed back up the stairs with Soundwave in tow, leaving Starscream alone with the destroyed figure. 

Starscream watched their frames disappear up the stairs with an uneasy glare.

Megatron returned to his office with a newfound flare in his ever so turbulent temper, Soundwave was only a few steps behind and quick to shut the door Megatron had nearly bulldozered. Megatron’s stampede led him back to where he started, unable to bring himself to sit down he opted to hover over his desk while the seat that could carry his weight remained unoccupied.

The duke retrieved the letter from its place and set it out on the desk, flicking it open and setting his servos on either side of the datapad to read over the contents. He read over the same lines, trying to dissect what little sense there was to be made.

Optimus died. He remembered telling himself. 

Death was a strong term, more so when the mech in question was very much alive. Literally, at least. But not figuratively. Megatron knew it the moment that he had matched gaze with Optimus the cycle before. Optimus was alive in his frame, but his essence was dead, there was no chill in his gaze or guard in his words. There was nothing left of that shielded being in the garden. Optimus Prime, as the world knew, was dead.

“Primus.” Megatron vented heavy with reality crashing down on him. His optics crackled when he let loose what he tried to hide moments prior, his field suddenly betrayed his calm action for bright, white shock. It unfurled in chaotic disarray, billowing out everything Megatron felt for the fraction of a second he had felt it, every small detail that existed within the duke’s tightly-wound self. It was out. Free to explore, free to be exploited. Soundwave physically flinched at the intrusion upon his frame. The chaos that Megatron imposed upon him could be mirrored by Soundwave’s own field as it attempted to understand. Tendrils of energy reaching out wildly to capture the other and steady their movement. The visored mech steeled himself quickly and practically sprinted the short distance between them and tried to reach out for Megatron. 

Megatron never panicked, Soundwave knew that. The duke had rebuilt himself inside and out to combat against the world that sought out to destroy him simply for existing. Megatron was a force to be reckoned with, he never faltered, he never failed, he never showed weakness to any extent. But in that moment, the wires of fate wrapped around his neck and teased him with a squeeze that made him gasp for air.

He quickly raised a servo up to stop Soundwave, his optics narrowed into slits as he collected himself as quickly as he collapsed. “I’m fine.” He managed to speak.

Soundwave hovered over him to some extent, but did not believe a glyph that escaped from his duke. “Megatron: Panicked.” 

“I’m fine.” Megatron insisted. 

Soundwave tried to step closer but Megatron shot him a glare to keep him in his place, he would not let himself be coddled over something so minor, not when he bore the weight of compliance. The short detachment from the letter eased the shock a fraction, enough for it to go back to being masked by everything else as Megatron reeled in his field. 

I can feel the world watching as I am torn apart for their amusement.

The cape was cinched to its very limits, and yet the thread continued to be pulled. Hoping, begging, pleading that the end would come soon. 

Optimus was clearly speaking in a manner that hid the truth. The words were almost poetic, choosing to romanticize his situation in fear of expanding upon the truth of his exploitation. Megatron understood it well. Corruption was what Optimus was hinting at. Corruption was everywhere. Optimus was not immune to the grip of ancient mechs well past their expiration date. He was just as much as a puppet as Megatron was, a vice, a virtue forced to wear the face of a monster to insist upon maintenance of something he was never truly sure of. Misinformed and built to be far from who he was, as if he might have ever known.

All it will fall if I do nothing as I once had. I no longer trust myself to lead, I was never capable of such a feat after all. 

On and on, there was more after more, glyph after glyph, poorly chosen and barely conveying what Optimus might have intended. It was cryptic and unnerving, desperate yet devoid of any real purpose. But Megatron read it all, over and over until the letter was permanently entangled with the wires of his processor. 

 I beg of you, Megatron, heed my plea. Aid my plight and guide my sword. 

Megatron felt the dread slather across his playing like a hideous paint, bright red and sticky. His field was wild with confusion and riddled with woe, it pressed as close as he could get it to be making the air tight and cold, dense with tension. Megatron’s mind was even worse. Everything the blasted letter read was so out of character, so sudden and unbecoming that Megatron could feel himself losing a battle against his sanity with every additional glyph that imprinted itself into the mainframe of his processor. How blind could he have been? How could he be so negligent? 

This is no longer two kingdoms and their petty displays of power, this is for the well-being of their people. Of our people. 

It was beyond Megatron what prompted such a switch, but he began to fear that his pride had cost him more than a stable relationship with the crown. It was easy to hate Optimus, especially when provided with the incentive of a childish deal. He was a prince. Privileged, spoiled, the world handed to him without question. Meanwhile Megatron toiled and grasped at anything he could just to amount to something. Only for it to be stripped away the moment he was deemed a threat. He bore the weight of his heritage and suffered because of it. But, in the end, what right did Megatron have to hate him? For something he was simply born into? To hate Optimus for what? His luck? Would Megatron be this bitter if their roles were reversed, would Optimus have even suggested their little agreement? Would Optimus be as he was? 

I understand that this letter may be futile, but you are the only hope I have to achieve peace once and for all. I do not deceive when I say if you turn a blind optic to this, Cybertron is destined to fall into ruin. 

Megatron denied Soundwave again and again to bid him comfort with a snarl. 

For all the naive and juvenile tendencies Megatron had assigned to others, he failed to notice the same traits within himself. Despite his past, his actions now only tokened his own selfish, spoiled attitudes. 

So obsessed with the thread, he never knew who was pulling it. 

“Why?” The duke whispered. The glyph bounced around Megatron’s helm as the confusion piled on. What could have possibly pushed Optimus to such a breaking point, more so to the point he would be begging Megatron for aid. 

I received this in a vision from the Matrix. It will fall. All will fall. War is imminent. It will not speak to me beyond twisted fantasies and vivid nightmares. I see it all. 

The thread snapped, the weight of the cape it was pulling had outweighed that of its power. But the cape suffered the most in the end. It remained twisted and folded, creases that could be ironed out could not hide the asymmetric results of the lost thread. If it was torn in all other places it could be fixed, flattened and patched up, shortened or fastened into something else entirely. But it needed nothing more than the thread it lost, making it imperfect, unfit for the one it was designed for. The threads around the pulled brethren were left distressed where a small gap remained. It would no longer be useful, it was broken, off to be sold or given to a lowly bot who would treasure it nevertheless. 

Megatron's claws dug into the desk.

The matrix.

Amidst his studies at Kalis University of Institutional Arts, Megatorn would become vaguely acquainted with the trinket. Apparently it was what divided the Primal House from the others, an artifact of primes past, the link that tethered any and all Prime’s to their right to rule. It was their birthright, the artifact would sing, their right to exist above the mortal class at the cost of living exclusively for them. To guide them with their dying breath, to emerge into a world where you will live on the riches of it while doomed to bear the burden of those who attribute it to you. In his youth, Megatron would laugh at such a myth, but only after arriving at Iacon would he learn that the matrix was a very real thing, and, by extension, the coding that existed within those who claimed its descent. 

Megatron scoffed, discomfort blooming. At this point, a piece of his processor told Megatron that it was a trap. A lure. Something. Anything. As long as it got him riled up enough to act upon that rage that lived so deeply inside him, the anger that became so ingrained into his essence.

Optimus was lying. Optimus was obsessive. Arrogant. Paranoid. 

Megatron picked up the letter, talons dug into the sides of the datapad, the glass cracked under his grip but there was never a moment in which the glass shattered. Megatron made sure of it. His optics dimmed as his energy was being allocated to his overworked mind. “How?” 

Optimus was beautiful. Graceful. Elegant. Impervious to a trip. He was trained in every etiquette possible, he would never fall. He was a lot like Starscream in that sense.

Death had evaded Optimus when he slipped down that staircase, somehow. He was not weak or frail, he would not trip, it was not in his nature to be anything other than perfect. 

How? How could he fall so pathetically? How could Optimus allow himself to fall? Would he not protect himself on the way down? Guard his helm, partially transform to avoid damaging important pieces, how could such a fall leave him this damaged? How could he let it happen?

The glyph of ‘how’ bounced across the berated mind of the duke. “How?” He grit out. “How? How? Howhowhowhowhow-“

The panicked feeling subsided in an instant when Megatron's logic module finally overpowered the rest. 

Megatron felt his talons twitch around the lost thread as its existence manifested in his wake, it was the connection that Megatron needed. 

“The dummy.” Megatron prompted. “Its injuries were similar.” 

Soundwave tensed up. “Correct.”

Megatron projected the medical record from before. “Yet nothing here suggests foul play.”

Soundwave ducked his helm into himself, pausing. “'They're as clueless as us.'” He replays.

"So it was the latter." He whispered, skimming over the contents. The servo hovering over the projection tensed. “That’s putting a lot more faith into the high court than I care to admit.” Megatron sighed, shutting down the projection. “But it appears that it has the highest chance of being the truth.” He began to tap his claws against the desk once again. “But that doesn't explain why he sent me the letter—“ Megatron’s optics cycled wide in realization. 

Southern territories have grown disorderly. 

Optimus knew about the south before anyone. He was trying to warn Megatron before the rest of the court found out.

Megatron fell to his knees and pulled at a drawer at the bottom of the desk and a small pile of dusty datapads greeted him. He pulled one up at random and turned it on. 

Dear Duke Megatron of Iacon,

The Viscount is boasting a tea party. Be there.

Megatron tossed it and reached for another. 

Dear Duke Megatron of Iacon,

I have attached a formal invitation to my brother's debutante ball. I suggest you RSVP. 

Repeating the gesture, Megatron pulled out a third.

Dear Duke Megatron of Iacon,

My sire requires your audience. Contact him first.

Again, and again, Megatron was met with the same stupid introduction and a sentence or two. 

Megatron was blindsided by their little deal he never chose to see outside of it. Optimus sent a letter, alright, what stupid little request did he have now? 

But that was the key, it was a letter, with a request, from Optimus. 

Who would honestly waste a datapad just to write a single sentence upon it?

Optimus Prime, that’s who. And for whatever reason, Megatron kept them all as some trophy of how he had pulled Optimus down on the tightrope of their estrangement. To make Optimus request something because Megatron was so petty as to deny it in the moment. To make Optimus beg for the attention that Megatron insisted to deny him. Megatron wasn’t any better than Optimus, they were both playing a game of chess with only kings, swapping around the placement of their only piece in hopes of protecting themselves instead of winning over the other. But there was the irony, no? Only two kings left, to win over the other was to lose, regardless of who would try to check the other. Megatron acted sadistically as if it would suddenly undo every wrong done onto him, to oppress the same group that had oppressed him. It was not as though he would forgive them, but he had fallen into their trap by letting himself be bothered by their words. To be so insecure he played every act in hopes of appeasing them through the guise of appeasing himself. Of course, it barely benefitted Megatron in the end, but he had done it so desperately for the praise and acceptance of others, at some point that desire had drifted into resentment, and that resentment floated around him like a second shadow slipping into everything he said and did. 

I see the failures of my elders, the failures of my selfishness, the faults of my arrogance. Bound together in a twisted sword as it plunges into the innocence this land holds. I feel it all.

What a conflicted mech. 

Both of them. 

“Stupid letters.” Megatron spoke quietly, and threw one down without turning it off to allow the glyphs the right to mock him. 

But the letters weren’t stupid. They were intentional, quiet gestures. Excuses to seek him out and bending the rules of their agreement, hoping to find an opening within the whispers of their walls. A ‘how are you?’ In the best way he could put it. A nudge to make sure Megatron was doing his job so Optimus could continue his own. The idiot would never truly let their agreement remain as is, they agreed to hate each other—this turned into limited contact, and by Primus did Optimus abuse this limit.

The pain that I have caused, that I will continue to inflict if I do not speak to you beyond the glyphs of this wretched letter. 

Letters were all he had. He used glyphs, denying the use of his voice in favor of something more detached. 

However, if that was the case, why insist upon such an agreement?

Megatron hummed, the answer was obvious enough. 

“Soundwave.” He prompted.

Soundwave jumped a little and leaned in to indicate his attention.

Megatron smirked. “Humor me for a moment.”

Soundwave nodded. 

“If you were in danger, and knew you were a danger,” The duke began. “You would do anything in your power to make sure that danger would not find itself in the lap of your minicons, correct?”

Soundwave’s visor flickered, confusion, but he stood up straight and nodded. “Megatron: Correct.” 

Megatron rolled his head back and let out a deep sigh. 

Protection. Optimus was protecting him. 

At least, protecting Megatron from that which was inflicted upon Optimus, the prince could not protect Megatron from much else but the sentiment was there nevertheless. 

Poor little Megatron, taller and stronger than Optimus, and Optimus was the one protecting him from the cruelty his elders would inflict upon the prince. Optimus detached himself because he knew that anyone close to him would suffer as a result, it was obvious in the character of his brothers and cousin. They were all careless in their own right, free to be juvenile, to act unroyally while Optimus attended meetings with a straight face since he was old enough to understand a simple sentence. Protecting anyone he could in the only way he knew how. Megatron was as naive as the Prime’s brothers to allow this to happen, accepting it all without issue simply because it was easy for him. 

Staring at the old letter, the words seemed less empty and detached. They still lacked any real warmth; he doubted Optimus capable of such. But they meant something, emphasizing a fact Megatron never realized. They were mirror images of one another. Megatron wore himself openly, but Optimus hid away from it all, a façade of a façade buried under his face mask or his silly little letters. Megatron wondered why Optimus made such a decision to impart Megatron the gift of his disinterest. Perhaps Optimus realized their differences, or Megatron’s potential well before himself, so he sought him out. Optimus prompted the deal, possibly discomforted by what he saw in Megatron, wishing to be as unbound as he. Maybe it was a token of amnesty, understanding Megatron’s hatred and making it easier for him. Megatron would have never put in the effort to get to know Optimus in his youth, and if Optimus pushed for it then it would only make things worse. So, Optimus spared the young duke-to-be of getting involved, thus severing fault either would find in the other. A treaty. A hope for independence from two of the most powerful families in the north. Only to reach out when he could to tentatively hope for something more. 

I cannot speak of the horrors in which I have seen, I cannot trust the hands that touch this letter. 

Megatron didn’t know for certain, he never would. And that was the worst of it. 

All this hatred, unfounded accusations brought about an obsession over someone who offered him the pleasure of never acknowledging his existence while somehow respecting it. To never force another heel against his neck. To, at the very least, spare him of another useless voice in a sea of them. They lived perfectly separate lives, they could dislike each other’s choices or decisions, but that quiet little agreement ensured it was never the fault of the other. Not intentionally, at least, if a decision led to another and it followed one of them then it was simply meant to be. It was outside of their control. It was Optimus’ attempt at keeping the fragile peace between the families. 

I can only trust you.

Optimus was simply doing his job as crown prince.  

Megatron let out a deep sigh and dragged his servos across his face. 

A mech whose intentions with him were never beyond a wistful glance and a scoff, sought him out as a last resort. 

What did Optimus think of Megatron, truly? 

I will stand with you, if need be, abandon my place as prime to be if I must. I only ask that you allow us to put aside our past for the sake of our collective people. 

He knew. Deep down he knew. 

Megatron was the only being in existence that would see Optimus for who he really was. Not a prince. Not a noble. Not a scholar or tactician. But a wayward spark who took on too much, and accepted so little in return. 

In essence, a fool. 

Soundwave hovered over his lord’s collapsed frame worryingly but Megatron comforted him with his field as it exuded exhaustion and an unfounded calmness. The visored mech relaxed a fraction and knelt down to meet Megatron’s gaze. They stared at each other for a klik only from Megatron to break that contact and look out at the window at the back of the room. The sun was still high in the sky, unaware and uncaring of Megatron’s plight. It mocked his sorrow with its bright, welcoming warmth. Megatron felt he would be more justified in his hollow if it was cloudy or raining, he would have settled for the night just as well. 

Megatron looked up at Soundwave with full optics and smiled bitterly. “Schadenfreude.” He said.

Such a strange word, and yet, it was precious. The most important thing in Megatron’s now. One that was no longer useful, the word he would never use as promised. 

Because Optimus had beat him to it. 

Megatron’s optics, dull and soft, passed over Soundwave once again as he twisted his torso to reach for the most recent letter. Once it was within his clutch, he tapped the light back on and handed it to Soundwave. 

The advisor took it carefully, a digit phased over the cracks that Megatron had inflicted upon it, but read over the urgent letter with a dimmed visor. 

Cybertron needs a true ruler, Megatron. Cybertron needs you.

Schadenfreude.

There it was. Situated at the bottom of Optimus’ letter. No goodbye’s or real end to the letter. Just that alien glyph poorly scribbled on with an anxious hand. 

The last letter in Megatron’s collection. 

Optimus’ last plea for aid, a last bid for attention. In a sense, Megatron got what he wanted from the prince. One he chose not to acknowledge due to his deplorable pride. Optimus begged in his restricted hand, but it was not demanding, it was pleading. Optimus prayed for Megatron’s aid, and Megatron never read it for 3 stellar cycles regardless of its urgency. 

Soundwave’s looked up at Megatron, his visor flared wildly when he finished reading, as his field closed in on itself much like Megatron’s had. 

Optimus figured something out, something big, something stellar cycles before the rest of the north, something so jarring it left Optimus scrambling for Megatron’s aid.

“Optimus didn’t fall.” Megatron whispered to his advisor. 

Soundwave did not offer a response, but tentatively leaned in. 

“The prince was,” Megatron raised a servo up and set it on Soundwave's chest, using it to create a swift motion. “Pushed.”  

Soundwave’s visor flashed bright as he weaved back by the weak blow. 

Megatron looked at Soundwave with a dark expression. “The accident was an assassination attempt.” 

Soundwave tried to collect himself, scrolling through files and the grid. “:Attempt;:..” He tried to vocalize. “:Unsuccessful..” 

Of course, that depended on what one might consider as unsuccessful. As far as Megatron knew, Optimus’ amnesia might have been a good sign. Megatron’s face darkened as he took in another deep vent. “That means he's still in danger."

Megatron plucked up the datapad from Soundwave and inspected it closely, letting his dimmed optics read over the letter again, wishing there was more. Wishing that he had realized this sooner. 

Optimus was left for dead at the bottom of that staircase.

The Optimus that sent the letter safely clutched and cautiously cracked in the claws of a duke had died. Unfortunately, and figurative, but true. Megatron mourned the lost potential they had.

Fallen but not reclaimed, replaced by something softer, kinder, perhaps a truer version of himself without the heel of power pressing on his throat. How could much change in a matter of kliks? When did those kliks turn into cycles? Deca-cycles? Stellar Cycles? Where Optimus would not revert, or turn back to what everyone thought was normal. It took 3 stellar cycles for Megatron to realize this himself. The highest education of the world and the fool could not see what was handed to him on a silver platter. What he refused to see.

Megatron’s field remained situated within the outlines of his armor, his face even in contemplation. 

There was no normal, was there ever? Optimus was never what he presented, was he? Or had the pressure finally snuffed out his sanity. It was all up in the air now. 

Megatron couldn’t pretend to know him anymore than Optimus claimed, so he set the datapad down, softly the glyphs remained on the screen as Megatron avoided the button to shut it off. He tried to lift himself from the floor but the weight of everything made his powerful legs buckle and his militant engine sputter. Megatron tried to catch himself on the edge of anything within his reach, but they too denied him their support. His arms slipped to his sides and his weight dropped onto the floor beneath him. The sound that resulted clashed and echoed throughout the chamber.

Paranoid fool.

The words echoed in Megatron’s mind, there was little to follow after it. Megatron cradled his helm with a sigh. How could he have been so blind? So arrogant? Obsessive? No better than the dead mech that wrote the letter. 

The great duke of Iacon gave a bigger, defeated smile to his amica. “Do you now realize what I’ve done? I have doomed Optimus to this fate.” His vocalizer threatened to crack under the pressure. 

Megatron couldn’t save Optimus from the attempt, but he could have stopped the cover up from happening. He could have stopped all the rumors brushing everything under the rug. He could have brought this to Ultra Magnus’ attention and caused an uproar. He could have spent the past 3 stellar cycles helping an amnesiac prime recover himself, investigating.

Guiding him.

Protecting him. 

Megatron could have started a war. 

And all it took was a single word. 

The sun hovered over like a curious witness, the dusty datapads and books that splayed the office were of little concern now. Soundwave could feel Megatron’s conviction just by looking at him. It crushed him. Megatron was his best friend, his amica, his brother. To see him so crestfallen was a privilege and a curse. 

Soundwave tried his best to reach out and support Megatron up, for the first time, Megatron accepted it. Their servers grasped onto one another, sharing a moment between their bond before Megatron carefully released their connection.

“Bring me an empty datapad and a stylus,” He requested in a soft voice. “Please.” 

Optimus felt the rush of speed take over his frame. The realization of what had just occurred took over the priority position in his HUD. The image of a royal much like him with their servo extended out to emphasize the act did nothing but make Optimus regret everything. The feeling of his frame falling and crashing against the steps of the staircase crushed his plating as it buckled under his weight, going unregistered as his frame tried to recode the pain away. Optimus wasn’t afraid to die, he was only afraid of what would come after his death. 

“Please.” He whispered amongst the crushing of his armor twisting into his protoform and processor. “Forgive me.” 

Optimus closed his optics for the rest of the fall, accepting his fate, silently praying for another chance he knew he would never get it. He had done too much wrong, hid when he should have loved, reached out when he internalized, hoped when he faltered. Primus would forgive him, at the very least there was some solace in that. He would finally be gone from the lives of those he failed. He could find peace in knowing his death would free so many others. 

He crashed into the floor. 

Optimus couldn’t register what was said to him when his counterpart reached the bottom. His audials rang and his HUD was flooded with warnings, he didn’t bother to excuse them, he knew what was coming. 

When he felt a heel press on his chest, over his spark chamber, he relaxed. 

It was finally over. 

Optimus lost. 

Chapter Text

Dear Duke Megatron of Iacon,

Southern territories have grown disorderly. I implore you to take the time to visit your home district to see for yourself. Your people are in a state of fear, resources are being squandered, the rations they are employing are not enough and trade ports are starting to wain. I fear that the worst is to come, the north is in danger and the kingdom of the south is hoarding precious resources.

I can feel the world watching as I am torn apart for their amusement. All it will fall if I do nothing as I once had. I no longer trust myself to lead, I was never capable of such a feat after all. I beg of you, Megatron, heed my plea. Aid my plight and guide my sword. This is no longer two kingdoms and their petty displays of power, this is for the well-being of their people. Of our people. I understand that this letter may be futile, but you are the only hope I have to achieve peace once and for all. I do not deceive when I say if you turn an blind optic to this,

Cybertron is destined to fall into ruin. 

I received this in a vision from the Matrix. It will fall. All will fall. War is imminent. It will not speak to me beyond twisted fantasies and vivid nightmares. But I see it all. I see the failures of my elders, the failures of my selfishness, the faults of my arrogance. Bound together in a twisted sword as it plunges into the innocence this land holds. I feel it all. The pain that I have caused, that I will continue to inflict if I do not speak to you beyond the glyphs of this wretched letter. I cannot speak of the horrors in which I have seen, I cannot trust the hands that touch this letter. I can only trust you.

 I will stand with you, if need be, abandon my place as prime to be if I must. I only ask that you allow us to put aside our past for the sake of our collective people. Cybertron needs a true ruler, Megatron. Cybertron needs you.

Schadenfreude.

Rungs optics, although hidden by his optical lenses, stretched wide. His servo gently framed his agape intake as he struggled to find the words to speak. 

“Spare me your shock,” Ultra Magnus spoke, blatantly annoyed at the reaction. “It had to be done.”

“I can’t believe you did it.” Rung whispered, almost entirely to himself. “You rarely take into account what I have to say.” 

“I chose the lesser of two evils,” Ultra Magnus laments. “However, do know that I made this decision under your duress. You best pray it favors you.” 

Rung’s intake tightened into a line and sighed at the sudden aggressive tone. “I cannot promise you anything.”

The large figure looked down. “You don’t make a habit of disappointing me.” Ultra Magnus said sternly, but the words lacked the same ire as his expression which appeared amused. “Be sure it continues.” 

Windy was running, again. It was only one letter this time, but by Primus, was it important. She was giggling like a madmech, others would gawk at her as she skipped around them like a lost spark. She was making a spectacle out of herself, as per usual. Every now and again she would send a quiet prayer of thanks to Primus for making her such a lucky little bot. In the end, she got what she wanted, more or less. Not that she opened the letter with a very specific crest, no, of course not. At least, Optimus wouldn’t notice the unlocked icon as long as Windy didn’t tell him. 

As Windy reached the palace doors, the guards preemptively opened them as the orange lightning bolt zipped closer. Windy ran past them without an utterance and through a minuscule crevasse of the not-yet fully opened doors. 

“Thank you!” Windy yelled as she slipped around the corner and up the first set of stairs. 

At the sound of clicking against the second floor, a handful of bots who resided in the main hall looked up. 

“Windy!” One of the other maids gasped as Windy ran towards her. “Where are you going in such a hurry? Again!” 

Windy looked at the maid as she managed to pass her at record speed, Silversprint, if she remembered correctly. Windy grinned. “I’ll tell you later!” 

With that, Windy hopped on and over to the next set of stairs. And another, and another, yet Windy felt not the discomfort of overexertion, if anything it fueled her to move faster and complete here mission sooner. 

And soon she did. 

Just like the morning before, Windy did not bother to knock. She kicked open the doors open with an umpah! 

Optimus yelped as he turned to face the maid. “Windy!” He gasped. “Would you please stop doing that!” 

The prince was situated similarly as he was the day prior, comfortable on the sofa of his lounge area. However, today he presided over the arts as a break from language and literacy; being it was intellectually challenging enough to intrigue him when presented with the fact he could read as well as a youngling. Optimus did not drop the datapad of ancient religious sculptures, simply pleading with Windy with a strained appearance. 

“Your highness!” Windy giggled, she jogged her legs up and down as she squealed. “You got a letter!” Her vents were sporadic and wild, her apron was creased and tucked strangely into the seams of her armor. 

“Windy,” the prince deadpanned. “What have I told you about speaking vaguely?” 

Windy sputtered. “I’m getting to it!” 

The little orange maid skittered closer to Optimus and offered him the letter in a respectful two-servo grasp. 

Optimus looked at the letter, hesitantly, before he plucked it out of her grasp and flicked it on. 

“Alright.” He began. “It’s a letter.” 

“Yes, of course, your highness.” Windy grinned. “But look at the crest! Look!”

Optimus hummed. “I suppose it is quite pretty.” 

“Not just that!” Windy snipped. “That isn’t just any crest! That is the crest of the Decepticon Manor!” 

Optimus dropped the accursed item, which clattered against the floor pathetically. “What?!” 

Windy dropped down quickly to pick the letter back up and offer it to her prince. “I know, talk about good timing! Come on! Open it!”

Optimus stood to his pedes and bristled. “Absolutely not!” He responded quickly before he went on to scold the young maid. “Did you send that practice letter?!” 

“No!” Windy tried to remedy the accusation. “I went to the Onyx House because Chromia sent me to retrieve a polish for the floors, when I got there one of the guards urged me to pick up the mail!” Windy bounced the letter in her digits, urging Optimus to take it back. “Come on! Open it!” 

“I said, no.” Optimus bit. “I told you I want nothing to do with that duke.” 

“But you were so curious the other day! What happened?”

“It was exactly that.” Optimus sighed. “Curiosity, dispelling my bias, nothing more. Now that I know what he’s like, I will continue to contend with the notion that I want nothing to do with him.” 

Windy had to refrain from clinging onto Optimus’ frame. “Please?” She begged. 

“No.”

Windy puffed out her chest. “Think about this logically, your highness.” She brought the letter back up to try and encourage Optimus to grab it again. “This isn’t some random letter, this is calculated. With the recent news coming out about you, Duke Megatron is probably trying to get the first pick!”

In the relatively short time that Optimus had started to leave his room, he had picked up on a few political issues when he would scuttle around his residence, through the guise of Chromia’s perspective, of course. If Optimus could not read the news, he’d simply get it from the maids; they made the most uninteresting ordeals fascinating. With no novel, Optimus had to rely on first-hand accounts of the northern political playing field—where he stood, where everyone else stood, and how they ought to interact. In a sense, his palace crew was the first set of teachers Optimus would get, and the prince was eternally grateful towards them. 

Unfortunately, the day prior proved to be as hectic as any other. Only this time the drama had allocated itself on the individual of Optimus Prime, which only proved to make things worse. The maids would laugh and call this normal, Optimus wished it was anything but. 

Truthfully, the previous day was normal enough after Windy pestered him with the news of the duke’s not-so-secret, secret romance. Little of which stuck to Optimus’ short-term memory banks. Optimus went about his day studying and refueling, scarily similar to that of Orion Pax’s everyday day life. Optimus relished the normalcy, short lived as it was. And in a stroke of Orion-typical luck, as soon as the clock ticked quarter past 5 p.m., just in time for dinner, the palace erupted with life that was far too excitable to be considered simply as ‘hungry.’

“I bear the most triumphant news!” A guard vented, unlike himself, as he flung the doors open.

Chromia stepped closer, servos intertwining at her front, calculating and cautious of the guard's presence. “State your order.” 

The guard straightened and bowed deeply. “Lord High Protector of the Northern Territories, Ultra Magnus of Cybertron, has refused the transferring title of Crown Prince to Prince Sentinel of Cybertron.” He stood up and smiled, wide and full of pride. The guard saluted Chromia in her sudden boost of social status in light of the news. “Long live Prince Optimus Prime!” 

Chromia’s servos clutched, every gear in her frame froze as she nodded. Despite her typical stone-faced demeanor, she now glowed with honor. “Thank you.” 

As the cordial being of terrible luck would have it, Optimus remained crown prince despite his amnesia. 

The whole palace fell into a celebration, Optimus didn’t even know that such a ruling was taking place. He was glad he didn’t, the anticipation might have killed him. The news just barely managed to avoid giving him a spark attack. Windy squealed at an obnoxious frequency and clung to Optimus like a scraplet seeking its next meal. For once, Chromia would actually lose her composure, hooting and hollering in joy with a just-as excited Ironhide on a small video-projection as soon as she heard the news. By the time Optimus pried Windy off of him, she was skipping and twirling, singing something along the lines of “I’m gonna be a mecha in waiting!” All while the other servants sighed at the relief that they wouldn’t have to move out of the Sapphire palace, much less their sputtering prince. The guards stood proud in their station, occasionally snubbing others for their seemingly inferior position. 

Optimus was met with a real edict not even a joor later detailing his new schedule for the day, starting the following deca-cycle. Which consisted of approximately 70% of the day dedicated to study, divided into a multitude of classes regarding ethics, etiquette, politics, language, art, science, and whatever life-long studying Optimus had to relearn in a single vorn. He too was met with a list of council meetings, minor-house meetings, and personal meetings that had yet to be filled up. With a personal note from his sire saying, “just sit there, do not speak.” Strained relationship aside, Optimus felt some affection for his sire at the comment. At least Ultra Magnus knew better than to hope Optimus capable of holding political conversation. As soon as the messenger left the Sapphire Palace, Optimus gave the edict and attachments to Chromia with a blank stare and disappeared for the rest of the day. 

No one seemed to notice he was gone until the familiar sound of sobbing echoed the halls, only to be quelled by Chromia and Windy lulling him into recharge. Everyone assumed they were happy tears. Windy and Chromia included. Joy to the mech who was granted such a mercy, once again reigning over all despite such a minor flaw. 

A flaw that is exceedingly personal. 

“I’m not a prince.” Optimus choked out, the terror of the first day enveloped him like a coffin. “This isn’t who I am.” 

“Nonsense!” Chromia said, gently stroking Optimus’ back. “You are more than worthy despite everything.”

“No—you don’t understand,” Optimus looked deeply into Chromia’s optics. “I’m not a prime.”

“You will be.” Chromia comforts softly. “I will help you. I always will.” She reached out to cup Optimus’ face, who in turn grabbed her servos and nearly crushed them with the ferocity in his voice.  

“I don’t want to be a prime.” 

Optimus shivered. “I am. Logically, it’s a bad idea to get involved with the duke—who is at his politically weakest. I just barely didn’t lose the crown title.” He wished he did, very much so. But Windy didn’t need to know that. “I can’t make it appear as though I’m naive enough to answer the duke. It’s risky enough that you accepted the letter!” 

“That’s why you need to open it!” Windy countered. “I’m just saying that if you want to be a big, mature bot that ignoring the Duke of Iacon isn’t a good idea. Not when bots talk!” 

Optimus stretched his spinal strut, emphasizing his height in the process. “What are you getting at, Windy.” 

Windy clicked her heel back with a ferocious snap! She used the letter as an extension of her hand to point at the prince. “Everyone knows about the other day in the Onyx Palace.” Optimus jolted at the sudden sharpness in her tone. She brought her leg up and framed her face with her arms. “Prince Starscream says you’ve become a coward and now a bunch of other nobles are whispering about repealing support of the crown,” She struck a pose, snapping her pede down with a servo on her hip and the other holding the letter up high. “That means the duke might regain all that political power he lost which means that you are in big trouble if you want to live comfortably.” She smirked, slowly bringing down the arm that held the letter. “Royal power? Royal benefits.” Windy waived the letter. “If the Duke is contacting you first, it means that he’s willing to reconsider relations between your two houses. He’s extending the first servo to keep both of you in a steady position of power. Which means that this letter is essential to your future as crown prince.” 

Optimus’ face blanched when Windy finished, like he was just splashed with a bucket of solvent mid-paint job. 

She was right, and Optimus’ pride was wholly unwilling to admit it. It could be that the original Optimus’ greatest failure was not connecting with the Deception house, and the opportunity to gauge military power without holding it was a good idea—politically, at least. Optimus disliked that he had to think like this now, more so, he was ashamed that the little maid had connected the dots before him. 

Regardless of where Optimus—either version, though it might become difficult to differentiate them given the latest issue—stood regarding the duke, the fact Megatron had sent the letter first was a sign of something. Whether it be a good omen or a bad one, it was a matter of having to acknowledge it to find out. 

Optimus shuddered. “Fine.” 

Windy perked up a little at the hoarse voice, she quietly thanked her past self for opening the letter. Windy hopped up and wobbled over with a curious look, lipplates tugging wider into a smile of victory. “Really?”

Optimus stiffened. “Yes, really.” He reached out for the letter. “May I?” 

“Ho-ho-hoh?” Windy smirked. “Did you change your mind? From what this lowly maid suggested?” She wiggled the datapad closer. 

Optimus made a grasping motion with his empty servo. “I’m simply considering that it might be in my best interest to skim over its contents.”

Windy smirked and offered the letter once more. “Of course, your highness.” 

Optimus snatched the letter from the smug little miss and mumbled. “You were a witch in your past life.” 

“Make me your mecha in waiting and we can keep that in the past.” She winked. 

Optimus flicked Windy on the forehelm as his field betrayed his amusement. “Don’t get cocky.” 

Windy let out a breathy laugh. “I’ll prepare some tea!” 

Heavy steps echoed through the quiet halls of the Deception Manor. 

Megatron was a mech of power, forged in steel, plated with platinum, painted in bronze. Such power was reflected in how he carried himself, how he stood, acted, walked, he even waltzed like a powerhouse. Megatron was a confident mech. He earned such a right to be arrogant.

So why was it that he was pacing in his foyer like a sire awaiting an emergence? 

“He hasn’t responded.” The duke hissed, spun on his heels, and trekked in the other direction.

“Full Cycle: Has yet to pass.” Soundwave nearly drawled. “Letter: Barely arrived.” 

“I put whatever stupid emergency emblem there was on that thing! I should be getting a flustered knight at my door post haste!” 

“Lord Megatron: Anxious.”

Megatron stopped his march for only a moment to glare. “I am not.”

“Lord Megatron: Worried.” 

“The safety of this kingdom is at stake; I cannot afford to waste time!” The duke bit, emphasizing the act by snapping forward towards Soundwave with a growl. 

Soundwave lit up a fraction at the duke’s statement. “Lord Megatron: Relax.” 

“Don’t tell me what to do.” 

Soundwave sagged his frame in defeat. “Patience: Virtue.”

“I have not amassed my power through patience.” Megatron scoffed. “I have torn it away from those who denied me of it.”

“Just as—they—tore—It. From—you.” Soundwave voiced with varying snippets from his collection of recordings.

“Precisely. Which is why I would appreciate a—“

A knock at the door cut the duke's sentence short. 

Megatron and Soundwave looked at each other, equally surprised by the sudden sound. 

Megatron recovered faster and pointed at the door with a smug face. “See? I told you it was taking too long.” 

Soundwave made his trepidation known through their amica-bond but Megatron swiftly ignored it in favor of proving himself right. The duke made short work of the distance to the door, snapping at the guards to open it. 

The doors opened quickly, despite their grand appearance. Megatron shook off any worry—though he would refuse to name it as such—from his frame. 

Obtuse doors in a dark wash cracked and creaked under the strain of ancient hinges. Megatron adjusted himself to stand tall at the face of another, just as he was taught. Personal philosophy aside, Megatron made sure to appear presentable. The light that entered through the growing crack in the door illuminated the marble floors, seeping into the quiet residence like a stream of melted gold, slowly building up to where Megatron stood. However, as the doors opened completely the light stopped just at the brink of Megatron’s pedes, leaving him in the dark. Megatron looks up to meet the supposed flustered knight, stammering his designation and purpose with rapid vents only to hold out Optimus’ response. 

Megatron wondered how the prince would react to the letter, it was quite important, but the newfound naivety the prince found himself with would prove to be a daunting task to overcome considering every event leading up to where Megatron now stood. But the duke was willing to be patient in a strangely driven manner. He was willing to try with Optimus to prepare for the incoming chaos. In a way, Megatron would repay the strange act of protection, as it was bestowed to him by an older version of the prince. 

Megatron only wished he had more time to do it. 

An inkling of the day’s prior regret tried to seep in, Megatron denied himself the right to wallow in the stark light of the opened doors. He could wallow when it was over, he could grieve what little part of him pitied the old prince. A sense of calmness washed over Megatron as he looked out to the doorway to meet his fate, the creaking arising from it coming to an end as if it was a day like any other. Megatron began to take mental note of what he would do after this fiasco came to an end. 

1. Oil the door hinges.

The bright atmosphere of the world outside the doorway greeted Megatron with the soft glow of his manor’s front lawn. The stairs curved out and wide, their descending order disappearing the further along they went. But Megatron knew the stairs were leading to the path that led to the roundabout for carriages, and then to the dark bronze gates that locked Megatron’s life away. Megatron stared at the gates for a moment, their metaphorical meaning coming off a bit too strong. Nevertheless, the edges of a well-kept garden decorated the farther reaches of the door’s opening. Megatron felt a swell of pride for maintaining such a wonderful territory. As he no longer did it for appraisal, it was now for himself. His home, the very extension of his being, Megatron would make sure to treat it as if it was his own frame. Determined to set his house name anew, under his jurisdiction. 

Then reality caught up to Megatron. 

It was a lovely day, the weather seemed nice. If he was more willing, Megatron would drag Soundwave and Starscream out for a walk. Yet it was exactly that, a nice day, outside. Megatron was treating his doorway like a window. 

In other words, he was looking at nothing. 

There was nothing at the door. 

At optic-level, at least. 

Megatron recycled his optics. 

“Hey!” 

Megatron stiffened, turning around to look for a frame to match the voice. He was met with nothing at his height, as most things did for Megatron, so he took to looking down to find a smiling minicon. 

“Down here, silly!” 

When optical receptors created the image in Megatron’s processor, he practically sneered. “You’re picking up on your conjux’s habit of poor entries.” 

“Am I not allowed to visit my brother-in-bond?” White armor glistened. 

“We’re not related.” Megatron countered. “Now leave.” 

“Awe, come now Megsy, don’t be like that.” The mincon leaned in and smiled wider. 

“Do not call me that.” Megatron rolled his optics and concluded that Soundwave was right. He snapped at the guards to indicate his desire to have the door closed and started to stride in the opposite direction of the intruder. “You come to my manor unannounced, I have the right to ask you to leave.” 

Short legs quickly slipped through the crack of the door and patted after longer ones. “Well, I have the right to scold my little brother for being a bully.” 

“We’re not related.”

The minicon pouted. “I’m bonded to your brother!” They insisted. “That makes us brothers, and me your big brother-woah!” 

Megatron stopped suddenly to stare down at the white bot who creaked their neck upwards to give another cheeky smile, servos clasped behind their back. Megatron’s optics narrowed as he pitched his voice to a comfortable range of threatening. “I’m not even related to your conjunx, let alone you. So, I will ask you again, please leave.”

The threat flew over the minicons helm as they beamed at the sight before them. “Awe! Look at you! You said please! You’re such a big bot now!” 

Megatron let out a garbled noise akin to a trash compactor destroying the ruined cushions of a carriage. He straightened up, not even looking at the intruder any longer, opting for a window. “I will not ask you again to leave, Tailgate.” 

The forbidden designation of the Decepticon House, spoken with ease and a touch of annoyance from one who once adored it. Megatron never made the habit of thinking of Cyclonus, and by extension the rowdy bot he would hitch himself to, but they always managed to prance their way back into his life at the most inconvenient of times. 

The tale of Cyclonus and Tailgate was a simple one, classic, romantic, borderline cliche. And tumultuously disastrous to everyone around them. Megatron would loathe to admit it, but he at least acknowledged the fact that the two made it work out despite it all. If anything, he commended their efforts. However, that was the most of what he could offer considering the aftermath. 

Cyclonus had a simple, yet tragic in all-the-right-ways upbringing. Cyclonus’ carrier passed right after he emerged, leaving a bitter taste in his sire’s mouth. Typical. Cyclonus never received more than what was necessary from his sire and matured into a quiet bot. Of course. Even so, it was not enough to stop Cyclonus from being a good mech, kind and appreciative to his servants and people. Offering kindness where he was denied it. Naturally. 

As one would expect, Galvatron hated this, but remained tolerable of his son’s generosity so long as he could run the estate well. And he did. Cyclonus was somewhat capable, albeit quiet and standoffish. 

Meanwhile, Tailgate was never a good maid; quick but clumsy, speedy but sloppy, counterintuitive, and counterproductive. But if there was anything the minicon had, it was gusto. 

Cyclonus, much like his late sire, is a handsome mech. Handsome and wealthy. So, it’s only natural that one might desire to conquer a handsome duke with a deep subspace. 

And so, that was not what set their love ablaze, surprisingly enough. If anything, the two were as frigid with one another as any other maid and master. 

Tailgate smothered a laugh. “Oh, you won’t kick me out, you’re all talk.” He winked and continued before Megatron could start up again. “I’m here to scold you, remember? Don’t bully Cyclonus, it makes him sad.”

“How did you even get here?” Megatron whispered a little too loudly. 

Tailgate looked smug once again and flashed his visor. “You forget who I am, little duke.”

“You forget yourself,” Megatron corrected. 

“I’m a bot of many calibers, doesn’t matter how I got here. I’m here.”

“My manor has the best security available, there is no way to make it past the front gate without getting caught.”

“Hoh ho, you think so little of me.”

Megatron looked down at Tailgate with narrowed optics. “Enlighten me.” 

“Say sorry to Cyclonus first.”

Megatron nodded. “Very well, it appears I’ll have to bully you out of my life as well.” 

Tailgate pouted again. “As if you could do that!” He laughed. “I endured the pits for love!”

Megatron suppressed the ire that was threatening to overtake his collected field, opting to lift a ridge. 

Tailgate shrunk a little. “Ah. No offense.” 

Megatron turned around and began to make his way to the library. “Get out.” 

Megatron couldn’t have cared less about his adoptive brother's romantic escapes so long as they avoided him, which they didn’t. 

As a matter of fact, it was what caused Cyclonus and Megatron to be so divided. 

Somewhere, somehow, Cyclonus slipped up. He failed and faltered. He became exactly enough of a disappointment for Galvatron to be unable to save his worthless son.

Cyclonus had rejected a bonding proposal. 

Now, granted, it was one thing to deny a proposal, it was natural for a duke to be picky. A forgivable sin for even the most enamored prospects. However, Cyclonus had gone ahead and went the extra mile. He denied the hand of Optimus Prime. 

Cyclonus was, and is, a good mech. And as a good mech, he knows where he stands in relation to the crown prince. Still, Cyclonus was just about fully mature at the time of Vector Prime’s proposal to unite the houses. So, when the proposal came when it did, in the form of a visit to the royal family, Cyclonus stood on ‘too old’ for a bot that was just shy of 16 vorns old. 

Cyclonus meant well when he denied the proposal, he wanted Optimus to bond who he saw fit, when he saw fit. Level-headed idealism stood between him and a perfect life, it seemed. The heir to dukedom would not be bound to someone so young and deny the youth his future. Romantic to a fault, far too kind in his intention.

But when were good intentions taken with such stride? 

Proposals, from a royal family, were a courtesy. They are not something to be denied, the act of a proposal was for show. To even entertain the prospect was enough to flatter the house it would attach itself to. Cyclonus’ bonding to Optimus would be purely political, a way to strengthen the houses. Nothing more, nothing less. But Cyclonus refused to see that when he met Vector Prime with a soft smile and a demure “No, thank you.” 

The Decepticon Houses’ reputation tanked after that day, the start of a steady decline long before Megatron got involved. Galvatron refused to even look at Cyclonus. 

Now, just as Cyclonus is a good mech, many would consider the same for Vector Prime—unfortunately ‘is’ was no longer applicable. Even so, he was still a prime, a pivotal figure in the progress of Cybertron’s northern empire. Marrying off Optimus was painful, but necessary. Vector himself was bonded off to Ultra Magnus of the Autobot House when he was 15. It was an evil that had to be dealt with for the sake of the kingdom's future. Still, Vector would not deny the relief he felt when Cyclonus refused. 

If only the rest of his court would have concurred. 

There was an outbreak of distrust for the Decepticon House. After all, who would deny the easiest ticket to power? If a lesser house is to deny a prince, what does that say of the royal family? Nothing good, most assuredly. The other houses decided to support a rejected prince who frankly could not have cared less to retain some level of civility amidst a bruised image to the public. In a way, Cyclonus’ rejection also sparked the sudden spiral of terrible luck Optimus would accumulate later in life. 

Galvatron tried to remedy the blow to his house’s name, unfortunately it did nothing but worsen it. From vornly galas to private conferences with the Prime, Galvatron appeared to be groveling, throwing away what little self respect he had left. The Decepticon House was on the brink of falling and Galvatron would have none of it. Tanked reputation, and disgraced son doing Primus-knows what, Galvatron retreated into the south to collect himself. 

Galvatron gambled and drank instead of finding a real solution, returning to his summer manor with a new escort every night. They served their purpose to the aging duke, but a lonelier part of him let them talk when their deed was done. They talked of many things, anything, all of it nothing to do with the north. Galvatron appreciated it. They spoke of winnings and losses, culture, cakes, of gladiators and scholars. 

Most importantly, one that tried to be both. 

Enter Megatronus of Kaon, Scorn of Tarn, Champion of the South. The next big thing as far as the underclass were concerned, and with the way Galvatron did not recognize the designation outside of history books, would likely stay that way if it were not for a certain mouthy consort. Galvatron initially thought little of the champion, just another itch the Southern houses had to deal with. 

And deal with it, they tried. 

In his time away from home, Galvatron met with a handful of the houses of Kaon. None of them were worth noting, and some of them were as dead as he now was. They spoke of the champion's promises of freedom, words of hope. But words were simply that, words. Little to them unless acted upon. Which is why Megatronus had been so disregarded until he began to act. The acts were quiet at first, silent boycotts and whispers of possibility, but when the first protest broke out into a riot, the Southern families scrambled. The champion was young too, not even old enough to drink engex when he stood at the eye of the storm. Megatronus was slowly becoming a thorn rather than an itch. 

While the noblemechs of the South worried what the young mech would do next, Galvatron was merely intrigued by the budding revolutionary—seeing himself within the youngling. Unfortunately, he saw too much of himself. Arrogant, strict, cold, and fiery all at once. Off on another drinking binge, Galvatron strode into the coliseum and asked for Megatronus by name. 

“Do you think of yourself as a hero, child?” Galvatron mocked. 

“A hero implies I have saved something. I’ve done nothing but pull the curtains open.” Megatronus replied with a thick accent rasping in discomfort, wounds dripped pink energon from his latest match as his armor was stained in a contrasting blue. 

“Then allow me to be yours.” Galvatron offered, leaning in. “So that you can be mine.”

Megatronus barreled out a heavy laugh, genuine and amused. “Save you?” He speaks. “The only thing you ought to worry about is saving yourself from me if you get any closer.” 

“You speak well!” Galvatron beamed. “You’ll make a good competition for a noble.” 

“And you’ll be a dead one if you continue.” Megatronus growled. 

“Yes.” Galvatron’s optics shone. “That is precisely what I want. What I need.”

“With all offense, northerner. I’m not interested in swapping paint.” Megatronus snorted.

“Spare me your crude humor, youngling.” Galvatron chuckled darkly and extended a servo. “Come with me and I will give you everything you want and more.”

“You cannot give me what I want.”

“What is it that you want?”

“Freedom.”

“But of co-“

“For all of my people.” 

Galvatron’s smile did not waver. “In due time, young one.” 

Galvatron was a wicked mech, but clever. Megatronus was all but the key to his revenge. The south was more than happy to rid themselves of Megatronus, and the north would not know what to do with him. He would take the not-so-mini version of himself and claim his lineage anew—officially turning the north upside down. 

Megatronus was left with no choice after their chance encounter, a day later Galvatron would make good on his word and buy Megatronus’ freedom from the unkept servos of the guild leaders. Megatronus made his disdain clear, voicing protest from the moment Galvatron uttered his intention. But that did not stop Galvatron from walking away from the coliseum with a new son. Granted, Megatron was well onto being a grown mech, so Galvatron’s choice was worrisome at best, however, the duke was so determined to spite the world he was born into he waltzed back to Iacon with Megatronus attached at the hip and into the grand palace halls. 

From the moment Megatron entered the north, his life had turned on its head. 

“Oh, come on.” Tailgate drawled. “Are you still mad?”

“Am I still Duke of Iacon?” 

Tailgate looked up and around at the massive halls stretching out into decorative doors lined in deep colors and deeper auras. “Hm, I guess so.”

“Then there you have it.” 

Tailgate had to run to keep pace with Megatron. “He didn’t mean to!”

“Intention versus impact, Tailgate.” 

Now, Tailgate had begun to bristle. “How was Cyclonus supposed to know Galvatron was going to get up and get another son! He thought he was safe!” 

“Safe from that madmech!” Megatron hollered. “You knew that worthless adoptive sire of mine longer than I and yet only I seem to know him best!” 

Tailgate’s temper finally flared out into his field. “He was a little rebellious, so what. You have no right to show us the same disdain.” 

“Perhaps not.” Megatron admits. “But it is much easier to blame you and move on. So, I suggest you do the same and leave me be.” 

“I took care of you! I-I made sure you were cared for, as did Cyclonus! Why do you show us nothing but contempt?” Tailgate pleaded. “We are family, should we not care for one another despite it all?” 

The same night he was set anew, Megatronus became the center of attention in favor of another, arguably more important figure. 

Galvatron always favored a good show, though not always keen to display it himself, he was willing to try it at least once. 

“Bear my long-lost son!” The duke would cry out with a burn in his voice and a flame in his optics. “Let it be known that I have taken it upon me to pity this illegitimate son.” 

Elaborate jewels jingled to face Megatron. 

“Let me speak and say that the son I once held will no longer be, and instead, shine a light on the lost potential I had abandoned!” 

The elaborate adornments of a soft blue protoform yet to be changed by an alt mode looked at Megatron plainly. Megatron looked back, hesitantly. Where others snickered and laughed, the delicate frame of a crown prince was unimpressed, but not with who he locked optics with. 

Galvatron continued his hymn. “I reject my eldest. Forgive him for impudence, my prime. I offer you another to acknowledge as my heir.” 

Losing a son and gaining another in one foul swoop, Galvatron had no way of confirming his claim, his word had to be good enough. Gloating fool. Megatron with all the fury in his spark had felt ill where he stood. So young, the flame in his spark had dwindled in the light of so many filthy looks. 

Megatron was thrown in the center of an elaborate poise, where blue optics bore into him like acid. Barely washed and polished, Megatron stood like a copper spoon against platinum swords. Their contempt and utter amusement stung worse than any slash or tear into his protoform. Such humiliation only worsened by Galvatron’s monologue about his potential, his newfound kinship. All while cerulean blue looked at him, almost through him. Although at the time Optimus was no one to Megatron the way he shielded his intake at the sight of the disgraced champion after breaking optical contact was enough to send him running out of the ball room. He dared not cry in their wake. Their laughter was fuel to the fire. 

Optimus found him moments later and this initiated their strange relationship. Luckily Megatron had collected himself the moment he heard the leaves rustling, lest he risk doing more damage. In light of Optimus' feigned curiosity—and now knowing the act of solidarity (even when it was presumption on Megatron’s part) the young lord took it as a sign, one to never let himself appear weak, to be exploited so easily. 

Megatron’s life was built upon a lie, desperate to appease the impossible standards of Galvatron’s with no more than a clenched fist and a short temper. 

‘Illegitimate son,’ he would call Megatron, a lie than honored him with the sanctity of kinship. And yet, even then, those sparkless decorations masquerading as sentient would slather him with ‘adoptive son.’ The preferred title would overtake Galvatron’s painting of the truth. So revolted by the notion that Megatron could even be noble that they denied him the comfort of a lie. 

“Family?” Megatron snarls. “I have never known such a word—never knew my own creators, and yet you have the audacity to say we are family just because Galvatron said so? Because your beloved Cyclonus pitied me?”

“It was not pity.” Tailgate glowered. “He recognized his faults the moment Galvatron left for the south, he tried to help!”

“And look where that puts him!” Megatron raised his servos out and wide. “I would rather him compete with me! All the power in the palm of his servo, with or without the favor of many, and yet he wilts at the sight of me!” 

“It was never about power!” Tailgate pleaded. “We just want another chance to be with you, together.”

“Is that what you’ve come for? Truly?” Megatron scoffed. “You've rung my life like a rag, playing into the same strings Galvatron has strung onto me, and you still ask to ruin me further?” 

“You know nothing.” Tailgate’s servos clenched into fists. “We deserve to be here, with you.” 

“Hah! There it is! Without fail!” Megatron laughs and faces away from Tailgate, shielding his face from the windows light as he looks out, then back. “What is it that you deserve, really? You want many things, but little of it is what you deserve. You want my inheritance? My wealth? My manor? Is that it? What right do you have to demand comforts from me! You will get it when you learn to fight for it.” 

“Me, me, me.” Tailgate mockingly replies. “Always about you! What did we rob you of?” Tailgate yelled out on the brink of a sob. “We didn’t even know you!”

“That’s the worst of it.” Megatron’s voice fell into a tone akin to a whisper. “So ignorant of the damage you’ve done.” 

The days after Megatron’s Northern debut, tucked away in a study where he did little but learn to read and write in traditional Neocybex, Megatron met a maid. 

Tailgate had spilled a drink over Megatron’s latest studies as he tried to clean a top shelf. Given the glare ever-present on the new-found heir’s faceplates, Tailgate considered himself as good as dead. 

“I am so sorry! I didn’t mean to! I swear! I-it’s just—I—well—.”

“It’s fine.” Megatron answered plainly. “It’s not as though I was enjoying it.”

Tailgate looked up to find a bored Megatron looking at him, but the act of peeking made the heir amused. 

“I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He offered, his voice was thick with an accent trying to disappear, but it clung to him like a vinyl wrap. 

“You didn’t?” Tailgate squeaked.

“I should thank you, if anything.” A soft smile, if you could consider the slight upturn that painted itself onto Megatron’s lipplates as such. “I can go to the library now to read something more interesting.”

“Uh, b-but, the data pads—“

“I’ll say I spilled the cube.” Megatron shook his helm. “I’ll spare you of his wrath.” He notes, almost to himself in a quieter voice. 

“Oh.”

“Would you like to join me?” Megatron asked.

Tailgate hesitated at the request. 

“Okay.”

There were many things said about Megatron regarding nobility, and much he said about it in turn. Yet his reputation with the underclass was not founded on his devilish charm, that was about the greatest sense of genuineness that would ever come from Megatron in his new life. 

Even after meeting Tailgate, the other servants, Cyclonus, and his equals, Megatron had long favored Tailgate and the servants while making his disdain for the selfish upper class known. 

Tailgate had his ways, then and now. Charming as every mini-con managed to be. He was kind, likable, easy to talk to, and simply too stubborn to give up on the prospect of a new friend. It was no wonder Cyclonus grew so fond of him. 

Tailgate, much like an orange maid for an amnesiac prince, became Megatron’s confidant well before Soundwave. Except Megatron did not have the foresight of another life to guide him. Time as a revolutionary aside, Megatron was still young, and naive when it came to his emotions. He had yet to better understand what the affliction known as affection might have really been. It became a habit for Megatron to skip his work to read novels of primes long gone and creations of Unicron with Tailgate by his side to help him understand some of the more complicated glyphs. Megatron would practice his speeches, recite his poetry, and calculate long equations to Tailgate who would clap along in avid support. They chewed on Rust Sticks while Megatron spoke of his arena fights and local folklore. 

Tailgate adored it, and Megatron had grown to adore him. 

“I will not tolerate you arriving in my manor to disrespect me blatantly, am I not your Duke?” Megatron’s vents were ragged and hard as his past pecked at his spark more than usual. 

Tailgate stepped forward, with newfound confidence. “You are a duke only in name, Megatron.” 

“That’s right.” Megatron stood tall. “In name alone, yet I find it curious how a name holds so much power in the end.” His intake tugged into a sneer; the same one he would regularly get in the past. “Leave, at once. I will not let myself be drawn along by your presence any longer.” 

“You have no right to tell me what to do.” Tailgate hissed. 

“I command armies with a snap of my digits,” Megatron snarled, falling into the safety of his righteous anger. “I hold power in my fists, even when it was long taken from my voice.” Megatron spoke in a familiar, deep tone. “Do not tempt my poor temper, Tailgate.” 

Tailgate scoffed. “You are just like him.”

Megatron’s optics narrowed at the implication. “Leave.”

“You will never be your brother.” 

“I never wished to be.”

Tailgate laughed bitterly. “And yet you take after your sire.” 

Megatron clicked his glossa and waved his arm to shoo Tailgate away. “Be gone.”

Tailgate threatens to snap back, but his anger dwindles, failing to fight fire with fire. “Cyclonus talks about you,” Tailgate offers, quietly, faced away from the duke. “Often. How he wishes he had not failed you so. Isn’t that curious? He gave you his everything, yet you deny him the right of existence.”

To Megatron, that was the greatest kindness he could offer. If only Cyclonus would realize Megatron was holding back. If he truly willed it, Megatron would ruin that pathetic excuse for a brother. But Tailgate’s affinity for his lover was enough to stop Megatron from trying. 

Megatron’s servos clenched, the halls so quiet, the act reverberated through with a hushed echo. 

“I do not want your power, money, or name. I have come to realize such things are worthless. I want you, my beloved brother. The only family that is left to my conjunx and I.” Tailgate looked deep into Megatron’s optics. “Why can’t you see that? How do you fail to understand such simplicity?” 

Megatron let go of the tension in his frame, relaxing from clenching his fists. He looked down on Tailgate with an unreadable expression, pain threatened to slip through as the dreadful feelings of affection long burned tried to rekindle on a bed of ashes. “I will have a knight escort you. This is my final warning. If you are ever to intrude on this manor's territory, I will have you arrested.” 

Tailgate’s expression of pain shattered Megatron’s resolve. “What?” 

“Good day, Tailgate.” 

Tailgate whimpered. “Do you hope that it’s goodbye too?”

Megatron turned away from the sputtering minicon and disappeared into darker halls of the manor, lifting a digit to his audial to make good on the threat. 

But it wasn’t enough. Nothing would ever be. 

It was not real love, Megatron realized that soon after. He had quelled the feeling before it could be true. The pain that came from looking at Tailgate was real, though. It was a crush, a hope for something that would never come, his doomed first love. And Tailgate never knew of it. All for the better, Megatron would think, he could not imagine being tied down with how he was now, not with everything on his plate. But that reminder lingered, that soft lullaby of what-if. 

If only Cyclonus said yes to Vector Prime, Megatron would think his life would be very different. At his age, in his idealistic timeline, the south would flourish under democracy. Megatron would imagine himself working on the fields, tucked away from his time as a revolutionary, with a family. If he was particularly sentimental, Megatron would hold the place of his conjunx to some misaligned variation of Tailgate. 

But reality would always wake him up in the end.

“That fool, that pathetic excuse for a brother, that pathetic excuse for an heir. Is why I sit here before you now, doing his job, at his manor, pretending to be his brother while he is off delighting in a life that could’ve been mine. That should’ve been mine.”

Megatron and Tailgate never clicked. Not the way Tailgate did with Cyclonus. Megatron didn’t know why, and he gave up on trying to understand. It was for the better, Megatron would tell himself. Perhaps his tragedy was as equally cliche and arbitrary as Cyclonus’ whole life has always been. A small overlap in their lives through the form of love. It was the short-lived time of Megatron’s life that felt as blissfully youthful as he deserved. 

Still, Megatron was jealous. Exceedingly so. Fate strung too tightly onto him; he was a puppet to a dead mech, wearing his title like a sash. 

Megatron knew that Cyclonus and Tailgate grew fond of one another after he missed a day of his weekly escapades to the library. The connection Megatron had with Tailgate dwindled after that, so much so that Megatron began to berate himself for allowing his spark to flutter at the thought of Tailgate. He would like to think his negligence had doomed them; most would find it liberating but all Megatron did was cling. Cling to that what-if, a hope, a dream for a life that was at peace. 

Much like he clung to his hatred of Optimus. His so-called righteous hate. Justified, deserved, and dismantled in an instant. 

He clung so hard that Megatron eventually realized that he was as delusional as Tailgate. It was what little naivety that remained after vorns of tearing it apart. Megatron saw a glimpse of another future, a way out, and tried to grasp it. Tailgate was a placeholder for joy, an unrealistic standard Megatron tried to imprint upon him. Such an understanding would only come later in life, as all wisdom does. So, Megatronus’ begging for a little more love bled through the logical conclusion.

Despite the time passing, it was still much too painful. Tailgate and Cyclonus tried to fix what was burned to ashes, unaware of Megatron’s pain disguised as another face of disdain for his oppressors. Cyclonus would take Megatron’s hatred as the price for failing to be a better heir, and that would be true to an extent. Megatron’s dislike of his brother was primarily bound by the actions taken by Cyclonus. The betrayal of love—if it could be even referred to as such—however, cuts much deeper and stains harder. Megatron could never forgive them, they stood as reminders of Megatron’s dream for a simpler life, a mocking karat at the face of a starving zaphorse. 

Megatron failed, in the end, for better or worse, he didn’t know. Perhaps fate had different plans in the form of budding a war against his home. There was peace at the thought, to know he would get his revolution one way or another. A step in the right direction. He made sure that Tailgate and Cyclonus would no longer reap anything from him.

Megatron chuffed at his sudden sentimental display and smacked himself on the face a couple of times. “Get it together,” He scolded himself. “You have more important things to do.”

Despite all he had, Megatron craved a connection. Embarrassing as it was. He was a living thing, after all.

“Megatron: Sad.” A voice offered, stepping out from the shadows. 

Megatron dragged his servos against his face. “Those two always bring out the worst in me.” 

Soundwave inclined his helm to watch how Megatron’s frame sagged. He walked over and pushed him lightly. “Megatron: Emotional…”

“It appears I'm losing myself.” 

The two stopped for a moment, Soundwave rested his weight on Megatron as if he was big enough to blanket the giant with a hug. “Megatron: Strong. Megatron: O.K.”

In a way, Soundwave filled the void, for the time being. And that was enough. 

Megatron smiled, curling down to rest on Soundwave to match the gesture and alleviate some tension. “Is Viscount Shockwave available to meet today?” 

Soundwave shrugged. “Perhaps.”

Optimus toyed with the tea-glass occupying both servos with hesitant taps as he looked down on the unsuspecting letter of the short table before him. 

“I should open it.” Optimus says.

“You should open it.” Windy insists. 

Optimus looked away from the cube with a huff. “But I don’t want to.”

Windy groaned and fell onto her side of the sofa. “Why—?” She drawled. “It can’t be that bad.”

“But what if it is?” Optimus counters. “What if it’s something awful, and terrible. So terrible I will have to act upon it?!”

“You are so paranoid, your highness.” Windy sighs. “What could it possibly say that has you so bothered?” 

Optimus shudders, picking up his pace on his chosen instrument of a tea-glass. “That’s the worst of it! I don’t know what it contains!”

“Then open it!”

“Must I?”

“Yes!” Windy nearly howls. 

Optimus’ finials flutter unrhythmically, his optics cycle wide and narrow as he weighs the options. “Why did I have to wake up in this frame?” He laments before setting the glass down far too crudely, its contents threatening to splash if the prince had not drunk most of it, and reached for the letter.  

Optimus did not spare himself the divinity of anticipation, he quickly flicked open the datapad and swiped up on the roaring emblem. 

Windy scoots closer with wide optics, leaning in to (re)read the letter with Optimus. 

But Optimus loses his composure once again and hoists the letter away from them both with a highly pitched voice. “Oh! Why must this be so nerve wracking!” 

“Your highness!”

“Right! Sorry.” Optimus brings the letter back down. 

Two pairs of blue optics narrowed at the crisp letters of a neatly written hand—far nicer than anything Optimus had written thus far. 

To Prince Optimus Prime of Cybertron,

I, Megatron of Iacon—

A smile creeps up on Windy’s lipplates, her optics slowly shifted to try and catch Optimus’ reaction, who remained utterly focused upon the letter. His face turns into a pout, which was surprisingly not what Windy expected. 

“I don’t know what this says.” Optimus notes, mostly to himself. 

Windy’s engine sputtered. “What-”

Optimus begins to narrow his optics and bring the letter close, as if that would magically translate the level of fluency Megatron wrote in. “I can't read this.” 

Windy’s intake flies open, then back closed, quickly collecting the snapshot she’d taken that morning when she did not read the letter. In that definitely-untrue version of history, Windy remembers the surprisingly short contents of the letter only to realize Megatron wrote to Optimus in proper letting—aka true neocybex, the type of glyphs only a fully grown mech well past their academic days would know. Which a freshly amnesiac prince would not know. 

“Is that so?” Is what Windy decides upon, ensuring her innocence. “Should I read it for you?”

Optimus nods quickly. “I think that would be best.” He hands the letter back to Windy. 

“Alright.” Windy resets her Vocalizer. “Ready?”

“Yes.” Optimus says, but quickly adds on. “However, please speak normally, I have no desire to hear your impression of the duke.” 

Windy pouted much like Optimus had. “You’re no fun.” 

“Forgive me for trying to retain some of my sanity.” 

Windy let out a harumph and turned the datapad back on and gauged the contents. “At least it’s short.”

Optimus leaned into the sofa cushions. “Oh, good.” 

Windy coughed and straightened up, speaking in a clear tone with a surprising level of seriousness. “To Prince Optimus of Cybertron,” She began. “I, Megatron of Iacon…” Windy spoke to her audience of one with a collected tone.

Optimus’ internal chronometer ticked on as if every klik was a breem. His anxiety would be the end of him. Still, that did not mean the prince wasn’t curious about the duke’s sudden interest. Optimus’ memory file relayed their last meeting, his deep aura and commanding presence. Megatron truly was what he presented as in the novel, perhaps there was some truth to it there. The duke was a force to be reckoned with, more so now that Optimus remained as crown prince. Connecting with Megatron wasn’t a bad idea, if anything it was a great one, try as he might to dissuade any previous understandings of the duke it did nothing to change the fact that past interactions aside—he wasn’t exactly the easiest to get along with considering Optimus was a high-ranking noble.

Optimus’ shook off his trepidation in favor of trying to listen to Windy, the little maid was more than happy to accept the letter on his behalf and had no qualms with enforcing it upon him. Optimus wondered if it was her admiration of the duke or something else. A piece of him wished he could favor the duke so highly, were Optimus in any other position, he would. But unfortunately, he stood in direct contrast to Megatron as far as every other noble was concerned. And by the looks of others' reactions to the news of his retention, the two houses might stand in higher opposition. Especially now that the threat of losing more favor to other houses exists, and Optimus did not want to tempt that fate by playing it all off. 

Optimus suppressed a groan and tried not to lull his helm back into the soft cushion. Opting to tuck his chin into his chest and close his optics. Windy was right to push the letter, even if it was primarily to appease her curiosity. But seeing Megatron just once was enough to be done with it, Optimus wished they could live as separately as possible. 

Optimus prepared himself for what Megatron was proposing in the letter, perhaps talks of politics, or to request a meeting, perhaps even to mock him. Optimus expected something adjacent to politically motivated, it was the only thing that made sense. He simply had to prepare himself for whatever it was. 

“…would like to offer you an invitation to tea.”

Optimus’ flinched back, expecting something like a gunshot to escape Windy’s intake. But when the real words were processed, he jumped closer to Windy with a puzzled expression. “What.” 

Windy nodded, trying to hide her excitement. “Duke Megatron has invited you to tea.” 

Optimus made a quiet remark to himself and leaned closer to Windy. “And what else?”

“Oh,” Windy waved the letter with a giggle. “That’s it.”

“That’s it?”

“It is.” Windy responded, flipping the datapad around to show Optimus the limited glyphs, complicated as they were. “He asked to have tea with you!” She nearly equaled. “How exciting is that!” 

Optimus' arms crossed as he sunk deeper into his seat, “He sent me a letter to have tea.” Still dragging down, Optimus arms shifted to holding himself as that pesky strain of anxiety kicked in. “Primus. He wants to have tea.” 

The worst thing you can do for a paranoid bot is to hit them with the unexpected. 

Optimus stood from his seat. “That can’t be it.”

“But it is!” Windy said. 

“Tea?” 

“Tea!”

“In the mesh?”

“But of course!”

Optimus hummed and tapped the plating on his upper thighs. “He’s going to kill me.”

“Your highness-”

“No!” Optimus catches himself by standing, covering his face. “You’re better than this, he’s better than this.” He pauses and looks vaguely distressed. “I hope.”

“Your hi-”

“I mean—it’s just tea,” Optimus continued talking to himself, beginning to waltz around the room like a lost spark. “What’s the worst that could happen? But then that means we have to talk, oh, but wouldn’t that be a good thing!” He brightens. “Properly dispelling bias! An accurate point of reference through the lens of a civilized interaction!” 

“You-”

Optimus jolts and huddles into himself again. “But what if you make it worse! What if he hates you!” Optimus cupped his audial units and lightly smacked his cheeks. “I’m going to make a fool of myself-”

“Optimus!”

The prince yelped. “Goodness! I forgot you were there.”

“You’re forgetting a lot more than just me.” Windy said plainly, before getting up and brushing her apron down. “You need to calm down. It’s tea, perfectly innocent.” 

“Is there such a thing as innocence in high society?” Optimus counters. 

Windy prepares a rebuttal, but there isn’t one, so she shrugs in a lighthearted manner. “No, I suppose not. But this could be good!”

“In what way?”

“Political.” Windy says in a bleak tone. 

“Aside from that.” Optimus tsks. “There must be more to this meeting, he was clearly uninterested in me when we last interacted.” 

Windy brought her servo to her chin with a drawn-out hum. “Oh!” She smiles. “I get to see my handsome duke?” 

Optimus laughs. “Your duke?”

“Well, we can share if you’d like.” Windy winks. 

“You,” Optimus says with a scolding tone, almost lifting a servo to reprimand her with a digit. “Always with an ulterior motive. If it isn’t my wealth, it’s my guests.” 

“I’m a clever mech.” Windy winks, to play hard into the obvious sarcasm in her voice. “Still,” She drops any more jokes and settles on giving real advice. “This does give you a chance to show your sire you’re not all fluff.” She insists with a fist to emphasize power.

Optimus gave up on trying to outplay Windy, she was keen on getting him to step outside. “Very well,” He admits defeat with a sigh and returns to his seat. “Is tea a simple matter to attend to?” He asks, gesturing at the tea set before him with a soft nod. “I doubt that I will entertain the duke as well as I do with you.” 

Windy mumbles a few things under her vents. “No, I guess not. Your classes don’t start until next week, don’t they?”

“They do not.”

“And still no memory banks kicking in?”

“Nope.”

Windy drew into herself. “I guess you don’t remember anything about etiquette.” She says, mostly to herself. 

Optimus tries to consider what etiquette could possibly mean in this grandiose world that he found himself in, where rules were stretched like a canvas and every step was a stroke of a brush painting the life you led. Optimus found himself with a tilted helm trying to understand the dark hues that stared back at him, there was something to be learned, a story told, but no one to interpret it, its painter long gone. There was always that inkling of fear that nuzzled comfortably in his tanks, no matter what Optimus tried or insisted upon, there was no changing who he was deep down. Orion Pax was dull, shy, easily threatened and easily startled. A soft yellow in light of a navy blue. Optimus turned from Windy to set his focus upon the tea set before him—it was tasty, but every treat and the drink in his cup was never familiar to his glossa. 

Thallium—Energon—Actinium. First brought by Camien immigrants’ eons ago, their spirituality came in the form of a sweet, yet earthy taste to the Cybertronian nobles. A collection of crushed up ingredients placed into a simple pot of energon to form the distinct taste when heated up; the pairing had become so popular that it had developed the easy-to-remember acronym. 

T.E.A. 

Optimus did not lose focus on the glass. “Does the letter say when?”

Windy made a sound of recognition and quickly skimmed over the contents, short as they were. “No.” She replies, touching the datapad with a digit to especially scrutinize the contents. “I think he wants you to decide.” Her face scrunches up in confusion.

“That's awfully generous,” Optimus notes, now looking at Windy. “Wouldn’t it be even easier to refuse then?”

“It would,” Windy purses her lipplates. “If anything, you could probably get away with ignoring it on the grounds of ambiguity.” She adds. “I think he wants you to respond.” 

Optimus tilted his helm to the side. “He’s seeking a response?” 

Windy offered a half-shrug. “Maybe, usually a request comes with a date and time since he’s the one asking you. It’s impeding on you, not him.” Windy points out. “By inviting you with little else, it puts a little less pressure on you to reply.” She hands Optimus the letter as if he could understand its contents. She pointed at the simple sentence. “He’s giving you all the power in this case.” 

Optimus tried to read the datapad. “How strange…” 

Windy leaning into the sofa with a sigh. “It is, I didn’t consider that when I first read it.” 

Optimus didn’t answer as his attention narrowed on the sudden lesson of etiquette, he would never consider something so minor to be so important. However, it did pique his interest. It was strange to suddenly have the attention of a duke, short lived as it might be. Optimus reached for the drink, now cold, and downed it completely. The soft flavor was now stale at room temperature, leaving the act far from satisfying. Had it been stronger it would have made Optimus at least pretend to be confident, but the delicate flavor felt like nothing more than a giggle and chide from Solus Prime. It was comforting, more than anything, a reminder more than a warning. 

Optimus stood up. “Very well.” He speaks. “So be it.” 

Tired of trying to interpret the painting he was set in front of, in a bout of annoyance, he picked up a bucket of white paint and threw it on the canvas. “Let’s go.”

Windy’s optics cycled in obvious confusion. “Where to?”

“If I’m going to meet the duke, I need to know how.” Optimus says in a strangely commanding tone, deep and resounding. “Where can I learn more about noble etiquette and mannerisms?” 

Windy looked up from her slouch. “The archives?”

Optimus loses some of his fire at such an obvious answer. “Oh, right.” 

To be fair, Megatron didn’t know how the disgraced lover came to be.

The truth was, Cyclonus saved Tailgate from falling off a bookshelf trying to get a datapad for Megatron the day he failed to attend. It was a dangerous meet-cute, effectively tying their fate in a bruised bow. Cyclonus was immediately enamored by Tailgate’s willingness to support the brother who avoided him like a virus. While Tailgate was more than happy to give Cyclonus a few pointers on how to fix their non-existent relationship. They waited for Megatron, Cyclonus excitedly held onto the datapad Tailgate risked his life to grab so he may strike up a conversation with his new brother.

That was until he never showed up. 

So, in the time before Megatron’s usual disappearance from his study, Tailgates would help Cyclonus in his attempt to mend their broken bond. One way or another, Megatron stopped showing up, and it became common ground for them, trying to help someone they deemed a little brother despite the fact he was taller and broader than both. Tailgate would tailor plans for them to meet, only for the plans to fall through halfway. Eventually, it became a game for Cyclonus and Tailgate, who could get Megatron’s time for more than a nanosecond. As their game progressed with all the time spent together, love bloomed. They talked less of Megatron, and more of one another. Their story, hardly simple, yet one of a kind, became immortalized through the scandalized talks of nobles to frighten their younglings. 

In Megatron’s stead, the library would become a little louder with whispers and giggles, the salons would be a little messier, and Cyclonus smiled to himself every now and again. Megatron made sure to erase himself from their narrative in a personal appeal, only hearing something every now and again when the servants would whisper to him.

No one noticed for a while, and in that while bliss existed between the star-crossed lovers. Hushed away and whisked moments to tenderly gaze and hold one another. The hope to exist in that pocket of time forever. Hoping the world would truly never notice. 

But Galvatron noticed. Galvatron always noticed.

It didn’t take long for others to pick up on their tender gazes when the duke began to treat them both differently. 

And as soon as the servants know, the world knows. 

Talks of an affair picked up, Cyclonus the innocent heir and Tailgate the temptress began to find themselves on the lipplates of others they did not care for. And they talked. 

The worst of it was that Galvatron was powerful enough to stop the gossip, but he cared little for his son now more than ever. In an act of mercy, the only one he would grant them, Galvatron demanded that the two cease their affair. But the lovers did not relent, they stood their ground. When Galvatron threatened them once more, they took to each other’s arms and fled from the manor. Never to be seen again. 

Until recently, apparently. 

Tailgate arrived at a cozy little cottage at a village on the outskirts of Iacon with a disgruntled sigh. The sun was much higher in the sky than it was for the disastrous morning. The Decepticon Manor stood a farther distance from the capital than their new home. Tailgate entered and slunk past his awaiting lover who sat on a sofa.

The cottage was, as assumed, comfortable. Decorated with various knick knacks traded in markets that ranged from cheap figurines of Solus and Megatronus Prime to genuine Rembodt paintings from Cyclonus’ collections. Which made for interesting topics of conversations when neighbors paid a visit, only to realize who they were and ran off like headless chip-chickens. The aesthetic of the home was contrasted, pastel blue and purple to soft grays and the occasional black. The comfort came from its size (or lack thereof), more so than its eclectic interior. Nevertheless, it was home for a fled couple. 

Cyclonus looked positively frazzled. “Are you alright? How did it go?”

“Well, not great.” Tailgate’s voice became quiet as he passed Cyclonus towards their room in favor of falling into the berth. The bedding muffled whatever else he said, but somehow still conveyed the crackling tone of sadness.

Cyclonus, who only felt the twinge of sadness through their bond, stepped to the room where Tailgate resided and let out a garbled sound. “What?” 

Tailgate raised his helm up for a moment. “I got banned for life!” 

“What!”

Tailgate rolled over and let out a quiet sniffle. “I tried; I really did.” 

Cyclonus sat at the edge of the berth, reaching out to comfort the small bot. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have made you go.”

“No!” Tailgate spring up. “I’m glad I did! That spoiled little—well, not that little—brat! We’re trying to get along with him and all he cares about is himself.”

“He’s been through a lot.” Cyclonus offers. 

“Bah! No excuse! So have we!”

Cyclonus sighed, bending down to cradle Tailgate in his arms. “It’s alright,” He gently stroked the small of his back and kissed his helm. “It’ll all be alright.” 

Iacon stood as the founding beauty of the Northern Empire. But her glittering lights did not grow with every new step taken, Starscream had to suppress a yelp as the carriage bounced along the old roads leading to the palace’s back-gates, where supplies were usually delivered. Megatron had been courteous enough to send a warning to the guards, emphasizing the delicate situation he and Starscream were in, but he doubted the guards cared enough to deny entry either way. They opted to take the backroads as it was the fastest way to arrive at their desired location without allocating any attention to the two bots of the latest hot gossip. Fortunately, they would not attend as a pair, they would lose Megatron and a half-asleep Ravage on his lap to Viscount Shockwave.

Soundwave made a habit of keeping his cassettes up and out of the noble world at Megatron’s offering—usually taking up residence in a small town at the heart of Megatron’s duchy. However, Ravage was more than happy to make the trip to visit the emotionless Viscount, perhaps in the hope of terrorizing him with little consequence (unlike the twins). Waking up Ravage with a soft tap, Megatron and the cybercat hopped out of the carriage, fleeing from the cursing seeker as the carriage fell into another pothole coming to a stop.

“Would you watch it!” The prince growled out, popping his helm from the window. “I’m getting tossed around in here like it’s the rust sea!”

“Soundwave: Does Not Apologize.”

Ravaged purred in encouragement of her holder.

Megatron stood at the edge of the forest, covering himself with a hood and tucking a datapad away. Bending down to cover Ravage in a small hood as well, he called out to reprimand Starscream. “Please, refrain from causing a scene, you might get caught by bandits.” 

“Why did we choose this way again?” Starscrean asked irately.

“Because,” Megatron adjusted the wrist guards that held the caped hood in place. “The main road goes directly through Iacon, we would never make it out in one piece. My carriage is far too recognizable, and the press would swamp it without hesitation.”

“So, you’re going to send me, a prince, off with your beloved amica and hope we don’t die?”

“Yes,” Megatron nods. “That sounds about right.” He remarks, still not paying Starscream's grievances any mind. Ravage growled and tugged at her own hood, adjusting it into place.

“Hah!” Starscream glowered. “And what of you? You’re going to disappear into a forest and show up at the Viscounts Manor?”

Megatron knelt once more to aid Ravage. “I’ve told the viscount of the truth; he’s understanding albeit strangely condescending in that flat voice of his. He’s allowed me entry in a less dignified manner.”

“How come the viscount gets to know!”

“He’s not a gossip, for one.” Megatron begins. “And he’s a close family friend—the first to support me after I entered high society—he will not allow anymore disgrace to come to my house.”

“Anymore.” Starscream scoffs and rests against the window’s edge. “How come you’re meeting with him anyways? Weren’t you waiting for the mail like some old coot waiting for their mistress in the night cycle?”

Megatron’s expression darkened at the reminder. “I’ve realized that it’s better to act while I’m waiting.”

“Act upon what?”

“I told you,” Megatron stepped closer to the carriage, up on its steps, and set a digit on Starscream’s forehelm. Pushing Starscream back into the carriage, he speaks. “Don’t get involved.”

“You can’t blame me for being curious!” Starscream returns to his seat, sinking into it. “I’m a seeker! No is yes! ‘Don’t do’ is ‘go ahead!’” 

Megatron sighed and leaned in through the window-like opening of the carriage. “Although I do not show it, I will admit now that you are a companion that I cherish, Starscream. But this is a very delicate subject. I cannot have you risking yourself by getting involved.”

Starscream’s optics flickered at the sudden turn to intimacy, he closed them temporarily to reset them and make sure it was actually Megatron who said that. He flutters them open with a questioning glare. “What’s this all about?” 

Megatron cocked his helm in thought, and a light smile danced across his lipplates. “I guess you could say I’ve had a bit of a rude awakening regarding those surrounding me as of late. I do believe it’s about time I stop taking them for granted.”

Soundwave scoffed at the blatantly unsubtle remark, Ravage chuffed in agreement despite not knowing the truth herself. All while Megatron shot them a knowing look. 

Starscream hummed. “And you won’t tell me what that is?”

“I will not.”

Starscream shuffled uncomfortably but decided to let that topic go. Instead, he leaned a little closer towards Megatron with optics that still held suspicion and hope. “But you do mean that? That…”

“That you’re my friend? Yes, I do mean it.”

Starscream looked at Megatron with a hundred-yard stare. “I think you need to seek help, professional help.” 

Megatron stepped back down with a chuckle. “Of course. I do think I might be losing my mind.” He answers, making his way to Soundwave’s place. “And anyways,” He reaches up for the advisor to key in the coordinates of the back entrance into Soundwave’s projected map. “You would just get in the way.”

Starscream’s voice shook the carriage. “Excuse me?!” 

“Nothing!” Megatron called out sweetly. “I will see you all tonight for supper!” 

Soundwave and Megatron exchanged nods, Soundwave started the zaphorses back onto their path and Megatron waved them off before disappearing into the forest with Ravage on his coattails through a path that could be barely considered more than a suggestion. 

Starscream bit his bottom lipplate and scuttled to the window so Soundwave could hear him. “What was that all about?”

Soundwave says nothing. 

“He totally used our controversy to hide whatever is going on.”

Soundwave continues his silence. 

“Can you believe it? Me? A beloved companion of his? Ugh! As if! He’s hiding something.”

“Soundwave: Thinks.”

“Ooh!” Starscream claps. “About what?”

“Prince Starscream: Sit Down: Be Quiet.”

“No way,” Starscream grins. “I’m going to find out what your little investigation is, one way or another.”

Starscream could feel Soundwave roll his optics. “O.K.”

“You’re no fun.”

The journey to the back entry is a hard one, for Starscream, at least. Soundwave enjoyed the excuse of poor roads to torment the prince. Every now and again Soundwave would make sure to hit a particularly deep hole to the wonderful sound of Starscream slamming against the roof with an expletive. Soundwave could only wish to hear the twins cackling at the sight of Starscream getting thrown around. But, alas, Starscream was starting to grow quiet with the latest bump in the road, so the advisor decided to steer clear of any more visually poor road conditions unless he is to arrive at his destination with a comatose seeker. 

With more consideration on Soundwave’s part—meaning the seeker was simply bounced lightly every now and again with the dirt road being what it was—Starscream grew bored of his quiet companion and the lacking existence of Megatron to torment. Starscream slumped against the side of the carriage that pointed closer to Soundwave. “Are we there yet?” 

“Negative.”

Starscream grumbled and sunk deeper into the soft seats. 

It was fortunate, along this path, that there were no bandits. Starscream couldn’t say whether it was a good or bad thing, the threat of something remotely exciting happening would be preferable to Soundwave’s eerie silence. It could be that Shockwave’s territory was safer than most considering no one dared cross the viscount of all mechs, not even the royal family. This came to be primarily linked to the fact he was so distant, he only ever showed up for more important things such as policy making or court meetings. Even Megatron, who was strangely close with Shockwave met him no more than a handful of times in a single vorn.

“I think Megatron has a type.” Starscream speaks. 

Soundwave can be heard shifting, finally succumbing to the inevitable bloom of conversation. “Further inquiry: Requested.” 

Starscream cocks his helm back to the small window where he sees Soundwave’s back. “I think Megatron’s into dark and mysterious bots.” 

“Assumption: Incorrect.”

Starscream perked up. “Oh? So, you know his type?”

Starscream saw Soundwave straighten. “Negative.”

“Liar.” Starscream teased. “He’s closest to you and Shockwave, if I didn’t know him any better, I would think he and the viscount would be a good match.”

Soundwave sputtered static. “Negative.” 

Starscream’s wings flicked up and down. “You disagree?”

“Affirmative.”

Starscream hummed teasingly. “And why is that? I think I’ve heard Marquess Prowl say the same thing once.”

Soundwave made a sighing sound, apparently Starscream was getting him to open some more. “Shockwave: Courtship Compatibility: High. Counter: Megatron: Uninterested.” 

“He did just sneak off into the forest to meet the viscount through the back door, if that doesn’t scream mistress behavior—I don’t know what will.” 

Soundwave’s arm popped in through the small opening to fail around and slap Starscream for such an assumption. At the prospect of getting smacked, Starscream laughed and pressed down to avoid getting hit. “Did I hit a sore spot?” 

Soundwave’s arm retreated and the carriage came to an abrupt stop, sending Starscream nearly flying as he crashed against the back of the carriage with a gargled yelp. 

Starscream scrambled up to stick his helm out the window to find Soundwave sat, holding the reins to the zaphorses. “Oi—! Listen here worthless, stupid, spark of a—”

 “Arrived.” Soundwave said simply, but there was an air of satisfaction in his usually monotone voice. 

Starscream whipped his helm around to find a small gaggle of knights looking at him with wide optics at the outburst.

“Ah.” Starscream chirped. “Good day.”

The knights bowed quickly and repeated an age-old greeting that Starscream couldn’t care less about, perhaps considering it favorable to not getting cursed out for staring. 

Soundwave hopped down from his seat to open the carriage door for Starscream, who let him. 

Soundwave, for what it was worth, was wonderfully trained in etiquette, much like Megatron even when neither of them seemed capable of it. Lifting a steady hand to ease the transition, Soundwave waltzed Starscream down from the carriage like a cakewalk. 

“Announcing: Starscream of Vos.” His voice was even and clear. 

Starscream fluttered his wings, even if it went unspoken, it was a palpable apology for getting thrown around. 

The knights stayed in their bows as Starscream and Soundwave walked past them with a graceful aura. Somehow, the path they took cut through the backroads, managing to converge onto the roads that led to the palace grounds via a private channel, thus ensuring their entry through the front gates at the dazzling entrance of the Onyx House.

“I guess the trip wasn’t all bad.” Starscream notes with a lighthearted air. 

Soundwave didn’t respond, rather, didn’t feel the need to, and led Starscream off to the latest disaster that would await them. 

Aside from the typical fanfare of a fellow royal paying a visit, the palace was awfully lax for the middle of the day. The occasional maid would scamper about, and the knights looked almost bored at their posts. Starscream would smile and wave at lesser bots and prance around with Soundwave following in a hastened pace while nodding his helm for complacency.

“Where are the blasted archives?” Starscream bit, looking around as they turned another corner of the Onyx House. 

“Archives: Left.” 

“I know that! I’ve been going left this whole time!” 

They were both practically sprinting across the latest hallway, Soundwave almost struggled to keep up with seekers' longer legs. Luckily no one was present in the halls with them, otherwise they’d become the laughingstock of the kingdom for such open desperation. Starscream’s sweet talking couldn’t wriggle them out of their current predicament. 

With the potential embarrassment in mind, Starscream caught a glimpse of his reflection on the tall, rounded windows and puffed his chest out haughtily. The seeker was known for his lithe figure, long legs, and sharp beauty. Megatron should technically consider himself lucky if he cared enough about that. However, the duke had become far too accustomed to beauty it seemed and thought little of the prince. Starscream whipped his helm back to the floors with a grumble and trucked on. 

The two reached the end of the hall and Soundwave yanked Starscream back to force the mech to face him, and when he did, Soundwave pointed in the opposite direction. 

“Starscream: Wrong Left.” He huffed, exasperated. 

“Oh.”

They began a walk of shame that was surprisingly short lived when Starscream takes to sprinting down the halls when no one is around, again. Soundwave only scarcely manages to keep up with a rigid step to maintain their pace. 

For whatever reason the Onyx House was lax, it extended onto security as well. Soundwave tried to deduce a viable reason, but the greatest explanation could only be the lack of royal presence in the building. Which annoyed Soundwave to some degree given the events that transpired earlier in the day. A piece of him hoped to stumble across Optimus and shake some sense into the mech for causing Megatron such distress, unaware as the prince may be of it. 

Even so, Soundwave was starting to find himself far too preoccupied with sparksitting a different prince to try and attempt murder on another. 

Venting deeply, Starscream staggers to the doorway of the archives with a gleam in his optics. “Finally.” 

Soundwave took that moment to vent in whatever amount of air he could to cool his systems, hunching over and resting on his knees at the reprieve just long enough for Starscream to do as Starscream does. Which is simply causing nothing but trouble to those closest to him.

The excitement was audible in Starscream’s voice. “He has to be in there.”

Megatron, for all his dimwitted inability to win over a mate so far, was more than happy to help Starscream in winning his battle so long as it barred him from any more of the seeker’s drama. Under the pretense of not getting further involved, Megatron practically handed Starscream every trackable detail on Baron Jetfire earlier that day. 

“Why?”

“Why, what?”

“Why are you suddenly so keen to help me?”

Megatron smiled in that dark way of his, bouncing the datapad up and down in front of Starscream. “Think of it as a creator giving a new toy to his creation in the hopes of getting some work done.”

Starscream flared his wings at the offense and snatched the datapad. “You!”

“Now get ready, we’re leaving in ten breems.” 

Starscream could feel the datapad weigh in his subspace. Quickly, he pulled it out and pressed it close to his chest and took the first step. 

By the time Soundwave looked back up to find the prince, the archives' grand doors were splayed open and no Starscream was in sight. 

Soundwave swore he would become the enemy of two countries if Primus was so kind as to bless him with the helms of two princes. He quickly jogged to the open doors and hesitated on which direction to go, deciding on the right instead of dwelling on the possibility of Starscream getting further from his reach. 

Which would prove to be wrong, given that Starscream went left. 

Not that Soundwave would know. 

Starscream prided himself on being able to lose Megatron’s second shadow so easily, but then again, Soundwave was quite easy to frazzle if you knew which buttons to push. And Starscream knew those buttons like the back of his servo. 

But that was, quite frankly, beside the point. Starscream would not allow himself to gloat over a victory yet to be achieved. For all he knew, Soundwave had morphed into his second shadow and slipped between the shelves like a snake. Starscream shivered and looked over his shoulder, finding nothing while managing to make himself more paranoid, Starscream picked up the pace in the hopes of finding his beloved baron. 

Starscream’s heels clicked endlessly against the cold tile of the archives, not quite running but almost a jog in how he would speed up to look between the shelves and slow down when he inevitably found nothing and started on the next row. Starscream couldn’t be bothered to admire the decor of the archives, he had long grown used to such opulence it was nothing more than a given when entering a building. The one thing that annoyed Starscream about the archives, however, was that they were much too quiet.  

Starscream’s keen audials were drowned out by his own obsessing steps, but he would not further in finding a quiet baron if he too were quiet. Even so, Starscream was fruitless in his endeavors. The cramped feeling of towering shelves packed to the brim with books and datapads alike agitated Starscream’s inherent need to be in large, open spaces. Starscream shuddered and pinned his wings down to avoid furthering his wretched mood. His steps had now fallen to a quiet clicking at an even pace, until they stopped. 

Starscream’s optics flickered, and he looked around, safely tucked between the start of one column and another. Focusing on a book, titled 「The Covenant of Primus」Starscream’s helm tilted as he straightened back up and looked beyond the column. 

Endless rows of knowledge and written text expanded beyond his visual systems, their distance stretched impossibly the more that Starscream tried to focus on the possibility of the rows ending. 

Starscream’s wings twitched, and he flicked open the datapad, hoping that a tracking device was somehow implemented.  

Starscream could not find the answer to such a question, however, because Megatron had given him the wrong datapad. 

…

Elita sighed as she traced her digits lightly across the ancient books of the Onyx House’s archives. Her optics had long lost focus on the titles written across the spines of the archived pieces, instead they followed her digits as they danced along the bookcases that stretched far and high, the knowledge contained with them almost limitless. So much so that Elita-One had spent the past half joor looking for a book on additional information for her report to A-3. However, given the fact she had started watching her digits trace along the edge was enough to show her success at the attempt.  

Elita let out a wispy sigh and raised her arm, disconnecting her frame from its dance along the bookcase only to slam face first into a stark, white chest when she failed to focus on the rest of her surroundings. 

“Oh my!” A deep voice made Elita look up as she shook her helm. 

“Are you alright?” 

“Baron Jetfire!” Elita announced as she scrambled a proper distance from the baron. “I do apologize! I didn’t see you. I wasn’t paying my surroundings much attention.”

Jetfire dismissed the apology with a smile. “Not at all, I don’t believe I was any better either. I must keep a better watch of myself, someone of my size must be careful of his surroundings.”

Elita’s shoulders sagged slightly at the lack of reprimand and fell back onto usual habits of amical treatment of her fellow nobility. “Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”

“Yes, actually.” Jetfire replies. “I’ve been looking for an almanac.”

Elita makes the mistake of letting herself look confused. 

“For gardening.” Jetfire added, as if that would help. 

Elita’s optics flickered. “Do you tend to garden?”

Jetfire nodded. “I do.”

“But you’re a baron.”

“I am.”

Elita’s helm cocked to the left. “Why would a noble garden?” 

“Why would a singer sing?”

“You can’t possibly suggest you enjoy gardening.” 

Jetfire brightened. “Oh, but I am.”

Elita hummed. “How curious.”

Jetfire repeated the mannerism. “Is it now?”

“I don’t see why anyone, but a gardener would enjoy gardening.”

“I am a gardener as well.”

“But you’re a noble.’

“As are you.”

Elita clutched the side of her helm and sighed. “I fear we are going in circles.”

Jetfire laughed. “It appears that we are, is this troubling for you?”

Elita crossed her arms across her chest. “It is.”

Jetfire focuses on the bookshelf in the attempts to find his prize but does not belittle Elita for a moment. “And why is that?”

“Well, isn’t tending to a garden dirty?” 

Jetfire plucked a book from its place in the hopes it was what he wanted. “I would wager that sparring is much the same.”

“Yes, but sparring is practical. It’s for defense, gardens are pretty, yes, and I do enjoy them, however there are others who can tend to them much better than someone of your rank.” 

Jetfire flipped through the pages of the non-almanac. “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong.” He closed the book with a stratifying slam! “I’m a xenobiologist as well.” 

Elita looked at Jetfire with a feigned fierceness. “A biologist and a gardener are most certainly not the same, my lord.” 

Jetfire smiled at her constrained curiosity. “You’re a painter, no? Surely you understand these things can overlap.” 

Elita shook her helm. “Painting is a luxury, as is sparring and my education. A luxury I have the privilege to partake in. Gardening is barely more than farming, its common work.” 

“Do you think of it as less?”

Elita’s plating flared out. “Most certainly not! You ought to put your skills in matters that suit your place in society, how else will you be of service to your people? They can tend to the gardens and farms, but you must tend to them. It is your duty.”

Jetfire’s smile never faltered. “Ah, I see. That’s good to hear.” 

Elita calmed down, slightly. “What is?”

“Your inclination.” Jetfire answers. “I was beginning to worry you were being a functionalist, it appears I was wrong.” Jetfire set the book back to its place. “Your intentions are noble, but I do suggest you be careful, there is a very thin line you mustn’t cross.”

Elita’s arrogance wavered. “I didn’t intend anything to sound functionalist.” She attempts to make herself clear. “I simply think of your place as a noble—no matter how high or low—becomes a matter of preserving the peace of your people. They are your responsibility.” 

Jetfire nods. “I understand that now.”

Elita gives a single, taught, nod in response. “I’ll try to be less vague next time.”

“In that case,” Jetfire looks up and around the archives. “Would you care to help me find the almanac? I would happily explain to you why my passion for gardening may align with your thoughts on civil duty.”

Elita brightens, forgetting about her class work. “It would be my pleasure!” 

Jetfire offered a small bow at the helm to acknowledge their newfound friendship and the two spun on their heels to search for an almighty, and likely not present, collection of thin, dry, organic tree bark with ink scribblings. 

Jetfire was, luckily, very patient with Elita-One’s military-esc upbringing and understanding of what was and was not endowed onto her by her elders. Not that he could blame her, the youth were precisely what the elderly allowed for them. Truly, it was a cyclical issue that Jetfire did not feel capable of tackling himself despite previous efforts. Which is why he so famously kept to himself even when his notoriety amongst the other houses was habitually maintained. 

They walked, slowly, looking for the almanac while Jetfire explained the importance of biological sciences. Elita listened on, eagerly, even when she didn’t understand much of the jargon. 

It was fortunate that the archives were, like any other part of the palace, well-kept and tidy. Each row was in alphabetical order and sections divided into science, law, and any other school of thought that existed. Grand windows and hanging chandeliers allowed for light of any flux to decorate the surprisingly simple interiors as the steps of two frames barely echoed as the unlikely pair searched. Unlike the public archives that Jetfire would attend far more frequently, which were typically a mess, but charming.

The archives were quiet, still, and vast. So, it was only natural that Elita and Jetfire would perk up when hurried steps echoed closer. 

Jetfire leaned out to catch a glimpse of whoever seemed to be running in their direction, Elita poked out from Jetfire’s side to do much the same. 

Soundwave’s dark figure made itself increasingly apparent in the bright, lightly colored archives. He maneuvered carefully, his helm turning left in right in obvious search of something. 

“Soundwave?” Jetfire inquired. 

The dark bot straightened at the sight before him. “Baron Jetfire.” He greets, his monotonous tone betraying some level of surprise to find Jetfire. When Elita’s helm is just barely made viable, the mech quickly acknowledges it to pacify his shock. “Miss Elita-One.”

“What brings you here?” Jetfire asks. 

Soundwave’s helm darted around in the hopes of finding a third figure and failed. “Soundwave: Accompanying Prince Starscream.” His visor flashes. “Was.” He corrects. 

Elita rounded Jetfire’s hulking figure to make herself better known. “Prince Starscream is here?” She parrots. “Are you looking for him?”

Soundwave nods. 

“I haven’t seen him.” Elita begins, looking to Jetfire for reassurance. “Have you?”

“I have not.” Jetfire replies. “He must be in another section.” The baron stands tall and tries to look around. “It is not as though he is difficult to spot.” 

“Would you like help looking for him?” Elita asks. “Losing sight of a royal isn’t a very good idea if you’re his chaperone.”

Soundwave doesn’t hesitate and bows at the waist without another word and beckons the two to follow him with a servo. 

…

Optimus felt a sense of deja vu when he stepped into the archives, the same cocktail of intrigue and discomfort filled him as it did the day he first stepped out into the garden. There was no way in Orion Pax’s functioning that he would ever have archives so opulent. Orion had a dinky, publicly funded archival building. Falling apart at the seams from age alone, under constant reconstruction because taxes were never enough to rebuild it entirely even when that was the best choice at that point. Not that the government officials would care. There was a constant damp smell present, perpetually stained by the gripes of time and denial of the present to let it go. 

However, these archives—if you could call a mansion within a mansion such a common thing—was like nothing Orion had ever seen. 

It was the picture of beauty, the very essence of what wealth without regard could afford. Gold-crested doorways that introduced the first floor spanned endlessly with meticulously maintained shelves with even more precious pieces of history and arts set within them. Each shelf, worth millions, their contents, even more—like a crown, detailed and ornate with intricacies that would go unnoticed by those who focused upon the jewels in the form of books and datapads. Optimus gently lifted his pede to find marble floors in swirling colors of white, gold, and spindles of a pale gray locked in the middle of their delicate dance for eternity only to be walked upon. Looking up, Optimus only then noticed the staircase that led to even more shelves and datapads, the same as the rest in their detail and luxury. Chandeliers encrusted with jewels shone heedlessly as their light detracted from the gems and flickered down onto to floor like shattered glass. 

It revolted Optimus. 

The same. It bothered him how such luxury was regarded to the sense of sameness. There was nothing that the archives could compare to except itself and the rest of the palace, and even then, it was likely one of, at most, 3 other royal grounds that existed within Cybertron. 

How could wealth go so wasted? 

They didn’t need marble floors, elaborate halls, or golden rails. What else could be used with all those credits? Building schools, public archives or even libraries. What generational wealth deserved to flaunt it so shamelessly? What more could the worthless figureheads that call themselves nobility do to quench their ego? 

Unconsciously, Optimus’ servo enclosed into a fist.  

Orion dreamed of new archives, but never of a palace. He worried about the fragile pieces that his second-home harbored. Had the archives of his time even a fraction of the level of care that Optimus’ had, he likely wouldn’t be dead. If the archives were just a little richer Orion would be in a safer neighborhood resulting in a better salary, never under the scraps of poverty where construction and pollution ate away at his sanity. He could have been alive, happier even. 

“Your highness?” Windy prompted. 

Optimus’ face scrunched up with visible disdain. “I don’t like this.”

Windy took in the same view as Optimus, but without the same level of disgust. It was curious, at least, to see how their perspectives shifted based on what their life experiences lead to. Windy saw an archival room like no other, but she had long attributed its grandiose nature to its owners, and so thought little of it. 

Windy’s helm cocked to one side. “I suppose it can be quite daunting if it’s your first time coming.”

Optimus focused on Windy, calculating and confused. “I suppose so.” He answers vaguely. “Do you know where I can read up on all this nonsense of so-called etiquette?” 

Windy puffs her chest out proudly. “Most certainly! I have a map from Chromia leading to the exact spot!”

 “In that case,” Optimus waves his servo out to encourage Windy to take the first step. “Lead the way.”

Aside from the obvious discomfort that comes from walking through a labyrinth above your pay grade, Windy’s guided tour of the archives was surprisingly short lived. That is, quiet. Optimus wouldn’t provoke conversation, but it was apparent her dislike of academia reflected in her limited knowledge of the archives. Windy tried now and again to point something out, however it always ended in something about the archives that was left unanswered by an ill equipped Windy, so they reached their destination with little hurrah. 

Windy’s arm gestured to the space between two bookcases like a sharkticon would flail on land. “We’re here…” 

“Thank you for your help, Windy.” Optimus tried.

“‘S not very good though…” She whispered. 

Optimus reached down and gently raised her helm up with his knuckle to match their gazes. “I do not expect you to be limitless in your knowledge when it should be me who guides you.” He affixes his servo to her shoulder. “For everything you do for me, I am eternally grateful.” 

Windy’s intake contorted into a strange shape—like a glow worm when taken out of its cave in the bright, white light of the real world—she wriggled out of his grip, embarrassed. “M’Kay.”

Optimus cocked his helm towards the hall. “Shall we look for what we need?”

Windy nodded and entered first, scanning up and around the bookcases in search of the best book on etiquette. Optimus followed suit, but slower considering he couldn’t just skim through the titles. 

The two became entrenched in their work, becoming deaf to the world. Windy’s standards were too high while Optimus’ weren’t high enough. 

Optimus carefully plucked a book from its place—a book, concerningly enough. “What about this?”

Windy stared at the ancient thing with a blank expression. “Your highness, that thing is older than these archives.” 

“Then it must be traditional.” Optimus countered. “Traditional is safe.”

“You’re not winning over the duke by being conservative, your highness.” 

Optimus’ finial twitched in silent agreement and set the book back. “Perhaps you’re right.” 

Windy went back to sniffing out the best book like a bloodhound. Optimus, however, remained slow, his digits lightly slipped across the spine of the book he returned, contemplative. “Does that mean it’s variable?” 

Windy perked up, standing on the tips of her pedes to get a better look at a higher shelf. “What do you mean?”

“Etiquette.” Optimus clarifies. “It depends on who you’re with.”

Windy hummed. “Kinda.” She returned to a flat-footed stance in reprieve for the previous strenuous activity. “It’s just knowing how to read your companion, really.”

Optimus walks over to Windy and bends down to try to look at the shelf she was struggling to see. “Is that so?”

“Well, with all due respect, duh.” She shrugs. “You act differently around your brothers, sire, strangers, maids. It’s a natural variation.” 

Optimus nods in agreement. “That does make sense. However, in that case, what is the purpose of all this, then?” Optimus gestures at the spanning bookcases, filled to the brim. 

“There is a natural variation,” Windy repeats. “But there’s also rules, which is what you need to learn.” 

“Why?”

“Because…” Windy blinks. “Because…”

“‘Because society is built upon expectations, rules are the foundation of mannerism and their management. By controlling these rules, you control the populus of power, you extend onto them a veil and tell them they see clarity. It is only through the destruction of these frivolities will you find that the true nature of sentient beings is not so simple the angle of your waist in a bow or the space between your digits in a wave.’” 

Windy and Optimus jolted and looked to the farther end of the space they were slowly making their way towards. 

Starscream looked at them, bored, as if they were sparklings that had bothered their sire amidst an important meeting. He held a datapad in his hand, slinging it over his shoulder with the other servos on his hips. 

Optimus didn’t recognize the seeker, as per usual. Windy, however, did. 

“Prince Starscream!” Windy gasps and goes into her usual deep bow. “May the light of the stars guide you.”

“To you as well,” Starscream says while rolling his optics and shooing her out of the way as he makes his way to Optimus.

Optimus feels the inkling of dread try to take hold, but he has come to find some comfort in it. He recovers quickly with a forced smile. “Prince—”

“Save it.” Starscream leans in exceedingly close and glares at Optimus. It would have been far more intimidating if Starscream were not shorter than Optimus, barely reaching his breastplates. “What are you doing here?”

Optimus, not used to being so openly interrogated, fumbled. “Ah, well, um…” 

Starscream clicks his glossa and steps back. “Did your spinal strut shatter during your little accident?” 

Optimus refuses to let himself show a passive display of aggression. “I’m not privy to the damages I sustained.”

Starscream looks Optimus up and down. “Looks like it.”

Optimus’ optics narrow. “Is there anything I can assist you with?”

“I doubt it.” Starscream replies coolly, looking up and around. “Etiquette, hm? Yes, you need it.” 

Windy bristles. “Well so do—!” 

“Windy!” Optimus silences her quickly. “Do not disrespect a guest.”

Starscream smiles devilishly. “At least you have some manners.” 

Optimus suppresses a sigh, hoping his contextual knowledge of reading too many period dramas would help. “Is there a reason you chose to make yourself known?” 

“Well, I see my fellow prince making a fool of himself, of course I’d like to chime in.”

“That does little to clarify your intentions.”

“Naive little thing, aren’t you?” 

Optimus intake falls into a tight line. “If I cannot be of service to you, nor you to me. I see no point in continuing our conversation.” 

Starscream’s smirk fell, his Ruby red optics dulled at the comment. “Primus, you really are a new bot.”

Optimus’ optics flared open a fraction. “Pardon?”

“You never treated me with that much caution.” Starscream sighed and flicked on the datapad in his grip, he looked increasingly agitated at its contents. “And here I thought you were faking it for attention, guess not.” 

Optimus recycled his optics. “What are you referring to?”

“Ugh! And stop talking to uppity, I’ve already set the bar for this conversation, if you keep talking down on me, I will be taking offense.”

Optimus didn’t allow himself the chance to relax, but he took the threat literally. “What?” 

Starscream shuts off the datapad with a growl. “I was testing you. You passed.” Starscream shakes his helm in consideration. “I guess.”

Optimus nods. “I see.”

Starscream coughs behind the datapad. “So, Etiquette!” He prompts. “That’s what you’re looking for, right? I heard most of your, quite frankly, loud conversation with the brightly colored brat you got.” 

“Yes…” Optimus doesn’t agree fully. “But why did you decide to interrupt?”

Starscream scoffed. “I’m bored, and I don’t think that the commoner here can help you very much. So, I want to help you.”

Optimus was not shy about showing his distrust. “Why?”

“Primus’ silver bearings, you ask more questions than a bitlet.” Starscream hissed to himself but returned focus on Optimus with a more amicable expression. “Think of this as your first trade deal,” He smiles, somehow much more charmingly delicious. “In exchange for my very useful offer,” Starscream sets his talon on Optimus' chest and drags it up with a sultry speed. “You tell me why the duke is seeking you out.” 

Optimus’ voice sputters static. “You heard that?”

Starscream pulls his servo away with a smirk. “Duh.”  

…

Soundwave, Elita-One, and Jetfire all bobbed their heads between the cases of collective literature in search of Starscream, though no one seemed quite willing to go out of their way to call for the prince. The archives were safe enough, save for the fact that Starscream attracted chaos everywhere he went. 

Soundwave, rarely ever so annoyed, considered himself alone enough to let out an annoyed puff of air as his frame hunched over. 

“He’s terribly allusive.” Jetfire notes as he steps towards Soundwave, helm turning left and right still in search of Starscream. 

“I forget how big this place is.” Elita admits having to maintain a light jog to keep up with Jetfire. 

Soundwave says nothing as he folds his arms over his chest. 

“Is there anything in particular he was looking for?” Jetfire asks, innocently enough. 

Soundwave faces the baron, half tempted to oust Starscream’s borderline obsession with the mech as revenge for losing sight of him. “Soundwave: Unsure.” He improvises.

“Prince Starscream is fond of biology, no?” Elita asks. “Perhaps he’s in the science section?”

“Didn’t we just pass it?” Jetfire inquires, leaning back to retrace their path. “I don’t think he was there, surely he would have made his presence known.”

Soundwave’s field flickers, internally. Logically, Starscream would weasel his way into the science section in his ever-present hot pursuit of the baron. That fact he wasn’t there ticked off Soundwave’s suspicious nature. 

Of course, suspicion trickles slowly down Soundwave’s processor, rolling and jumping down like a pebble down a cobblestone incline. Its journey was fast, yet not linear. Soundwave’s suspicions ultimately land in a pool of worry and he straightens up at the realization. 

Starscream was not looking for the baron, now, at least. Which was the intention of the trip, if he was not searching, he would likely be preoccupied with something much worse. Likely, something dangerous. 

Soundwave’s cassette-carrier protocols flip on as if Starscream were Frenzy or Rumble. Something small, stupid, and always in need of aid in some form or another. 

He decides to stop playing it safe.

Soundwave opens their rarely used communication link. .:Starscream: Inquiry: Location?:.

The line opens from the other side and Soundwave relaxed slightly. 

.:I'm in the non-fiction section:. 

Soundwave whips his helm to the left, it wasn’t far off from where they stood, meaning that they would have found Starscream if Soundwave were a little less paranoid. 

.:Where.:. 

Starscream pings his exact location. 

Soundwave ignores Jetfire and Elita—knowing they would follow him either way—and begins to walk towards the pinged location. 

.:You will not believe who I ran into!:. Starscream continues.

Soundwave picks up the pace a little at the comment. 

.:Who.:.

.: :) :. 

Soundwave starts sprinting the rest of the way, Elita and Jetfire (as expected) tag along curiously. 

The sound of Soundwave’s pedes against the hard floors in the echoing chambers were met with a loud cackle that grew louder the closer Soundwave got, until he veered around a corner where the voice was the loudest and found nothing. 

.:Starscream. Location.:. Soundwave manages to growl. 

.:I told you, I was in the nonfiction section.:. 

Soundwave’s servos clenched into fists. .:Starscream: Not present.:.

.:Yes, I was.:.

Soundwave’s optics, behind his visor, widened and he looked up. On the second floor, a grinning Starscream mocked him with a cackle and quickly darted from view.

“Starscream!” Megatron’s recorded voice boomed from Soundwave’s voice box. 

Elita and Jetfire just barely managed to arrive behind Soundwave when he pushed through them and stormed his way towards the staircase. 

…

Optimus’ face blanked at the echoing voice of the duke, he tensed up as Starscream giggled and pushed him deeper into the second floor of the archives. “What was that?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Starscream reassured the prime. “I’m just having a little fun.”

“They sounded upset—”

“Irrelevant! We’re here to help you grow in etiquette.” 

Optimus’ intake clamped shut and allowed himself to be guided. 

Windy stumbled alongside them, fumbling a handful of datapads that Starscream had picked out until they arrived at a large table, spaced at a center point of the second floor. 

Optimus allowed himself to be maneuvered into a chair at Starscream’s will. “I appreciate your willingness to help me, but I truly don’t want to take up any of your time.” 

“Nonsense!” Starscream beamed and took his own place next to Optimus. “We are the same rank! We must do our best to get along, for the sake of our kingdoms.” 

Answering with a rebuttal would be useless. “I suppose you’re right...” Optimus admits quietly and fumbles with a piece of armor on his wrist. 

The trio—if Windy was to be included—fell victim to the natural quiet of the archives. Starscream was likely scheming something, but he knew the limits of his pestering and went to shuffle through the collection of datapads to begin his lesson on etiquette. Windy was simply doing her job, and Optimus was no good at social situations. Even so, for whatever reason, Optimus felt a flutter of hope for himself at Starscream’s open disregard for him. It was a splash of cold solvent on an overheated frame, refreshing and shocking. Starscream’s open nature made his presence demanding, but charming, he did not shy away from abusing his place. The seeker was clearly intelligent to an excessive degree and was likely second to none other than Megatron in charisma. 

Optimus’ appraisal of the seeker made his optics twinkle. “Oh, that’s right.” He remembers. “What you said earlier, it was very impressive.” 

Starscream’s wings perk up, in the middle of picking up something. “What?” 

“Your thoughts on regulations, your sociological argument was well done.” Optimus clarifies with the compliment. “I never considered an argument like that against etiquette.”

Starscream looks at him with a glimmer of surprise, and then snorts. “Oh please, I didn’t think of that, I was quoting an author that I liked.” Starscream shuffles through his subspace to pull out a dilapidated looking datapad and hands it to Optimus who takes it carefully. 

Optimus flicks the datapad on but does not (cannot) read it. “It was a liberal stance; dare I say anarchistic. I wouldn’t think the palace archives would have something like this.”

“Because they don’t.” Starscream corrects, sitting back down. “That’s from a private collection.”

“I didn’t strike you as the type of mech to read this.” Optimus admits reluctantly. 

“I may be pompous, but I know the goods of expanding the grounds of knowledge. Whether I agree or not.”

“That’s very well put,” Optimus smiles. “I agree.”

Starscream smirks. “Plus, I never said it’s from my personal collection.” He gestures at the datapad. “Look at the crest,”

And Optimus does, it spins quietly as the datapad remains idly turned on. “The Decepticon House.” He notes.

“Something like that would be banned from a place like this.” Starscream explains, looking up and around at the high ceilings and glittering decor. “I never would have bothered to pick it up either if I hadn’t received such a rude awakening recently.”

Optimus opens his intake. 

“Don’t even think about asking, we’re not remotely familiar enough to dwell that deep.”

Optimus intake closes. 

Starscream looks at him and sighs. “It’s a pretty good read, I admit. Maybe I can burn you a copy.”

“I’m sure I can find my own.” Optimus traces the edges of the datapad. 

It’s surprisingly unprofessional, it lacks the real weight a mass-produced, single use datapad would have, and the corners are covered in scratches. It looks more like a diary than anything else. The piece appears personal, a private piece from an equally allusive collection of scribbled thoughts. 

“No, you won’t.” Starscream jokes. “More like, you can’t.”

Optimus doesn’t lose his focus on the clearly loved datapad. “And why is that?”

“Because it’s the only one that exists.” 

Optimus startles at the admission. “It is?”

Starscream makes a face. “It’s a liberal piece of work that emphasizes the dismantling of the monarchy if you bother to read beyond the snippet I quoted. That could get you tried and killed for treason in any of Cybertron’s kingdoms.” 

Optimus’ field flickers and his servos wrap around the datapad protectively. “Do you agree with its contents?”

Starscream becomes unreadable at that, he focuses on the grip that Optimus has over it and then on the damaged corners. “Maybe.” He decides. “I still have a lot to learn, I think.” 

Optimus looks at Starscream, curiously. “The duke’s ideals are rubbing off on you if you picked up such a curious piece.” 

Starscream scoffs, almost embarrassed. “Who do you think wrote that ‘curious piece?’” 

Optimus lets go of the datapad almost instantly. “What?”

Starscream’s optics darken at the reaction. “Is something wrong with that?”

The fact the act even irritated Starscream made him even more upset. He always knew Megatron to be the typical revolutionary he was, and would tease him for it, but somehow the idea of another finding it abrasive was like a spilled cube finding its contents on the armor of his pede. An inconvenience at worst, but indicative of a greater misfortune. 

Megatron’s declaration of friendship earlier that day resounded within Starscream more than he cared to admit. Despite his inclinations of independence, Starscream was terribly lonely. Aside from his brothers, Starscream could count on his digits who his friends were. 

And there were two. Soundwave and now, apparently, Megatron. 

Optimus looked a bit surprised at the sudden bite in Starscream’s tone. “No…no! Of course not!” He picks up the datapad from his lap. “It’s just—well, surely this is private. I’m in no place to read something so personal.” 

Starscream purses his lipplates, losing some of his bite at the weak display. “That didn’t stop me.”

Optimus set the datapad down onto the table and slipped it over to Starscream. “It should have, neither one of us deserves to read his personal notes unless we have his permission.” 

“If everyone jumped off a bridge, would you?”

Optimus had to stop himself from answering with a blunt ‘yes.’ “That’s not what I mean.”

“Of course not.” Starscream rolls his optics, in doing so he spotted an opening and leaned in. “How did you become so well read on the duke, it’s not like you remember him. Much less anything akin to policy making and provision.”

Optimus chokes back a scream of terror for a forced laugh. “I’ve taken to reading more as of late,”

“Really? If I were you, I’d just laze around.”

Optimus laughs a bit more genuinely. “I wish. Unfortunately, it’s come to my attention that I will remain crown prince, so I cannot delve into the fortitude of doing nothing.”

Starscream’s optics widened, and his servo twitched over a different datapad in his grip. “Is that so? I had no idea…” 

“Yes, it surprised me too.” Optimus started to feel for Starscream. 

The possibility of friendship bloomed. 

“You’re the worst one, Magnus must be stupid or dying to keep you.”

And then wilted. 

Optimus ignores his finial twitch in irritation, so much for getting along. “Hah, hah, hah!”  He forces out. “I know right—!” 

Starscream ignores the twitch, instead remembering himself. “Wait, so, you’re actually going to be crowned one day. Like me.”

Optimus nods. “You are correct.”

Starscream blinks. “You recognized his crest.”

Optimus nods again, slowly. “Yes?”

“You know how liberal he is.”

“I don’t see how—”

“He sent you a letter, didn’t he?” 

Any advantage had in the conversation drifted right into Starscream’s favor. Optimus wasn’t daft, he knew Starscream’s place as a guest meant that there would be more accommodating actions to take as the newly-maintained crown prince of the north, but none of that accounted for the fact that Starscream practically pounced on him in realization. 

“A personal one.” Starscream says. “That’s why you’re reading into etiquette. You plan to meet him.” 

Optimus inches away from Starscream, flailing for justification. “I understand that logic but the duke himself has nothing to do with this. I have a series of appointments in the following week.” He tried. “My comments about the duke are not personal, I was seeking your approval in a—”

“You’re a really bad liar.” 

Optimus flinched at how fast Starscream deduced his opponents.

“So, he did send you a letter.” Starscream says matter-of-factly. 

Optimus looks quickly to Windy, who looks equally as uncomfortable as she carefully sets every datapad into a neat pile before them. “And what if he did?” 

“May I see it?” 

Optimus stiffened. “It’s…private.” 

Starscream’s face darkens. “Private?”

Optimus nods, hoping that it would dissuade Starscream. “Oh yes, quite.” 

Starscream’s optics flickered for a moment, hesitating. “How private? On a scale of one through ten.”

Optimus vents deeply. “Maybe an eight?” He lies, his typically deep voice betraying him as he practically squeaks. 

Starscream’s optics scan over Optimus' frame, searching. “An eight?” 

Optimus is unconvinced of his own falsehoods. “Yes?” 

Starscream’s chair screeches as he stands, glaring. “No way. There is no way.” He sounds almost breathless.

Optimus looks up at the seeker staring down at him. “Which way?”

“That fragger!” Starscream yells. “That! That lying son of a–oo-oh-UGH!” Starscream yells and slams his servos against the table, sending Windy’s neat pile scattering across the surface. Not that Starscream noticed or cared. “Tha—that! Worthless! Good for nothing! Liar!” Starscream storms around the small clearing, bordering on a tantrum. “No wonder he went to visit the viscount!” He tells himself, lining up the logical conclusion on his servos. “And the pacing…the waiting! A letter! The letter! A response!” 

Optimus and Windy watch on, concerned. 

“You!” Starscream points and Optimus, who jumps at the sudden shift in attention. “He–you! I can't believe this!” 

“I truly am sorry, Prince Starscream, but I’m not sure what you’re referring to…” Optimus offered.

“Of course, you don’t! You don’t even know left from right!” Starscream doesn’t sound particularly upset, or more so annoyed. Starscream vents raggedly. “I admit, it’s not what I expected, given…” Starscream looks at Optimus over again in appraisal. “But really!” He throws his arms up. “You?”

“Starscream!” Soundwave, in his real voice, pants. 

“Soundwave!” Starscream sounds almost relieved. “Can you believe this?” He points again to Optimus. 

Soundwave’s visor flashes at the sight of the (other) prince who stares at him like a datadoe. 

Elita and Jetfire narrowly manage to arrive behind Soundwave. 

Elita gawked. She never made a habit of such, leaving such disgraceful displays to Sentinel or Rodimus. She habitually made her place among her family known; she was well above them in all forms but rank. But Elita prided herself on some level of humility, at least, again, when compared to Sentinel or Rodimus. 

However, it was always those two she compared to, never the fourth figure in their generation. Not that Elita bothered to, she knew her limits, and Optimus was safely out of reach for her and her cousins. There was some peace in knowing they were all stuck under the shadow of Optimus' figure. 

Starscream’s wing flick, and another rant begins. “I’ve caught onto your little scheme, Soundwave!” Starscream grins. “You and Megatron will not overrun me with this cheap copy!” 

Windy bristled. “Hey!” 

Optimus quickly hushed Windy and ushered her closer as Soundwave stomped closer. 

“Starscream: Conclusion: Illogical.”

“Don’t pull that tone with me!” Starscream bites. “A little heads up would have been nice!”

“Starscream: Acting Irrationally.”

“I am not!” Starscream slams his pede against the floor. “At least I humble myself with this facade! But your precious master goes and contacts the one mech that can spare him of the humiliation of my victory!” 

Soundwave tenses and flashes a look towards Optimus, who is visibly confused and holding onto a growling Windy as if she was a rapid cybercat ready to attack.  

“Starscream: Jumping to conclusions.” He tries to soothe the seeker. 

“I am not! That bucket head sent him a letter!” Starscream points at Optimus for his approval. “Didn’t he?!” 

Optimus nods frantically and it’s enough of a testimony to rile up Starscream even more. “A letter! Megatron! Sending a letter! If I didn’t know any better, I would think this world would end any second now!” 

Soundwave felt the familiar feeling of his paranoia overwhelm when Optimus agreed—and it’s not that thought he could fault him for being so ignorant—but he wanted to, he really did. “Starscream: Misunderstand.”

“Don’t play with me, you glorified shadow.” Starscream growled. “I will not be toyed with like this.” 

Starscream and Soundwave exchanged a few more vague insults and questionable comments while Elita and Jetfire watched on like the audience on the set of a live broadcast. Elita and Jetfire flash one another a look that emphasizes their secondhand embarrassment.

Jetfire takes a step forward. “Prince Starscream.” He comments with a smile. “I’m sure whatever has happened has a perfectly reasonable explanation.”

Starscream jolts at the sight of Jetfire despite the fact he was there the whole time. “Soundwave was worried for you, that’s all. Your sudden disappearance inclined us to look for you.” 

“Baron!” Starscream’s frame tensed, suddenly aware of Jetfire’s presence, his claws came up shakily. “Y-you were?” 

Jetfire steps, slowly, closer to where Soundwave was to form a barrier between the two. “I was beginning to fear the worst when Soundwave grew in agitation. Are you well?” 

“Wg-wha—um.” Starscream stumbled to the table where Optimus remained at and leaned on it awkwardly, just narrowly pulling his buckling legs up enough to appear somewhat collected. “Naturally.” His voice cracks. “How are you?” 

“Relieved.” Jetfire answers. “You gave us quite the scare running off like that.” 

“It will never happen again!” Starscream quips and hits himself lightly on the helm. “What was I thinking! Teasing my poor companion like that, how silly!” 

Soundwave, grateful for his field suppressors, flickers in annoyance. “Starscream: Alright?”

“I said I’m fine you dolt.” Starscream snaps, then goes back to smiling at Jetfire. “Just a bit stressed.” 

Jetfire nods. “Given recent news, I can only imagine what you’re enduring.”

Starscream’s face falls. “Yes, unfortunately you cannot.” He mumbles. 

Soundwave prepares to step in again, but Starscream silences him with a piercing look. “Perhaps it’s a bit too much, after all.” He adds. “The duke is terribly busy, after all, he couldn’t even escort me here today.” 

Jetfire’s optics flash. “I’m sorry to hear that, after the other day I thought he’d be with you at any given moment.”

“It’s what I deserve.” Starscream harrumphs. 

Jetfire laughs lightly. “Most certainly.”

Starscream’s wings flutter at the sound of the soft chuckle. “I’m not taking you away from anything important, am I?”

Jetfire shakes his helm. “You are not. I was in search of an almanac with Miss Elita-One prior to this latest incident.” He steps to the side to show off Elita. 

Elita tenses under the sudden attention. “Good day, your highness.” She bows. 

“Good day,” Starscream nods, calculating. “Shouldn’t a youngling your age be studying?”

Elita’s optics flash a paler shade of blue in embarrassment. “I ought to be, yes, but Baron Jetfire offered to teach me a few things about gardening so…” 

“Gardening? You partake in such a hobby?”

“I don’t, but—”

“You mustn’t get off track, Elita-One.” Starscream lightly scolds. “You’re the face of an empire.” 

Elita lightly bristles at the comment as if Starscream wasn’t having a temper tantrum a moment ago. “Thank you for your advice, your grace, I will take it with heed.” She grits out with a smile.

“Elita?” 

Everyone turns to face Optimus, who stood somewhat forgotten amidst the cast of characters. 

Elita was gob smacked to see Optimus standing at his full height. His shoulders were flushed back but his chest wasn’t pushed out to allude to some unfounded confidence, he had good posture but lacked the superiority he once held. He almost slouched as he stepped away from the table with—dare Elita put a name to it—a smile. Windy was tucked neatly at his side, wearing a surprisingly smug expression at being treated so carefully by the prince. “Elita-One.” Optimus corrects. “I thought I recognized you.”

Which he did, in a strange way. Mostly because it’s hard not to recognize somebody with all pink armor. It was a similar feeling to seeing Rodimus, traces of a light air would dance around him at the sight of someone who was related to him. 

Elita’s face brightens and then turns to something akin to fear. Despite all her high talk the day prior, she’s never actually held a personal conversation with Optimus in her life. 

Cousins as they were estranged the two considerably, Rodimus and Sentinel were lucky to be tangentially associated with Optimus by sheer kinship. Elita, on the other hand, was only involved with Optimus through Sentinel and Rodimus, they were acquainted, but that was about the extent of their relationship. She never cared for Optimus in exuberance, unlike Rodimus, but she certainly wished to live up to his example as his brothers did. 

“Cousin!” Elita blurbs. “I mean—Optimus! No! I mean! Prince Optim—your highness.” She goes to bow deeply to hide her flustered face. 

Optimus had the right to refer to her as he sought fit, outranking her considerably, but Elita tended to forget that her casual relationship with Sentinel and Rodimus was not to extend to Optimus. She remained comfortable in her 90-degree tilt so long as it helped her save face. 

Optimus, for his usual attempts to remain collected given the plethora of responsibilities now befalling him (and overall comfortability with those around him after a humbling show of personality moments prior) felt enough at ease to giggle. “You’ll hurt yourself if you stay like that. Please, stand comfortably.” 

Elita flushed and stood upright, having to crack her neck up to see Optimus clearly. “Of course!” 

Optimus smiled as he drifted closer to her. “There you are, how fortunate I am to finally meet you.”

Elita squeaked. 

Optimus stopped a few steps to the side of Elita and greeted the others with a nod of his helm. Windy linked closely to his side like a chip-huahua in a clutch bag, bemusement painted on her face. Optimus eases her with a servo to separate her from the others. “I don’t think we’ve met before. You must be Baron Jetfire. It’s a pleasure.”

Jetfire straightens and gives a light bow at his hips. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance once more, your highness.”

Optimus returns the notion. “I do apologize for lacking the ability to recall you, but I hope we could get along if I ever failed to do so in the past.” 

Jetfire stands awkwardly, he shifts to set his arms to his back in order to hide how uncomfortable he was at the reality of being treated with any level of warmth from Optimus. “Of course.” 

Soundwave flinches uncharacteristically, looking to Starscream for some sort of reason that might allude to being in a recharge flux. Starscream simply shrugs with shuttered optics. 

“Soundwave, correct?” Optimus' voice makes Soundwave’s attention shift from one prince to another. 

“Affirmative.” His voice box frazzles to piece together the response. 

“He’s Megatron’s right hand.” Starscream adds. “He chaperoned me today.” 

Optimus focuses on Starscream. “You need to be accompanied?”

“I’m a royal.” Starscream replies. “You and I don’t know a moment of peace beyond our palace walls.” He sighs dramatically. 

“Apparently not within them either.” Optimus murmurs to himself, just loud enough for Windy to choke back a laugh. Optimus affixes his attention back to Soundwave after Windy taps his leg in urgency. “You must be close with the duke if you’re graced with such responsibility.” 

Soundwave nods, slowly, as if he’s still convinced he’s dreaming. 

“In that case, is it possible for you to relay a message to him on my behalf?” 

Soundwave straightens almost instantly, nodding with much more enthusiasm. 

Optimus overlaps a servo over another and rests them at his front over his abdominal plating, bending at the hips towards Soundwave. “Please tell Duke Megatron that I accept. I will see him in exactly one week from today at noon. Is that an acceptable time frame?” 

Soundwave nods, with the same energy as before. “Affirmative.” 

Optimus rises back to his full height. “I’m glad to hear that. I hope to see you once again in a week.” Optimus steps away from Soundwave and offers a tilt of his helm to the others. “It was a pleasure to meet all of you.” He says in a louder voice. “But it would seem that my allotted time within the archives has reached its end, and I must excuse myself from you all.” Optimus prepares his departure by gesturing to Windy with a servo behind his back to grab all the datapads on the table. “May Primus light your path.” Optimus steps back, turns around, and leaves the area without another word. 

Something among the group must have shifted with Optimus’ absence considering only the echoes of his steps are heard. 

Windy tags along with another unfounded smug expression at the lot and charges after her prince with a bundle of datapads. 

Optimus keeps his pace even and light, which makes it harder on his frame when he weighs about 20 tons. But he manages, somehow, to keep the flow of his rhythm until he’s sure of his disappearance when he makes it back to the staircase leading to the first floor. 

At the edge of the steps, Optimus vents in, looks back at the direction he came, vents out, and begins to scramble down the stairs like a madmech. In a strange way, Optimus is proud of himself for not tripping, ironic as it would be. Windy barely manages to keep up until the pair exit the archives with a slam of the doors. 

“Gugahjxh.” Optimus chokes out as he slides down the doors of the empty hall on the other side of the archives. 

“Good job, your highness!” Windy would clap if her servos weren’t full. “I told you using our comm line would work!” 

Optimus would like to applaud himself for his ability to execute Windy’s direction so flawlessly, but he was so focused on what he was doing that the entire series of events was now nothing more than a blur. It was ridiculous the number of minuscule details he had to maintain; the curvature of his lipplates, the angle of his bow, how deep to incline his helm, even the decibels he was allowed to speak in. He had to be thankful for the excess of figures in the study area that allowed them to conspire the act, if it weren't for their small talk Windy never would have offered the idea to boost his popularity. Assuming it did just that. 

“I couldn’t have done it without you.” Optimus shakes his helm to rid himself of the excess charge. “I hope I didn’t come off arrogantly.”

“Psh—you did fine.” Windy’s voice can be heard beyond the pile of datapads stacked in front of her. “I told you, you just gotta be yourself! Just ham up the charm and niceness.” The datapads clatter when Windy clicks her heels in reassurance. 

“I feel like I just lied to them.” Optimus sighs as he stands to help Windy, picking up most of the pile with a single servo. 

“Everyone lies to everyone.” Windy offers to comfort the prince. “It’s like you said, there’s no such thing as innocence in high society. Your image is the most important thing you have now.”

“I don’t want them to misunderstand me.” Optimus begins to walk away from the doors. 

“Your highness, I don’t think it’d do you any good if everyone knew you were such a worrisome mech. You’re better off just playing nice.”

“In that case, is there such a thing as nice in high society?” 

Windy blinks, her processor working overtime to try and think of a response that would do Optimus some good. “No.” Is what she realizes. “I guess not.” 

Optimus sighs. “Exactly.” 

“I do hope my presence isn’t a bother.” Megatron offers, picking up a cup of T.E.A while ravage curled on his lap. 

“Most certainly not,” Shockwave dispels any shame with a cool tone as he set down a plate of treats. “Your presence is always welcome, no matter how unorthodox.” 

“Please know I’m appreciative of your willingness to meet under such short notice.”

“And know that I have little to upkeep as of late, thanks to you.” Shockwave reciprocated. “Now, if you will, I would like to discuss what troubles you enough to seek me out.” 

Megatron makes a quick gaze at the door. “I do not doubt your abilities, Viscount, but I’m afraid that what I come to offer is of little celebration. Is this location safe?”

“My manner is impenetrable.” Shockwave insists. “Speak freely.”

Megatron sets down his cup, ushering Ravage off with the waft of a freshly baked good. He stands and walks carefully towards Shockwave, who stands near a large window that oversees most of his grounds. 

“Prince Optimus’ recent fall,”

Shockwave turns to face Megatron, his single optics narrowed. “You wish to discuss long dead gossip?”

“You know better than I that such things do not find importance in my life.” Megatron counters. “This is an important matter.” 

Shockwave hums. “Is that so?” 

Megatron sighs. “I’m afraid this will lack decorum in the way I choose to present it, but, if you would be willing to accept it, allow me.”

Shockwave nods. “The floor is yours.”

“I have reason to believe the accident was an assassination attempt.”

Shockwave’s optics flashed bright yellow for a moment before reverting to normal. “How…blunt.”

“You willed my words into existence.” 

“I would have it no other way.” Shockwave soothes. “However, this is quite the conclusion you’ve arrived upon. Why?”

Megatron made quick work of the question, handing Shockwave a hastily compiled datapad. 

Shockwave carefully looks over each of the documents Megatron supplies without much of a reaction. He opts to skim after the first page. “I understand why you may be acting under speculation, however…”

“However?”

“I don’t see what the baron has to do with this.”

Megatron’s legs threaten to buckle. “What?”

Shockwave returns the datapad to Megatron. “This is a compiled file on Baron Jetfire. I apologize for being crude, but you must truly be lost if you consider that fool a suspect.”

Megatron fumbled with the datapad, returning it to his subspace with a guttural sound. “What–no, of course not. I apologize, that’s not what I meant to give you.”

In a childish show of desperation, Megatron shuffles through his subspace to find everything but the datapad he needed. Megatron’s servos shake over the emblem that serves as a portal to the pocket dimension. Dread slipped in between the cracks between his armor as a shrill laugh of a dark figure clawed at his plating to be let in. His vents begin to shake.

Shockwave questions Megatron’ stillness. “Are you alright?”

Megatron jolts. “Yes.” He says hoarsely and looks through his datafiles for backup. When he does, he projects all the calculations, articles, and reports that support his case. Going so far as to include images of the previous day’s dummy experiment. 

Megatron allows Shockwave a moment to look through the projected holograms of what now feels like his life’s work. “It feels wrong.” Megatron admits through grit dente, falling into a colloquial form of speaking. “To excuse such a freak accident to nothing more than that, an accident.” 

Shockwave’s vocalizer makes a clicking sound akin to a tsk. “I taught you better than that.” 

“I know—”

“This is from stellar cycles ago, Megatron. Even if there was something to support your case, the crown will not be kind to your presumption.”

“That is why I need your help, old friend—mentor. You have enough power sprinkled throughout Cybertron to help me find the truth.”

“Where do you plan to begin unraveling this?” Shockwave prompts. “There is nothing here but endless possibilities.” 

“The south.” Megatron answers. “I have reason to believe the south is where this begins. During the moon of his fall, Optimus had sent a letter to me alluding to a growing dissatisfaction within the south. Only now, the same whispers have managed to find their way into Ultra Magnus’ court.”

“This is hearsay, Megatron.”

“But it is something!” Megatron nearly pleads. “It is evidence of something in the midst, the Optimus I knew cared not for the South no more than he did Vos. His knowledge of that something, whatever it was, was a precursor to his accident. If he knew it before the rest of the court, he must have been made a target!”

“You are making generalizations that are too broad,” Shockwave scolds. “There is a limit to the amount of treason I can humor you with.”

“How can I commit treason when those fools had betrayed their constitution first!” Megatron bites. “You cannot possibly believe that I would come to you with just a hunch!”

“I do not. Which is why I am trying to ease you from this path.” Shockwave says. “You are under a significant amount of pressure, stress, you have been stripped of your dignity. You are looking to correct it by any means necessary, it is not logical, Megatron. Do not take out your anger on the crown like this. There are better ways. You are better than that.”

“No—” Megatron growls. “You are not listening, this is not an issue of power, it is the failings of it. The South, regardless of how precious to me it is, is guilty of something I do not know. But I will find out, I must. The corruption of power has long fled my frame, I care not for it anymore, I’m resigned to my fate.” He sighs, clutching his helm in one servo. “Still, I know that there is something to this. Optimus never would have sent me a letter otherwise.”

Shockwave falls silent as Megatron continues. 

“I cannot play into the hands of any other houses, mechs, or illusions of power. I come to you for aid in what is the very essence of a declaration of a Cold War.” Megatron’s field extends like a servo. “This does not put you in an easy position, I know, but you must trust me. I cannot stand to watch this world fall further into ruin just to satisfy my ego.” Megatron’s servo reaches out in the hope of holding another. “I have to make that difference, at any cost.” 

Shockwave stills, hesitantly looking at Megatron’s face steeled with resolution. He looks back and forth between the servo and the face it is attached to, his yellow optic bobbing between the literal and figurative plea for aid. 

Shockwave had long considered himself beyond the throws of emotion, whatever admiration he felt towards Megatron was that of kinship. He had long aided the young duke in his rise and fall, and never wavered in support through it. Shockwave served as the second parental figure closer in age to Megatron than the long gone Galvatron. That distant feeling of closeness betrayed all logical components.

But Shockwave’s logic won in the end.

The viscount sighs and sets his servo onto Megatron’s, clasping them together but does not shake them. “I’m sorry, Lord Megatron. But I cannot, in good conscious, see you throw yourself away like this for the crown. Much less for the like of Optimus Prime. I will not sponsor your fall, as much as it may pain me to turn you away.” 

Megatron’s frame tenses, then relaxes, he pulls Shockwave’s servo up to rest his forehelm upon it. “I understand.”

They were locked in an intimate dance of adoration. Megatron’s desperation was clear the longer he held the formation. Even so, Megatron would not waste his anger on the viscount, he knew better. It was politically motivated, another business deal that fell through. Megatron could not fault Shockwave for his refusal, it was a long shot to begin with.

Shockwave doesn’t offer much of a reaction. “Do not resent me.”

Megatron’s optics flutter open and he looks at Shockwave. “For what?”

“You’re straying.” Shockwave clarifies. “I did not anticipate it, but you’re starting to break the mold your sire imposed on you. In doing so I realized I have failed him, and you.”

Shockwave’s servo slips away from his grip, and Megatron’s gaze follows Shockwave’s turning figure. “I never thought I was capable of such.”

“I didn’t either, you were turning into the exact same mech as him.” Shockwave answers, stopping at a window watching the sun start to fall from view. “But your insistence on this topic is the final fracture to a failing fortress.” He turns to look at Megatron. “Perhaps you take after your brother.”

“Do not make the mistake of comparing me to another again, old friend.” Megatron warns. “I’ll have you know I had to turn away his conjux from my manor earlier today.”

“And why is that?” 

“Their insistence on our kinship is unfounded, they offer me an excess and act shocked when I do not feel the need to reciprocate.”

Shockwave hummed. “Well, change is slow. I’m sure you’ll understand them eventually.” 

“Do not tell me you side with them, Viscount.” Megatron tries to hide his disgust. 

“Of course not.” Shockwave dismisses. “I’m merely suggesting the possibility of understanding their view given you sudden bout of insanity.”

“Not likely.” Megatron answers coldly, overlooking the cruel remark. “I will change in all forms but my dislike towards them.”

“Just like your dislike for the prince?”

“That’s different.” 

“Of course.” The viscount nods, he turns back around to see his guest better. “Will you be staying for dinner?”

Megatron quietly appreciates the change in topic, going down to scoop up ravage. She lets out a soft mrrp at the prospect of being hoisted up as if she was an empty cube. “Unfortunately, I will not. I’m harboring a fugitive that needs constant supervision.”

“Ah, of course.” Shockwave nods as the two make their way out of his office. 

By contrast, Shockwave’s manor makes the Decepticon House appear like a sparklings playpen. There is a constant dark atmosphere that lurks between the halls like a thick, inescapable fog. The walls are painted dark, neutral tones, and purples of low saturation decorate them sparingly. It’s old, never once changed by Shockwave or any of his predecessors since the construction of the home (if it can be called such). Still, Megatron considers it his second home, one where he is inclined to feel more relaxed despite the fear it invokes in others. 

Shockwave was a strangely allusive figure in the glittering lights of Northern nobility, more so than Megatron. Every now and again the rumor would come out that he’d finally died by sheer lack of appearances, only to come back looking no different than before. The viscount was a trailblazer for the North’s advancements in science and health, but even the equally impressive Baron steered clear of him. There was always a fear that came with the utterance of Shockwave’s designation, but never did anything come from him that wasn’t positive in one way or another. Megatron would like to think the viscount plays up his role to scare off anyone who would interrupt his work, but deep down he was a surprisingly simple mech. One of the few nobles that Megatron got along with, and it was primarily due to the repeated exposure to the viscount as a house with a close tie to his own. The two shared much in common that allowed them to form their strange declaration of friendship, Shockwave’s exceeding intellectual prowess made him a proper tutor and future mentor figure for Megatron. 

And, fortunately, Shockwave got along with Soundwave much to Megatron’s relief. Starscream? Not so much. 

Shockwave stopped at the front doors that opened to allow Megatron to make his departure. “Although I cannot see the logic within this, do know I wish you well in this endeavor. My door is always open to you.”

Megatron nods. “Take care of yourself, Shockwave. Let me know if you need anything.” 

“Enjoy your evening, Lord Megatron. Do tell Starscream I said hello, and congratulations.”

Megatron barked out a laugh. “I was waiting for you to say something about that.”

“And that is all I will say, best of luck.” 

“Thank you.” Megatron smiled lightly and walked out the door. 

The door locked shut behind him, and Megatron began his walk down the steps. Not for a moment would he betray his cool until he knew no one was watching. When that time came, Megatron pressed Ravage close to his frame and collapsed to his knees at the clearing. 

“Where is it?” 

Megatron drops Ravage and begins to dig through his subspace as if gold were waiting for him at the bottom. “Where is it?”

Again and again, he was met with nothing but worthless documents and the datapad regarding Jetfire. Megatron’s searching servos twitched as they traced over the same handful of datapads, praying to an uncaring god that the one thing that could get him killed would materialize. 

Megatron shuffled through the contents for the fourth time. “Belurgene Treaty, Alpha-12, Baron, Crater Initative, Lo–” 

Jetfire. 

Megatron could feel himself on the brink of purging his tanks, his fists clenched, and he reached for Ravage gently. Planting a soft kiss on her forehead, Megatron tossed Ravage up in the air, transformed, and flew away after he caught her in a make-shift cockpit he hastily put together, beginning the anxiety-fueled trip home. 

Soundwave and Starscream were waiting for him like a mistress and lover realized in an affair. 

Starscream was like the lover, enraged and hurling obscenities at Megatron as he transformed into his root mode and touched down on the ground. 

Ravage bounced off Megatron’s grip and ran towards Soundwave, who was the mistress. Straight as a needle and bright white in shock. 

Megatron stormed past Soundwave, staring directly at Starscream. “Where is it?”

Starscream stopped his barrage of insults. “Where’s what?”

Megatron did not hold back, he yanked Starscream up by the collar and bent down to match their heights. “Where is the datapad I gave you?”

Starscream pulled away. “What–are–!” 

Megatron’s grip tightened. “Tell me!”

“Let go of me first!” Starscream yelled. 

Megatron let go Starscream like he was some faceless goon. “Speak.”

Starscream had the audacity to look offended. “What is wrong with you?! Do you have any idea what you could have done to me!” Starscream’s servo guarded his neck as he flared his wings out in a defensive manner. “I am not one of your little toys, Megatron! If you want something from me, you ask for it with dignity for me and yourself!”

“I could honestly care less about that right now.” Megatron snarled and pushed his open servo in front of Starscream. “Give me the datapad I gave you this morning, now.”

Starscream looked absolutely infuriated. “The nerve–” He quickly dug through his subspace and slammed the datapad into Megatron’s grip. “There. Happy?”

Megatron glared and went to turn the datapad on with a hurried series of taps. He swiped up and the contents came clearly into view. 

…society is built upon expectations; rules are the foundation of mannerism and their management. By controlling these rules, you control the populus of power, you extend onto them a veil and tell them they see clarity. It is only through the destruction of these frivolities will you find that the true nature of sentient beings is not so simple the angle of your waist in a bow or the space between your digits in a wave…

The fury in Megatron’s optics dies in an instant. Starscream takes this as a sign to speak. “You gave me your stupid diary,” He tapped on the dimly lit screen. “There was nothing on the baron in here.”

Megatron lets out a ragged vent, his servo twitched with every tap Starscream made. 

“What is your issue?” Starscream scoffs. “You can’t be that embarrassed over your own work.”

Megatron’s talons curl around the datapad, his optics shutter closed, and he staggers slightly as the tension is lost from his frame.

He sighs.

“You are pathetic.” Starscream clicks his glossa, irritation masking his previous fear.

Megatron inclines his helm, looking at the floor, and sighs again. His frame visibly sags.

“...I’m sorry.” He whispers.

Starscream does not waver. “Speak up.”

“I’m sorry.” Megatron repeats clearly. “I reacted under presumption, and I hurt you. I’m sorry.” He spoke quickly, neatly. Like a sparkling when caught red handed. It was a rehearsed apology, rarely implemented and never updated beyond such an underwhelming series of statements.

Starscream narrowed his focus on Megatron’s strained expression, he knew that was as good as an apology he would get. “Yeah, I bet you are.”

Megatron reopened his optics, to look directly at Starscream’s. “I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“I shouldn’t have lashed out.”

The two fell into a forced silence. Their arguments were more numerous than stars in the sky, but rarely did they reach such physical extremes. Starscream knew, the moment a digit was laid upon his frame that the duke meant business. And Megatron would not risk such violence if he was not as desperate for an answer as he was. In moments like these, they had to forcibly even the playing ground by sucking up their pride and talking things out. It was the most recent hiccup they had to tackle, too grown for games for every new fight. Had they not learned this newer method, two nations would likely be at war. Still, they both knew they couldn’t play the victim and tyrant forever; they were well beyond that, each mistake another pebble in a pond, every punch thrown and landed under some justification of character. Megatron had the audacity to feel remorse, especially over how well they got along earlier. But Starscream simply saw it as another tally on the board, and he would even the score eventually. 

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Starscream shrugged. “I mean, I did forge your name a while ago.” 

Megatron looked back up and rubbed his optics, confused. “That doesn’t change the fact I could have done something worse. My temper is not something that I am proud of at times.” 

“Please, and you flaunt it like a luxury.” Starscream rolled his optics, taking on the role of the mature party and taking the first step forward. “If you managed to succeed, I would get my revenge from beyond the grave. In more ways than one.”

Megatron snorted, a small wave of relief washed over him. “Fair enough, if I did manage to succeed, I have reason to believe I would follow after you sooner rather than later.” 

“Exactly.” Starscream cracked his neck. “And anyways, it’s my turn to yell at you now.”

“You were yelling about something earlier, weren’t you?” Megatron nodded, approving of his punishment. “Alright, have at it.” 

Starscream turned on his heels and began to walk inside. “In a klik, I’m starving.”

Megatron allowed Starscream to take the lead. “That makes two of us.”

Soundwave and Ravage followed their figures with dull and wide optics, respectively. Witnesses to another strange event of the day. Soundwave never did know how they got up and over things so easily, it lacked nuance, it was too familiar. Megatron appeared to make brotherly connections with anyone but Cyclonus.  

Before Soundwave could address the issue of glossing over yet another murder attempt, Megatron walked past Soundwave and greeted him with a clasp on the shoulder and a pull, dragging his lifeless figure with him into their home with Ravage skipping along. “Save it, you know as well as I do that it’s water under the bridge.”

“Yeah,” Starscream called out. “A bridge you almost flooded.”

“I said I’m sorry.” Megatron offered. “What more do you want?”

“I don’t know,” Starscream shrugged. “But I’m going to hold you to that as soon as I do.”  

The strange group entered the manor with varying levels of exhaustion, some visible, some not.  Megatron greeted his servants with a usual nod and niceties and escorted his strange entourage towards the dining hall. Starscream kept his helm high despite a slight denting on his plating, heels clicked lightly against the floor with a particular tone to emphasize his pride, which ticked Megatron off to the gravity of the situation. 

“How was your day?” He asks, in attempts to prepare for his lecture. Soundwave’s dragging pedes resounded along with his voice. 

“It was fine until I arrived at the archives.”

“Was your beloved baron not present? I could have sworn I heard he was in attendance.”

“Oh no, he was.” Starscream clarifies. “Unfortunately, I was unable to steal his time for longer than a moment.”

“How unfortunate.” Megatron says with some regard for Starscream’s feelings. “I know how you look forward to it.” 

The trio, and Ravage, entered the dining room as Megatron spoke, each taking their place at the table. Megatron was to sit at the head after sitting Soundwave down on the right place diagonal to him. 

Just as he pulled his chair out, Starscream coughed. 

Megatron spat out an expletive in his processor (not risking Starscream to hear it given previous events), pushed his seat back in, walked over to Starscream and opened the chair for said seeker. 

“I can't believe I have to remind you.” Starscream grumbled as Megatron tucked him into the table. 

“My utmost apologies.” Megatron declared with little heat. 

After taking his seat, Megatron rested on his knuckles for a short reprieve as the servants began to enter with the plates of prepared goods.

Inexplicably, Starscream does not let out another peep when his plate is set before him. Megatron opens one optic just barely to get a look.  

They all received variations of a cube, feuling grade in a light blue hue for an easier digestion given the late hour, paired with thinly cut vanadium-veal and a glaze of energon reduction on top. 

Ravage received her own plate on the floor, which she gobbled up greedily. 

Megatron hesitates on taking the first bite. 

Starscream, however, does not, and picks up his utensils to begin to slice into his meal. 

Soundwave is as dead to the world as before. 

Starscream happily laps up his meal, taking small, purposeful bites, making sure to savor the flavor the chefs carefully put into the meal. After this third bite, he sets his utensils down and reaches for his cube to take an equally small sip. After setting the drink down, he continues his meal. 

Megatron’s optics narrowed. “Well?” 

Starscream fishes chewing before he speaks. “Well, what?” 

“You were on fire a moment ago, I’d hate to think you were just hungry.” Megatron opts to take a drink. “It’s not like you.” 

Starscream ignored the jab. “Soundwave.” He prompts. “Would you care to enlighten our beloved duke on what we saw today?”

Somehow, Starscream’s cue was enough to make Soundwave break out of his haze. He jerks back to life and looks around at his surroundings. “Inside.” He realizes. 

“Yes, ‘inside.’” Starscream assures. “Megatron was nice enough to drag you, now tell the gentlemech what we saw today.”

Soundwave’s visor flickered, he looked to find Megatron seated with a growing sense of curiosity spreading across his face. 

“Do tell.” Megatron drones and takes another sip, starting to lose his appetite in anticipation. 

Soundwave’s body language appears hesitant, his plating flutters out as he contemplates an answer.  

To which, there is none. But there is a message he must relay. 

“Megatron: Letter: Received.” 

Megatron’s optics widened a fraction, suddenly aware of why Soundwave was so hesitant. He sets his cube down and begins to pay closer attention to Soundwave by leaning closer towards him. “And?”

Soundwave gazes at Starscream for a moment, hesitant, but decides to play the clip from before in the hope that the hellfire will come quickly and dissolve just as so. 

“—Please tell Duke Megatron that I accept. I will see him in exactly one week from today at noon—”

Megatron’s optics open to their widest caliber, but then the utter shock of missing the opportunity to hear it himself in person hit even harder. Megatron stood from his seat faster than he had any right to and glared at Soundwave. “You met the prince?! And you didn’t think to tell me until now?!” 

Soundwave shrinks into his seat. “Soundwave: Apologies—”

“Spare me,” Megatron snapped. “Did you accept?”

Soundwave pauses. “Affirmative.” 

"How-!" Megatron choked back a growl. “I can't believe this. How could you accept on my behalf? First Starscream is forging my name, and now you, my voice? Am I a joke to you all?!” 

Starscream chimes in. “Well, now that you ask–”

“Hyperbole.” Megatron interrupts. “Hypothetical. Do not answer.”

Starscream goes back to eating. 

Soundwave straightened. “Negative.” His voice glitches. “Negative. Apology: Insisted. Harm: Unintentional.” 

“No comm! No messages! Not even a warning! Just ‘here you go!’” Megatron makes a rude gesture of trusting his servos out, pretending to hold something. “I do not expect this behavior for you of all mechs, Soundwave. Please tell me this was at least private.” 

Soundwave creaks his head slowly at Starscream, who snickers. 

“Miss Elita-One, Jetfire, and I were present.” 

“Jetfire—” Megatron has to clamp his intake shut. “Fool. I’m going to be made a bigger fool than before. My companion has the audacity to accept an invitation from the crown on my behalf.” Megatron slumps back into his seat. 

Starscream takes a moment to try and shield Soundwave from Megatron’s fury. “It can’t possibly be that big of a deal.”

“Yes, it is, Starscream. How would you like it if one of your servants accepted an invitation for T.E.A from Princess Arachnid.”

“T.E.A?” Starscream choked. “You invited the prince for T.E.A?!” 

“Yes, Starscream, I did.” 

“Via letter?!” 

“Yes!”

“How desperate are you?!” 

Megatron threw his servos up in frustration. “Very!” 

There were few overlapping traits between the three kingdoms bound to Primus’ outer surface, it just so happened that T.E.A had managed to creep its way into every one of them. An international commodity if the culture that surrounded it was anything to go by. It managed to be the one thing that interconnected the three kingdoms enough for their relations to be amicable at times. 

Each kingdom followed a general set of rules when the social aspect of T.E.A was to be involved. It was akin to sharing a meal, and by extension, a personal task to take on. Energon was the lifeblood of both Cybertronians and their God, to consume it had long grown to be a normalized activity but T.E.A reintroduced the intimacy that was lost with time. 

And as most conservative kingdoms go, the north tended to be strict in T.E.A policy, treating it much like the Camien did. The atmosphere that surrounded it depended on those partaking in the activity. To share a drink is to share yourself, your thoughts, experiences, and intimacies. In essence, it was like drinking from the veins of Primus once more as they had in a bygone era. 

Of course, this alluded to heavy implications that came from an invitation to share a cup of T.E.A. For a single mech, enjoying T.E.A was nothing special, simply another way to refuel. But with another, or more, that cup became a connection. The shared pot, shared energon, an indirect connection with the bot you held a cup with. You become inextricably linked for at least a moment when you feel the warmth of life flow through you. A shared celebration of existance, of intertwining two or more beings with their most foundational principles. Every sip was to be deliberate, careful, and polite. It was typical to drink slowly, as if to give your companion a long life with a steady flow of life and energon. Drink too fast and you presume your drinking companions perish soon, akin to bleeding out. It was surprisingly intimate when the details were brought into question, which is why T.E.A houses were such a common sight across Cybertron. 

Megatron’s letter meant he had opened interest in speaking with Optimus on a personal topic. Not a political one. Duke Megatron. The same duke presumably courting a seeker who he had T.E.A with in public—an equally shared detail as public drinking connotates establishing some level of public intimacy, a claim, if you will—the same duke who was now inviting another prince to T.E.A.

Starscream bristled. “Pleasure bot.” 

Megatron sputtered. “What does that have to go with this!” 

Megatron’s invitation had lost all its nuance by the time it had reached Optimus, who remained oblivious to the insinuations. Windy, however, was not. She was particularly privy to the brewing gossip and remained acutely discrete with what she did and did not tell her darling prince. Still, Megatron (somewhat) knew what he was doing when he sent the letter. He was not ignorant to the insinuation, if anything, it furthered its importance. Not that Optimus would know given that he agreed under Windy’s duress. 

Soundwave hid his face from view and his vocalizer glitched as he frantically tried to remedy the situation. “Soundwave: Apologize. Apology: Insufficient. Soundwave: Panicked. Situation: Unexpected. Acceptation: Sudden. Reschedule: Possible. Inquiry: Send?” 

Megatron prepared a particularly venomous reply but decided to keep it under lock and key for another day. He let out a rush of hot air in a vent, rested his weight onto the table and shielded his face. “I understand. It’s not your fault. Thank you for relaying the confirmation.” 

“Soundwave: Permission to speak?” 

Megatron sighed, enough of an indication to allow it. 

“Details: Unknown to others. Date: Only confirmed.”

“How reassuring.” Megatron lies. “My humiliation has now evaporated.” 

Megatron, for all his violet tendencies, never really made the habit of drinking T.E.A. He always considered it to be a rich mechs drink. And when be became a rich mech, he still cared little for it, far too intimate for his liking. But he was better off playing into it when the crown was sensitive to such emotional nonsense. All of that he could understand as Starscream’s distaste for his way of reaching the prince. It did not, however, explain why Starscream now equated him to an easy mech. 

Starscream rolls his optics. “Ugh, please, have some decorum. As if either of us have standards that low.”

“You speak boldly on behalf of a mech you hardly know.” Megatron bites. “Don’t think so lowly of me.”

“I will and do…sometimes.” Starscream sits up straight. “I’ve had a decent conversation with him.” 

“As in, today.”

“I don’t know what other point in time I could be referring to.”

“Enlighten me.” Megatron insists, truly losing his appetite now.

“He’s not against the way you think, for one.” Starscream steals Megatron’s drink and pours it into his glass, taking it and reclining into his seat. “So maybe you might have a chance.” 

Megatron’s face still for a moment. “What?”

“He’s pretty well read on you, up to snuff on most of your philosophy.” Starscream hides behind his glass in contemplation. “I don’t think he hates you anymore. Not like he has any reason to. Yet.” 

Megatron straightens and looks at Starscream. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t be so dense.” Starscream scoffs. “I’m saying that using Prince Optimus as your quote-unquote rebound isn’t a bad idea considering he doesn’t mind you as of right now.” 

Megatron’s optic reset and glitch out. “Re—re...” Megatron coughs to clear his vocalizer. “Rebound?” 

“I picked the baron; you picked the prince.” Starscream shrugs. “A bit unfair but I guess I have to let it slide now that he agreed to meet with you.”

Megatron stared at Starscream with a blank expression. The thought of Starscream's complete ignorance to the topic of Optimus’ assassination attempt had been completely lost to him. 

Megatron’s optics crackled. “Wait—”

“Look! I’m not going to judge—okay, well, maybe a little. But you should’ve been more subtle.” Starscream admits as he takes another sip from his glass. 

Of course, Starscream had developed an entirely new story. Megatron overlooked the details of sending the letter. 

To invite another for T.E.A was to invite them to bear their spark to you. 

To send a letter was a quiet show of interest, a pure form of detached intimacy. 

To pair them both was a roundabout way of saying “I’m madly in love with you.”

And to make matters worse, Megatron had put his emergency emblem on it. 

Honestly, it was as if Megatron attached a tarp to his alt mode with “Optimus Prime’s #1 Fan” in bright pink lettering and circled the entire planet for a vorn singing romantic hymns. 

Megatron’s face glowed bright red when his optics flashed to their brightest, displaying the level of embarrassment he felt. No wonder Soundwave was so apologetic. Megatron was upset over the insufficient time frame and the shame of not accepting himself, Soundwave was upset over publicly outing Megatron as seducing a naive royal. 

Suddenly the pleasure bot comment made sense. 

Megatron sent the letter under the premise of having T.E.A to capitalize off of the social importance of such an invitation. There, he could explain the situation to Optimus in some way and pave a better future for Cybertron and their people. 

Starscream had decidedly taken this thought and gone to the extreme, going so far as to insinuate that Megatron had a chance at hitching the Optimus Prime as a mistress despite public news of his courting to Starscream. 

Soundwave had accidentally confirmed the former. 

And now everyone else who was not Soundwave and Megatron would come to the exact same conclusion as Starscream. Except Shockwave, who was probably in the right for denying Megatron now.

Megatron stammered and slapped a servo over his intake and looked at Soundwave with a wild, yet hidden expression. “Why didn’t you tell me—!” He hissed.

Soundwave’s arms flailed around trying to think of a reason.

Megatron made a sound he thought he was incapable of producing and hid behind two servos. He was so preoccupied with trying to protect Optimus from getting killed (again) he didn’t realize that he unintentionally professed undying love to him. 

Megatron had a habit of being less than aware of his romantic endeavors, which was none. Partners lingered here and there but he never openly courted someone or had any intention to. And Optimus was certainly never on the roster if there ever was to be one. 

Megatron’s optics dimmed at the thought of the prince. 

And, by extension, his optics, wide with shock. And their pretty color. 

Megatron shivered. “Absolutely not.” He told himself. Optimus’ optics were not pretty, and he was certainly not going to make his so-called rebound on the pathetic bot. 

To taint such newfound innocence in life with a label such a ‘mistress’ rubbed Megatron in all the wrong ways.

He tensed.

Schadenfreude.

The word haunted him. 

But Starscream haunted him more so. “I guess this is a bad time to mention that Optimus Prime has been reinstated as crown prince again.”

Soundwave and Megatron screeched. “What?!” 

The night was falling further and further into a disaster.

“Crown prince? Reinstated? How out of the loop am I?!” Megatron pleads to himself. 

Soundwave began to scour the grid for information. 

“I heard it straight from the zaphorses intake.” Starscream offers smugly. “Ultra Magnus has yet to make this public.” 

Megatron let out a sob and rested his helm on his servos. “This is the worst day of my life.” 

Openly courting one prince, announcing attraction to another, losing an incriminating datapad, getting rejected by the most morally-questionable mech for being morally-questionable. Megatron was on his way to getting either exiled or executed. Glory be to the duke who will now be misunderstood, again. 

“What’s with that reaction?” Starscream asked, utterly disgusted. “You’re acting like a youngling.” 

Megatron opted back to his single-servo-covering-intake form of hiding his humiliation, he couldn’t even bear to look at Starscream. His helm pointed high and away from prying optics. “I-I.” He clears his vocalizer despite the blush of his face. “I was not going to make the prince my mistress, you idiot. It was for another reason.”

“Oh, don’t backtrack now! I see your face! You’re utterly humiliated! Were overcharged when sending that letter?! What other reason is there! You can’t just have your courtship announced then go off to meet with someone who basically outranks me!” Starscream explained. “Read the room!” 

“I already told—”

“You hear that, Soundwave!” Starscream rocked his chair back to attract Soundwave’s attention. “I was wrong! He’s into whiny little glitches!”

Megatron pushed Starscream’s seat back into place with his free servo. “Stop that.” He threatened. 

“Oh, I’m so scared.” Starscream mocks. “What are you going to do with him anyways? Glare at each other for another breem and call it a day! Hah! And they say romance is dead.” 

Megatron sounds like he’s getting pushed into a trash compactor. “I told you I’m no—”

But what if he was? The controversy alone would probably get him killed, but Megatron had long given up on trying to appease the press of all things, so that didn’t bother him as much as it likely should have. Megatron reluctantly weighed his options for the split second he cut himself off. 

On one servo, he could deny, deny, deny, and confide in Optimus when they meet and hope for the best. On the other, he could play into the perfect circumstances to habitually meet with Optimus to plan and investigate his mysterious accident. Of course, that was gross generalization, but it didn’t matter because one meant that Megatron would always have an excuse to see Optimus whether the prince was on board or not. 

It was the perfect excuse, the perfect facade for an undercover mission to bring justice once and for all. Starscream’s dramatic conclusion-jumping Olympics had landed Megatron the best excuse ever.

Megatron stopped covering his face and raised his arms in surrender. “Alright, fine, you win. You caught me.” 

Soundwave’s helm turns slow to look at Megatron as if he was just shot point blank. 

Starscream laughs. “Aha! I knew it!”

“The prince wasn’t my first choice, I will admit. But I really do want to come out on top, so, can you really blame me?” Megatron forces a smirk.

Starscream wags his finger triumphantly. “You can’t get anything past me, you scamp.” He reaches out a servo to intimate a handshake. “May the best mech win.”

“You’re taking this well.” Megatron notes smugly.

“Of course, I am.” Starscream muses. “Because I’m going to win.”

Megatron sighs and takes Starscream’s servo and shakes it firmly. “We’ll have to see about that.” 

“Sending a letter means WHAT?!” Optimus’ voice practically shook the entirety of the sapphire palace. “Having T.E.A means WHAT?!”

Windy had made the mistake of bringing one too many of the datapads that Starscream recommended, which incidentally included one that spoke of T.E.A ceremonies and anything associated to a great degree. Which resulted in a very flustered prime scolding Windy for falling victim to her sin of gossip.

“How could you make me accept! You little spawn of Unicron!”

Windy clutched her helm that had been lightly flicked by Optimus’ unwillingness to resort to physical punishment. “I did it for you! Your highness! You need to go outside and touch the stones!”

“The duke is promised to another mech! I-I-I can’t just meet with him like this now! What happened to your precious pairing! They’re going to think I’m some homewrecker!” He screeches. “I am not a who-!”

“But he sent you the letter, your highness!” Windy cut off just in time to spare the utterance of a vulgar term. “He was the one that started it! Not me!” 

Optimus’ face flushed hot with energon, and his optics brightened to an almost white. He was not ready to delve into the insinuation of Megatron reflecting some level of non-political interest in the prime. “T-That’s beside the point!” He would not let her escape from her guilt. “It doesn’t matter who started it! You should know better!”

“Wah!” Windy sobbed, coolant streaked down her face. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean too!” She blabbered amidst her hiccups. “I just thought it was nice! I just want someone to like you as much as I do!”

“Oh—!” Optimus’ finials pinned straight back, he moves quickly to comfort Windy in an embrace. “You must never do that again; do you hear me! You sound like a hypocrite saying I must care for my image while I ruin it by accepting.” He picked up the small maid and lightly stroked along her back in reassurance like a carrier with a bitlet mid tantrum.  

Windy nods, which Optimus can feel against his chest, and hiccups some more. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

“I know, I know. ” It was a curious reminder of just how young Windy was, acting so recklessly. Next time Optimus would keep Chromia closer. “Let it all out, I’m not mad anymore. I’m sorry too.” 

Optimus sat them both down on the sofa at the center of the room with a heavy sigh and patted Windy down from her outburst. It took a while, but Optimus couldn’t be bothered to count the breems. 

Windy sniffled and laid against Optimus’ frame. “I’m sorry.”

“Enough, don’t overuse a word so precious.” 

Windy pursed her lipplates. “I’m not…”

Optimus ignores her pout. “Are you feeling better?”

Windy nods, Optimus’ paint scuffing onto her helm. “Yes, your highness.”

“Alright.” Optimus sits them both up. putting Windy down on her down on the sofa. “If you’re feeling better and would like to offer an apology. I would like to ask you to bring me a datapad and stylus.”

Windy’s helm tilted as she rubbed her optics. “Why?”

“I’m going to write Prince Starscream a letter apologizing for my acceptance of Megatron’s invitation.”

“But you already set the date!”

“And it is my responsibility to see it through. That does nothing to change that I owe him an apology.” Optimus points at Windy. “Which is why you’re going to help me.” 

Windy’s face steeled and she nodded. “Yes, your highness. But what about the duke?” 

“He doesn’t get a letter. I will set him straight when I see him.” Optimus harrumphed. “That seducer.” He tsks. “Now go, shoo, bring me what I need.”

Windy nodded and scrambled off to find what was asked of her.    

Megatron retreated to his office after dinner, Starscream made a spectacle of embarrassing him further with his so-called elite detective skills.

Dragging his servo down when the doors clicked shut, Megatron slowly turned towards his desk in anticipation.

The question of the missing datapad still haunted Megatron. He dreaded the moment of arriving at his desk and not finding it there, of the inevitable fear that would pierce through his spark the moment he laid his optics upon a neat and orderly desk space.

Megatron didn’t turn on the lights, the glow of the moon would have to be enough.

Each step was torture, Megatron knew it would be easier to run and rustle through the desk in desperation, but he was so sure of what he would find he could not bother to satiate his fear. For every new step, Megatron’s spark was gripped with a new terror he did not find himself capable of feeling. The duke had become acquainted with a lack of regard for his life, but the moment he realized the actions he now took would alter that of thousands, it dragged on like a limb nearly stripped from its protoform. Arching, warning, constant in the agony and reminders it brought.

Megatron vented in, the air around grew thick with his anticipation and hot with knowing.  

One step, another, yet the desk always seemed miles farther. Megatron could not bear it any longer, he forced himself to complete the distance with optics shut and an arm reaching out to catch the corner of his desk.

The moment the whispers of a corner were felt, Megatron lunged.

And fell.

Along with another clatter.

Megatron’s optics opened in shock, he found himself on the floor, shaking, and in the presence of a datapad. He looked up to find he narrowly missed his desk in the process of reaching.

“Did I feel you, instead?” Megatron asked the datapad gently.

He turned it on.

Optimus Prime: Case 1, Evidence 1…

Reading the title was like a breath of fresh air. The room was alleviated of all its previously held cruelties, Megatron nearly cried out in relief. He began to carefully swipe through the contents, measuring it, making sure nothing was out of place.

And nothing was, it was exactly how Megatron had left it.

The duke fell onto the floor, closing his optics and steadied his ventilation with the nonsense recommended to him from Thundercracker in the past. It worked, surprisingly enough, Megatron would have to thank the meekest of the elite trine when they next meet. Nevertheless, for now, Megatron relaxed onto the floor, letting the flutter of relief calm him in light of the day’s events.

He thought of things that didn’t matter, for the time being. Of love, jealousy, anger, and fear. The hopes he held for a world beyond, what it might be after he saved the world from itself.

Megatron’s optics open slowly.

“Do you think yourself a hero?” He asks himself, forcing his voice into an unnaturally shrill yet deep tone.

He sits up, and stands, with no aid.

Megatron looks at his reflection on the window, he steps closer to it, allowing his image to grow in the limiting distance to the midnight-painted world. He sets his servo over his reflection’s spark chamber.

“I do.”

He destroys the datapad with the force of his grip.

To Prince Optimus Prime of Cybertron,

I, Megatron of Iacon would like to offer you an invitation to T.E.A. 

Chapter Text

The one true Optimus Prime had finally died. Granted, the intention was to see the act through, success ventured on one end. However, in its success, sudden yet expected as it was, the thrill was lost. There was no struggle, not really. No blood, no missing limbs, and no trophy to keep. Wholly, completely, and utterly unsatisfactory.

The guilty party in question breathed an irate sigh. “Good riddance.” They spat without a sour tone.

Bending down to inspect their victim, they traced a digit over Optimus’ caved chest. Forcefully, they knelt down and shoved a servo into the crevasse that they made with their heel, grabbing the torn ends of his chest and pulling them forward to disguise the fact that the injury was not sustained by the fall. “So gullible, so naive.” They filtered their gaze to look out beyond, smearing a blood-stained servo on their shoulder, going so far as to bring the remnants to their lips and licking up the sweet leftovers. 

There was a moment of quiet, humoring the the possibility that the conversation was targeted towards a very dead prime, in a morbidly sympathetic way. But when careless steps of yellow pedes whipped against the marble floors echoed through the chambers, the black figure smiled. “So gullible, so naive.”

Starscream scooped up a particularly loaded bite of his energon parfait onto a comically small spoon. Wiggling closer to take the ethereal bite, a sound stopped him in the act.

A datapad fell onto the table with a pathetic clatter, he watched it slide closer to him with a blink.

“Care to explain what this is?” Megatron asked.

Starscream shrugged off the datapad like any other. “A datapad.”

Megatron didn’t waste time. “Don’t play dumb, I know the crest on its idle screen.”

Starscream rolled his shoulders back, losing interest in his meal as he rest the spoon in the glass. “What makes you think it’s mine?”

“It was in your room.”

Starscream made a revolted sound. “What were you doing in my room?”

“I wasn’t.” Megatron replied. “A servant found it.”

“A servant?” Starscream maintained his innocence. “My, now what does that say about those under you?”

“That they are loyal to me.” Megatron answers evenly. “I cannot say the same about you, though. Why did the prince send you a letter?” He bends at the waist to rest on the table with an open palm, sounding unimpressed, as if the entire situation was beneath him.

“That’s a bold assumption—“

“I read the letter, Starscream.” Megatron cut him off.

Starscream, despite the rearing helm of a scolding, still tried to play it cool. “Then why are you interrogating me?”

“This letter arrived almost a week ago, and yet I’ve only come to know of it today.” Megatron leans over and unlocks the datapad open with his free servo. “You know of my intentions with the prince and yet you hide such valuable intel from me.”

Starscream crossed his arms and rested against the back of his chair. “Valuable? Please, it’s an apology” He states. “I never responded if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“I figured you wouldn’t.”

“You don’t seem upset.”

“I was, if that’s a comforting thought.” Megatron twiddled with the datapad. “Up until I read it.”

Starscream groaned. “Oh, good. Then we can agree that he’s…” he trailed off for a moment, waiting on Megatron to catch his thought.

“Unbearable? Absolutely.”

Starscream relaxed considerably. “Finally, something we can agree on.”

Megatron let himself graze over the passage at Starscream’s reaction.

To Prince Starscream of Vos,

In light of our latest meeting, although notwithstanding, I wish to extend an apology for my presumptuous behavior in accepting an invitation from the duke to whom you are engaged with. Please know that my knowledge behind the intentions of his letter were unbeknownst to me. Although I cannot do away with the meeting, wish it as I will, I will honor your relationship with the duke and refrain from excessive discussion.

Regards,

Optimus Prime of Cybertron.

Megatron’s optic twitched in annoyance. Not so much by the fact he was being treated so dismissively, more so by the way Optimus appeared to carry himself. Especially how the letter was written. Optimus’ handwriting was…nice. Not noble by any means, but nice. Megatron was left confused, at best, when he initially came upon the letter to find such a stark contrast in handwriting between the letter he received and the one currently in possession. There were no elaborate curves of glyphs that decorated the lettering rather than serve a real purpose—and, most notably, the apology was sparkfelt, encompassing a desire to remove any possible distrust or lost love.

Charming, common, written with haste, and utterly cumbersome to whoever received it.

There was a reason behind Megatron and Starscream’s overall distasteful stance on the letter. It was almost disgraceful, to see such a high ranking noble—the hosting crown prince, who outranked both a duke and visiting prince—to apologize in excess. At most it should be a passing comment in person, but a letter? Too submissive.

Megatron felt a familiar twinge of pity at the thought of Optimus writing the letter, but opted against speaking on it. He also wasn’t in the mood to deal with his repressed sass. So, he figured he’d humor the seeker. “He might as well get on his knees while he was at it.”

“I know right!” Starscream throws his arms in the air, revitalized at the chance to gossip. “I was so uncomfortable receiving that! Talk about selfishness.”

“Is that why you hid it?” Megatron asked.

Starscream offers a half-shrug. “Maybe, it’s forgettable otherwise.”

Megatron and Starscream knew better than to indulge such sentiments, Optimus once did as well. There was some releif, at least, to find a tangible example of how Megatron’s delusions of Optimus were precisely that; delusions. It was ironic, to know that it took another letter for Megatron to realize he didn’t know Optimus at all, which is significantly more humiliating when taking into account that Megatron had met the prince exactly once prior to this apparent revelation. There was no comfort in that when he had spent the week cool as a cryosphere while he waited for their meeting; only for such a submissive display of disinterest in him to arise not even a half-cycle before their meeting.

“And they still kept him as crown prince.” Megatron scoffs, lightly tossing the datapad back on the table. “Maybe I should stage a coup and free myself of such nonsense.”

Starscream lacks the ability to truly understand the depths of Megatron’s comment. “Tough talk from someone meeting him in less than 3 joors.”

The loom of reality came back in the form of the taunt. Megatron nearly lost himself in the familiar haze of detachment, Starscream tended to have the effect on him. He’d have to rethink his approach towards the prince, it seemed like his excuse for Starscream would not be passable in the case of Optimus. Which isn’t surprising, no one in their right mind would be keen to make themselves a mistress to a lower rank. What Megatron should be doing is planning his attack, what to say, do, and act if he wanted to make Optimus trust him. His lack of fortitude likely cost him a steady chance at building that trust. A panic-laced, prior version of himself had left the present Megatron to scramble. Planning aside, the meeting was still with a royal, Megatron should be ready, polish and wax his plating to a proud shine to at least make some effort to pretend that he cared about the theatrics of company keeping.

But he didn’t, Megatron sat down in an empty chair and slouched to rest his arms on his knees. “What’s he like?” It was a useless attempt at refocusing, even so, he had to start somewhere.

“Who? The prince?” Starscream asks. “Fickle, if you ask me.”

“Fickle? That’s harsh.” Megatron borders on laughter as he speaks.

“Didn’t you call him unbearable a moment ago?” Starscream points out.

“Well, in my defense, I haven't actually met him. I was making a jest.” Megatron plays it off. “You claim to have made good conversation with him, and yet failed to give me anything of note aside from humiliating me. Do me the favor.”

“There isn’t much to say.” Starscream admits. “He’s very…open. I think. We talked about you.” 

Megatron nods, recollecting the memory. “So you’ve said.”

“He’s nice, I guess.” Starscream shrugs.

“Wonderful.” Megatron feigns a preen. “I am now perfectly capable of meeting with the prince.”

“What? Are you nervous?” Starscream wriggled closer wearing a smirk.

Megatron’s intake slams shut, otherwise, he refrains from outwardly letting the comment affect him. “Of course not.” He stands, glowering, deciding that Starscream was not the mech to as, he chooses to deflect and save face. “I’m meeting with a hopeless romantic who thinks it’s worth sending a letter to apologize for something neither of us expressed sorrow over. I’ll have to bring a cloth to catch his coolant.” Once the words leave his vocalizer, he regrets it. It seemed almost too harsh when he truly hadn’t met the mech, hypocrisy is a growing forte of his. Megatron’s digits twitched when the unfamiliar feeling of guilt fought for his attention.

Starscream catches onto it. “I don’t feel the need to overstep, but, are you sure this is a good idea?”

Megatron dissects the question without much mind; he had long been thinking the same. “I don’t know.”

Starscream’s face was unreadable. “It’s a bit late to take a centrist approach. Don’t tell me you’ve altered perspectives so quickly, especially when you claim ignorance.”

Megatron almost let himself admit defeat—Starscream was right, of course, Megatron was deflecting to an absurd degree—then he remembered who he was talking to, his ego would never admit defeat against the seeker. “I was stressed.”

Starscream’s optics roll back with a groan. “Wonderful excuse, good to see you are now stress-free. Please do tell me your secrets.”

“Don’t start.” Megatron groaned. “I had a lot on my plate, I’ve had time to clear my processor.”

Starscream queried a wing. “I sense an ‘and.’”

Megatron obliged. “And I have reason to believe the prince will be easy to deal with. He practically let you walk all over him after learning of my apparent infidelity. If my assumptions are correct, as long as I’m honest—to a degree—he will listen to what I have to say.”

Starscream doesn’t answer for a handful of kliks, unlike him. “Arrogant.”

Megatron is far too accustomed to the comment. “Confident.” He corrects it almost habitually.

Starscream decides to change objectives. “What do you have to say?” Starscream gives a knowing smile. “You can practice with me.”

“Nice try.” Megatron laughed. “You’re not getting this out of me.”

Starscream lets out a harrumph. “Fine. Have it your way.” He glances at a clock. “You have 2 and a half joors now and one of those will barely be enough to transport your fat aft.”

Soundwave sends a reminder to Megatron of the nearing meeting just as Starscream mentioned it. “Dignified as ever, my star.” He says mockingly.

Starscream’s smirk widens. “Have fun, dearest.”

Megatron rolls his optics and departs without a farewell. “And don’t call me while I’m there, either.”

Starscream made a loud, obnoxious kissing sound that only pushed a sense of urgency in Megatron to get out of his own manor.

Megatron fled to the washroom to prepare himself with far too little time.

Now, at the time when Megatron was busy throwing himself against the wall in embarrassment (he would claim that he recovered quickly, a lie), Optimus—or his palace, at least—took it upon himself to host the meeting. Unorthodox, but Megatron couldn’t exactly refuse given that he had allowed such a loophole in the first place. He really ought to be the one breaking his back to host the prince.

Nevertheless, Megatron received an invitation signed by Optimus’ head maid in the prince’s stead that they were to meet within the Sapphire Palace. That annoyed Megatron considerably, perhaps more than any jab at his lack of monogamous tendencies did. It was hardly fair that Starscream received something so sparkfelt, while he got nothing. It was quickly remedied, however, when Soundwave noted that the prince had a very tight schedule as of late and could not travel to the outskirts of Iacon so freely. Still, heedlessly, some possessive part of him needed Optimus to put as much focus and attention on him as Megatron was—he felt the prickling sensation of an uneven distribution of loyalty (wholly unfounded, of course, another one of Megatron’s delusions).

The prince must know the truth, eventually, and in doing so he must become as obsessive as Megatron had grown to be.

Loyal, Megatron had to correct himself with a shudder. Optimus must become loyal to him, or else they stood no chance of surviving whatever was to come.

Megatron twisted the showers knobs to break free from his thoughts momentarily, freely welcoming the splash of freezing solvent to distract him, reminiscent of the hosing down he got a while back. Megatron tried to delude himself from pressing anything further onto the prince, there was no such thing as certainties when it came to others. He let the cool sensation trickle down his frame in the hopes of cooling the nerves that Starscream feigned concern for. The passionate flame of some constrained sense of want had to disappear eventually—it was only a matter of how much cold solvent it would take.

Blinking away some solvent that tried to slip into his optics, it was almost disheartening to think about how quickly the week had come and gone. Especially considering how well the loosest lipplates of Cybertron affectionately dubbed Prince Starscream of Vos managed to hide a letter from the prince to begin with.

Taking a cleanser to apply over his frame, Megatron refused to acknowledge his chronometer as if it was guilty of the impending meeting with an individual he knew nothing of. The duke typically considered himself good company, so long as he knew who he was with. And that was indeed the worst of it—Megatron had to rely on word of mouth to ease himself. He was bracing for battle with an unknown. Regardless, Optimus seemed amicable enough. That, however, was not taking into account that he was very open about not enjoying the thought of Megatron’s company under the premise of a typically romantic gesture. Not that Megatron could blame him, but the sudden uptick in morals was more of an annoyance when he had to eventually breach the topic of his attempted assassination.

Assuming he’d get that far, and furthermore assuming Optimus would actually believe him. That was another issue, Megatron realized. One thing was getting to meet the prince, another was succeeding enough to gain his favor and (hopefully) enough friendship to warrant a near-constant proximity towards him. Seduction was the most obvious choice, but given his whole debacle with Starscream that seemed less and less like the ideal option. Ultimately, Megatron found himself having to take a platonic approach. Not that he minded, save for the fact that friendship is much harder to establish than a passionate romance blooming overnight. Especially now that Optimus was about as in-the-know as every other mech in The North.

Megatron rested his helm against the wall and let the icy solvent flow along his back and wash away the suds. Measuring each wave of solvent fight less and less against the substance that bubbled against his frame, Megatron finally made the effort to shut off the solvent with the squeaking of hinges and a step out to dry himself.

Tossing aside a towel that absorbed much of the solvent left in his seams, just as Megatron began to polish himself to a presentable sheen, Soundwave barged into the washroom.

Megatron looked at Soundwave blankly, buffer running in his grasp. “Oh, hello.”

“Lord Megatron: Take too long.”

“Well excuse me for trying.” Megatron went back to buffing his chest.

Soundwave made a tsk and snatched the buffer from his grasp and took it upon himself to unfurl his extra appendages to speed up the process with the help of a few extras stowed away under the sink.

Megatron let himself be handled like a princess. “You know, I think I read an erotica with this exact same premise.”

A tentacle smacked him in the back of the helm.

“Late.”

“We’ll be fine.”

Soundwave flashes a deeper red from his visor. “Very Late.”

“Oh, please. I had 2 and half joors when I stepped in the shower, how late could we possibly be?”

Soundwave kept trying to polish Megatron quickly. “Time left: 55 breems.”

Megatron’s face dropped. “Send for the carriage.”

Soundwave finished polishing a spot on Megatron’s shoulder, dropped what he was doing, and booked it out the door with Megatron right behind him.

“Was I in there that long?”

“Affirmative.”

“And why didn’t you drag me out?”

Soundwave shrugged. “Soundwave: Tried.”

Megatron finally took note of the half a dozen pings from Soundwave to hurry up, and made the executive decision to play the victim. “That’s a terrible excuse!”

Megatron fished out a cape from his closet and shook it to try and straighten out any wrinkles, which failed somewhat, and now his slick plating would have the occasional particle of dust sticking to it. Oh well, Megatron would think to himself. He doubts Optimus would take it upon himself to inspect him so thoroughly.

Soundwave picked up a set of disposable towelettes right before he stepped out of the room with arms full of various goods that would aid in Megatron’s transformation from brute to beauty on the ride to the palace.

“Departures: Soon.”

“I’ll be out in a klik.”

Soundwave disspaeared from the room without a bow.

Megatron affixed the cape around his back in a swift movement that ruffled the purple fabric to catch the glimpse of the sunlight that entered through his windows, the silk-like fabric glistened as it continued to flow under Megatron’s care. He transformed his shoulder pauldrons up and out of his way as he tied a specific knot to affix the cape to curve along his back, setting them back down when the act was completed. With one final pose in the mirror, Megatron decides that Soundwave was absolutely right in taking a majority of his vanity’s worth of gala-exclusive waxes and fresheners.

Hobbling down the stairs, cape flowing along with him, Megatron aimed for the door that opened for him. As he stepped to the door, he caught a glimpse of Starscream reclined against the wall of the closest hallway with a calculating look.

“You look like slag.”

Megatron doesn’t stop. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Starscream is quick to comment snidely. “Right back at you.”

Megatron exists the door without another rebuttal and makes his way to the carriage that already had Soundwave situated within it. Halfway into stepping through the open door, Megatron smacked the side of the carriage to usher the coachmech along as he ducked in and took a seat across from Soundwave. The subtle jump indicated their beginning movement and Megatron rested carefully into the cushions with a heavy vent.

“Inquiry: Nervous?” Soundwave asks.

In the safety of Soundwave’s company, Megatron makes no effort to lie. “If you would believe it, yes.”

Soundwave leans a little closer. “Further inquiry: Why?”

Megatron closes his optics and lets out an exaggerated sigh. “I think I’m out of my depth.”

Soundwave clips out a humming sound.

The carriage shakes a little, and the two frames within bounce along.

Megatron’s nerves are palpable for Soundwave, their close proximity only strengthened his ability to read through their bond. Soundwave twists to his side and pulls out a small tin of wax and a rag, quickly flashing the objects at Megatron so he knows what’s to come. On a particularly smooth portion of their exit from Decepticon grounds, Soundwave jumps over to the side of the carriage Megatron inhabits. Shooing away the purple cape, Soundwave cracks open the tin and begins to wax Megatron’s chest.

Megatron lets him. “Starscream said I look like slag.”

“Starscream: Wrong. Megatron: Handsome.”

“Don’t flatter me.”

Soundwave purrs. “Very handsome.”

Megatron puffs his chest out to let Soundwave get a little deeper into the groves of his plating. “This is just like the Bellatrix Ball all those vorns ago. Do you remember?”

Soundwave nods. “Soundwave: Newly Arrived.”

“You were so nervous to attend your first ball. It was funny to watch you fidget.” Megatron smiles at the memory, trying to get a better look at Soundwave’s frame from beyond his pectoral plating.

Soundwave makes sure to pinch a nerve with his free servo. “Megatron: Nervous as well.”

“More so for your sake.” Megatron answers. “Galvatron was furious that I brought you.”

Soundwave pauses to dip back into the tin. “Inquiry Set…[2]…Soundwave: Did Well? Decepticon House: Proud?”

“Better than anyone else.” Megatron leans forward to tap helms with Soundwave. “More than anyone else.”

Soundwave stops his attempt to swirl more wax onto the rag, tilting up to try to capture Megatron’s face as he insists on keeping their frames close.

Soundwave doesn’t let his vocal unit glitch, but it does anyways. “Thank…you.” He says.

Megatron smiles with closed optics. “Your voice is so much deeper than mine.” He nuzzles their faces like he would when they were younger—a worrying display of his haywire emotions. “It’s a good thing you don’t speak, or else you might put me out of business.”

Soundwave tries to yank himself away, annoyed. But Megatron lets himself go limp and fall closer towards Soundwave. The advisor stops to avoid letting Megatron crash helm-first into the ground, so he scrunches up against the significant weight that is his amica. “Jealous?” He says again, a little more smug.

Megatron snorts. “Oh, absolutely. Can you imagine how much less I would have paid at brothels if you just spoke a little more?”

Soundwave shoves Megatron off completely with a hiss. “Topic: Forbidden!”

Megatron opens his optics to laugh at Soundwave, catching himself against the wall. “What? It’s not like either of us had a clean record prior to getting adopted, it was vorns ago—don’t be such a prude.”

Soundwave smacks Megatron with the rag. “Topic: Forbidden.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Megatron sits properly, cranking his helm to the side to find Soundwave doing his equivalent of glaring before starting to wax his arms.

Megatron watches Soundwave in earnest, his face falls when the carriage jumps and he returns to the present.

“Am I doing the right thing?” Megatron asks.

Soundwave has to refocus his optics as if clearer vision would aid his audials.

Megatron takes that as a cue to try again. “Do you think this is worth it?”

Soundwave continues to wax Megatron’s armor with a focus on his face. “Define.”

“This.” Megatron gestures with his free servo. “Meeting the prince, staging this ridiculous debacle. It’s not as if I can simply waltz up to Ultra Magnus and his court to tell him what I know, Shockwave already denied me—and if he’s out then everyone else will cast me aside as they always have.”

Soundwave waits.

“All this backbreaking work, for what? Am I being too optimistic? I don’t know what waits for me, I merely know what came before it. I’m so used to predicting what comes next, planning every step I have to make to be effortless in everything I do. And now I’m at a loss. The prince is my last chance to bring attention to whatever is brewing. But…” Megatron’s intake curls into a snarl. “What responsibility do I owe them? What do I owe the south? Or this unjust world at that. Doing all this for my wounded pride.”

It seemed ironic to Soundwave that Megatron The Great Revolutionary was befallen at the prospect of actually getting something done in terms of his beloved revolution. By the way things were headed, Cybertron would be flipped upside down in well under another vorn. Soundwave was ready for the collapse the moment he met his amica. Even so, Megatron’s frustrations aren’t without grounds, Soundwave supposed. It was a long time coming, Megatron had been at his wits end for the last vorn or so, he had grown tired of himself, his failures, and the chains around his neck.

“Stupid promise.” Megatron bites, Soundwave failed to pick up on the rest of his tirade save for his final comments. “Why can’t this be another’s problem.”

Soundwave simply rubs a new circle into Megatron's shoulder. “Home.”

A single word unfurled Megatron’s anger back to clarity, his sharp optics softened and Megatron stopped to give a tired look to Soundwave. “Yes, home.” He relents. “Home.”

The ride concludes without more than a murmur of thanks from Megatron as Soundwave finishes up his wax-job with a proud flash from his visor, the carriage comes to a stop soon after. Stripped of the in-fashion dusty bronze, Megatron sports the brilliant silver of his natural plating

Megatron and Soundwave, in that order, exit from the carriage to the bright light of the outside world to the greeting gleam of the not-humble entrance of the Onyx House. Large, welcoming windows stretch out like lazing cats to invite as much sunlight into its interiors as possible while perfectly maintained brush and local mineral types sprinkle around the grounds like accessories rather than real luxuries.

Megatron excuses their driver with a wave and makes the first set of steps to enter the Onyx House. Soundwave follows quickly behind him. They entered the Onyx House quickly, and were keen on departing just as so; it was more than a leisurely walk to make it to the Sapphire Palace on the other side of the territory.

A voice stops the pair from continuing.

“Your grace.” Earl Mirage nodded from his place amidst a gaggle of faces, likely in the middle of a meeting that Megatron was left uninvited from. “What brings you here?”

A bit crass given that Megatron was obviously not in attendance for a meeting.

Megatron, however, could be more so. “I was unaware I comply by your order, Mirage.”

“Don’t be curt.” Mirage cooed. “I was curious, that’s all.”

“Then curious you shall remain, excuse me—“ Megatron tried to make it another break for towards the door at the opposite side of the corridor, but he was stopped once more.

“Always in a mood with you.” Marquess Prowl comments quite loudly. “I too would like to know the answer.”

Megatron turns his torso to face the group with a sharp look. “I’m going to the archives.”

Prowl is unconvinced. “What for?”

“Don’t you have a meeting to attend?”

“If you can use your optics, you’ll see I’m not yet preoccupied.”

“How bored you must be.” Megatron musses. “A pity I will not aid you in escaping it.”

Prowl makes an irritated sound, muffled by the distance, Megatron ignores it in favor of making good on his previous attempt at civility and exits the building after Soundwave pretends to usher him along in an attempt to stop a full-fledged argument from arising.

With the doors closing behind him, Megatron pretends to walk calmly. “I changed my mind, with them as my equals I have no choice but to do this.”

Soundwave nods fervently to continue this preferred chain of thought. “Affirmative.”

Once they reach the outskirts of the garden along the path that etched its perimeter, does Megatron hasten his pace. “How late are we now?”

“5 breems: Remain.”

Megatron now borders a full sprint as the outlines of the Sapphire Palace come into view. Two guards, halfway asleep at their posts, jolt back to life when the heavy stomps of Megatron can be heard. At the realization that he was indeed being loud, Megatron quickly slowed down before anyone really started to take note of his unbecoming behavior.

The two guards straightened up with their chests puffed out to greet Megatron. “State your business.” They said in unison.

“I’m here to meet with Prince Optimus Prime.” Megatron suppresses his frame begging to activate his cooling fans after the unintended cardio session to the front of the Sapphire palace. He made some attempt to appear as though he wasn’t exhausted.

A guard blinked at Megatron. “Duke Megatron?”

“Yes?”

The guard looked at the other and then back at Megatron. “Um, yes, of course. Just a moment, please.” The guard lifted a digit to his audial and began to speak into it quietly.

The doors opened slowly soon after.

The two guards shifted uncomfortably as Megatron stepped past them with Soundwave tucked away at his back. He almost wanted to send a quick comment to Soundwave in the hopes to find that he too found the behavior odd.

However, something else beat him to the chase.

Just as Megatron reached the comforts of the climate-controlled main hall of the Sapphire Palace, he met with a vaguely familiar face.

Megatron found some comfort in seeing Chromia of all mechs lifting a collection of veil-like fabrics that adorned her sides like a semi-skirt as she made herself to Megatron with a pace that could only be described as bordering unladylike. She gawked uncharacteristically at Megatron as her pedes tapped hastily against the marble floors. “Your grace!”

Megatron nodded his helm at the now head of staff as she brushed down the fabric. “I apologize for my lapse in time keeping. I hope you can accept my intentions as anything but malicious.”

Chromia looked somewhat confused, but nodded. “Of course, your grace.” Megatron felt a red flag jump up at the acceptance of his apology, such a level of inconvenience was hardly an apology to accept. Much less from his inferior. Chromia was quick to add. “However, I must apologize on behalf of his highness as well,”

Megatron looked quizzical. “Is there a reason why?”

Chromia carries herself carefully, but flashes a half-look behind her, where the stairs would be if one walked past the front door. “Well, you see, his royal highness Prince Optimus is still busy taking his classes on the top floor.”

Megatron’s optics flashed. “Excuse me?”

Chromia, again, a very strict and stable individual, was hesitant to look at Megatron in the optics. She flashed the occasional glance behind Megatron (although never breaking the perfect posture she held). “Well, if you would pardon my overstepping.” She brought a servo to cup her face to shield the words that escaped—apologetic in its own right. “You’re early, your grace.” Chromia actually looks sheepish.

“Er—early.” Megatron repeats.

“Yes, your grace.”

Megatron checks his chronometer for the first time since stepping into the shower and, beholden upon him, is a whole joor of extra time. His intake opens, closes, opens again, and the sound of a gnashing fangs quietly echoes the hallway. Megatron takes a deep vent in and has to stop himself from laughing hysterically (from amusement or embarrassment was anyone’s guess). Slowly turning his helm towards Soundwave, his voice is a low rumble through grit fangs. “Do you hear that, Soundwave? We’re early.”

Soundwave is visibly uninvolved, he is busy enjoying the view that Sapphire Palace has to offer. With his helm pointed away, does the bastard have the audacity to snicker.

Megatron clasped his servos behind to hide the tremble from a mix of rage and humiliation. “It appears that my presumption was incorrect. I must extend another apology.”

Chromia simply appears relieved that she survived correcting the Megatron of Iacon. “Most certainly not! You’re a welcome presence, you’re grace.”

Megatron smiles, just barely. “If need be, I can freely use this time to make an exit and return. I would hate to inconvenience you with my…” Megatron makes sure that the piercing sense of betrayal is felt through his bond with Soundwave. “Ineptitude.”

Chromia balked, she obviously won’t send a duke away, they both knew this. Megatron’s niceness was mostly for show. Still, Chromia managed to be somewhat appreciative of the attempt to pretend like she doesn’t have to host the mech a full joor before Optimus. “There will be no need, your meeting room will be ready shortly. If you would spare a moment for it to be prepared to our standards.”

Taking a servo back to his front, Megatron gestures for Chromia to make away with herself. “Take as much time as you need.”

Chromia bows deeply and stands. “You may freely take a view of the first floor until then. Please pardon my absence, I will return to you when the preparations are met.

Megatron nods. “Thank you.”

Chromia quickly leaves with a silenced set of steps, edging between hurried and maintained. Slowly her presence dwindles both visually and audibly. At the moment in which he is certain of his solitude, Megatron turns to Soundwave with a guttural sound.

“You lying spark of a glitch! How could you do that to me!”

Soundwave is busy playing with an elaborate sphere. “Lord Megatron: Take too long.”

Megatron bends along his side to catch Soundwave’s visor with a frustrated growl. “That is a worthless answer and you know it.”

Soundwave makes a sighing sound. “Extra Joor.” He offers as if it wasn’t obvious.

“Yes, and I’ve made a fool of myself at the face of the crown once again. What’s your point?”

Soundwave cocks his helm along the direction of Chromia’s departure. “Staircase.”

Megatron rolls his optics. “This is a palace, of course it has a—oh.”

Soundwave snickers again and places the ornament back into a bowl with its brothers and skips past Megatron haughtily.

Megatron follows begrudgingly. “You could have told me if this was your plan.”

“Plan: Involve Embarrassment. Lord Megatron: Deny.”

“I prefer informed consent.” Megatron comments.

“Lord Megatron: Too Proud.”

“I rather you call me handsome.”

“Lord Megatron: Handsome.”

“Well now it doesn’t land when I know you’re trying to oil me up.”

“Lord Megatron: So-o-o-o-o Handsome.” Soundwave’s voice bank glitches in its attempt to accentuate the elongated vowel was enough clearance of his sarcasm.

Megatron chose to be petty and used his longer legs to outpace his friend to the infamous staircase. Soundwave’s quickened steps from behind was the sound of victory to the duke.

Making their way to the object of their intrigue, they have to take a moment of silence when they find themselves standing at its bottom to take in the sight of the behemoth of a staircase, the very image of what royal wealth (taxes) can buy. It was a wide set of straight-up stairs, there was railing on either side, but the sides of the staircase were so far apart the railing seemed decorative at best. With the stark, white marble diffused by trickling of gray and silver, while the railing was a round, black polished metal that bent and twisted to intricate shapes of flowing vine. Despite the gradiose size, the stairs were plain, in an elegant way, perhaps a rug once adorned its center given the space that allowed for it, but now it remained in a nearly constant state of sterile cleanliness with how the marble glistened as if it was untouched for the first time. Megatron eyes the stairs carefully.

“I think I would slip on those too.” He tries to make a joke.

It would be funny if they didn’t know the truth, but they did, so Megatron’s so-called joke was morbid at best. The two stood awkwardly at the base of the staircase, watching it climb up to a second floor that they were forbidden from making their way to.

Soundwave took it upon himself to begin to look around for any forgotten clues.

“It’s been a while.” Megatron notes. “This place is cleaned daily—more than once, I imagine. I doubt there will be anything left over.”

Soundwave pays him no mind as looks around for anything that might serve a hidden purpose. Taking a full 180 to find a console table at the large, arched window that serves as a wall at the front of the staircase, Soundwave makes his way towards it. He kneels at its head, shoving an appendage to the space at the very bottom of the console, Soundwave is delighted when a cloud of dust that comes from his flailing. The table was layered, lacking any drawers in favor of serving as more of a decorational piece to hold any smaller intricasies that would be considered artistic, as opposed to anything important. Thus, the bottom layer had very little clearance when the floor existed no more than a handful of centimeters from the floor. Soundwave lets out an excited series of static as he pulls out a minuscule item.

Megatron makes his way to Soundwave’s side. “What did you find?”

Soundwave holds up a small, black item. A pyramid-like shape, shiny, albeit covered in dust.

Megatron leans in close to inspect the item that Soundwave now placed at the center of his palm. “What is that?”

Soundwave shrugs. “Item: Unknown. Important: [?]…Likely.”

…

Chromia practically kicked the door down to the kitchen, she spoke to those already inhabiting the space and those who were out and about via a universal communication line. “I need everyone in the kitchen now!”

Those already at work, or hardly working, scrambled to their feet to face their commander. Which was compromised of an astounding three individuals; a chef, maid, and maintenance worker. Chromia let them remain in a rigid stance while a breem or two passed, only for a singular guard to hurriedly enter the kitchen commons.

Chromia cursed inwardly. “You.” She pointed at a yellow helm that didn’t bear the obvious indication of a cook or worker role.

An erratic buzz filled the air, whizzing back and forth to make sure they were the one at the center of Chromia’s attention. They point to themselves.

Chromia nodded. “What’s your name, child?”

The yellow helm ducked.

The cook answered on his behalf. “His name is Bumblebee, madam.”

Chromia made an approving sound. “Well, Bumblebee, tell me your rank and position.”

Bumblebee’s already round optics cycled wide, he made a series of panicked beeps and shuffled through his subspace to find a small token that projected his information on it, an ID. Activating it with the push of a button, the small projection twinkled on for the information to dance in circles.

Designation: Bumblebee

Rank: Maid

Assigned Residence: Emerald Palace

Chromia nodded along. “Emerald Palace? You must be a capable host.” She scrolled down the rest of the small projection.

Energon type: Blue.

Optic Color: Blue.

Other: Mute.

Chromia didn’t seem phased. “Oh I see.”

Bumblebee’s door wings flicked in anticipation.

“And what are your thoughts on the duke?” Chromia asked as she rolled her shoulders back.

Stiffening at the question, Bumblebee’s servos tightened as he tried to hide them in his apron.

“Handsome? Collected? A good candidate for a mate?”

Bumblebee shook his helm like it would rid him of a virus, a definitive no.

That was a good answer by Chromia’s standards. “You don’t talk, you come from a well-trained section, and you don’t care for the duke?”

Bumblebee blurted out static.

“You’re perfect.” Chromia beamed.

Just in time for Chromia’s appraisal, a hoard of bots enter the room in a wave. One of them, most notably, is Windy. She scampers over to Chromia with bright optics. She stands straight and right before Chromia, using her pedes to lift her up a small bit. “What’s the big deal, boss lady! I was taking a really good nap!”

Bumblebee recoils at the audacity of such a tiny bot. Even so, Chromia lacks the viceral reaction as she has long grown familiar with Windy’s sense of arrogance and flicks Windy’s forehelm–she makes a stuffy face, but accepts the punishment easily enough.

“You’ll have to do more than that, my brothers are in the elite guard.”

Chromia bends down and looks Windy in the optics. “My conjunx is the elite guard.”

Windy loses her bite, and leans a little farther back. “Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.”

“Honestly,” Chromia’s snide in her comments. “The prince’s favor is all you have going for you, you know that?”

Windy giggles. “Yeah, it’s the best.”

Chromia makes a move to flick Windy again but the little bot ducks under her arm and hides at Chromia’s back, moving with the larger bot to avoid getting hit. “Sorry! Sorry…”

“If you’re so sorry, go prepare a tray for the prince.”

Windy refocuses on Chromia with a piqued expression. “A snack? Why? Isn’t it too early for a snack?”

“Yes, but I need you to bring a message to him. You can do that much, no?” Chromia asks.

Windy eases a little more into what she might consider ‘serious.’ “Yes, ma’am. What message?”

Chromia busied herself to brush down the drapery that adorned her waist and reached for a plate, since Windy was too busy being curious to follow orders directly. Not taking a moment to risk keeping the duke, she bends down to shuffle around a cupboard for a random selection of snacks. She picks up a small bundle of rust sticks, a set of thin, savory wafers, and a cube of pickled emeralds. Setting them carefully on the plate, then onto a tray with enough care to appear intentional, she hands it to Windy. “Here.”

Windy eyes the tray suspiciously as she holds it. “The only thing he’ll eat here is the rust sticks. Don’t we have any jellies? Or petro-rabbit jerky?”

“I’m not sending this with the purpose to eat it,” Chromia turns at her waist to bend over the counters to reach for a small token. Clicking it on, she types away at the small projection before turning it back off. “It’s for this.” She waves the small token and places it on the tray as well.

Windy looks at the small item. “What does it say?”

“Windy! Just go!”

Windy’s expression sours. “Fine! Fine!”

Chromia shoots her a glare, raising an optical ridge while doing so.

Windy resets her vocalizer. “Pardon me, madam.” With a rumble from her small engine, Windy prepares for her usual trail up to the prince’s suite and runs off without another word.

Bumblebee’s field crackled with caution.

Chromia sighs, sympathetically. “Don’t fret, child. As you can see, I can’t have Windy or the rest of those coquettish brats on this. You are simply a convenience I wish to take advantage of. Come, you are to prepare for his highness and the duke.” Chromia snapped him along with her digits. Bumblebee prepares another series of beeps in response but Chromia is already giving him a list on a separate token. “Go to the west corridor. At the third door on the left you request for this week's silver utensils, from there you will walk 15 paces and enter a different section of the same room to retrieve the purple plating and T.E.A cups. They should be in a black box with a silver bow. Return here when you have them, I’ll give you more instructions when you return.”

Bumblebee took the token carefully, admiring it for just a moment.

Chromia shoos him away. “Hurry! We have less than a joor to prepare when our guests have already arrived.”

Bumblebee nodded quickly at the ferocious flash of Chromia’s optics, he departed with a stumble out of the room in the direction he hoped was west.

The Palace was quiet for the time of day, likely caused by the fact that Chromia was in the habit of initiating work at the earliest possible hour in order to spend the rest of the day at arms for her prince. Bumblebee shook off his nerves to the best of his ability, his busied steps grounded him with the clank of their echoes on the floor.

Bumblebee is sure to ignore the loveliness that Sapphire Palace has to offer, he skips over paintings and decor with a clear intention in mind. West corridor, third door on the left. The instructions played on loop at the back of his processor, he could even hear the faint voice of Chromia to hurry up. After making a sudden turn to the right, his pace slows as the dawning realization that he’s lost forms in his processor.

In Bumblebee’s defense, he would insist that he had little to no experience with the Sapphire Palace’s interiors—his visit was only to bring the earlier cook an item from the Emerald Palace— that, however, would go against his training which was universally explicit in teaching every maid and servant the rundown of every palace; including the back rooms and secret passages. Thus, being lost was inexcusable. The yellow bot stopped to ruffle his plating for an extra source of cool air to his frazzled wires, in doing so he peered around the empty hall in the hopes of finding a map—or someone who knows how to navigate the maze dubbed a royal enclave.

At the sound of nothing, Bumblebee begins to walk forwards to continue his search. A few more steps, and still nothing. Bumblebee’s broken voice box grits out a binary curse as he storms past an open doorway. Instinctively, he looks through it as he passes by and sees a blur of orange with a pair of bright blue optics staring back at him.

He stops.

Round, blue optics blink up at Bumblebee, she is hunched over a small cabinet. There is an array of small candies in her arms, on the floor, and Bumblebee can even see a collection of colorful jars of varying heights, widths, and colors within the duller colors of the cabinet—all glimmering and enticing in their own right.

He beeps. Its short, sweet, a question.

Windy takes it too casually. “Gettin’ the goods.”

Bumblebee makes a longer, monotonous tone. Unimpressed, but now astutely aware of Windy’s personality being universally childish.

“Want one?”

The tone is cut short, and Bumblebee thinks it best to turn his helm and simply walk away. He doesn’t, but his hesitation is known, and his feigned superiority by extension. That should be enough, he thinks. Let Windy know that she is beneath him.

Bumblebee takes one. It’s a shiny yellow wrapper, it feels stiff confined within its packaging. It’s a hard candy, most likely, and long lasting—the best kind. He knows now that the treat is a bribe, he can’t be bothered to care considering it is a good one. He rethinks the comment of childish tendencies, perhaps he’s in the presence of a micro candy mafia head.

Windy makes a victorious coo and takes a handful for herself. “This is the guard's candy stash, they import of new ones every deca-cycle which means that they can skim off the top before Chromia gets to the boxes.” She plays with a soft pink wrapper to pop a sticky, taffy-like sweet into her mouth. “They don’t know that I know, but they don’t have to know that I know as long as our kind get some too.”The little maid winks.

A candy robin hood, then.

Windy chews quickly and swallows the candy. “Anyways, who are you? I haven’t seen you around here before.”

Bumblebee fumbles with the candy in hand and reaches for his ID token, activating it in the process.

“Bumblebee.” She reads, and hums appreciatively when she makes it to his disability. “Well, I’m Windy. Why can’t you talk?”

Bumblebee inches back, his shock is silent and visible.

Windy retracts her statement immediately. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. You don’t owe me an explanation.” She steps back, flattening her apron back into place with the flats of her servo. “That’s what the prince tells me, anyways. He always scolds me and says I’m too callow. But I know it’s just ‘cause he cares about me.”

Bumblebee feels the urge to reprimand Windy for her insolence, though his inability to do so is already made known, so he’d rather play into his supposed superiority—moral high ground is all he has left now. He pushes his door wings up and flares them out, distrustful of Windy’s choice in high-ranking choices of supposed relations.

Orange plating flares. “Is that so unbelievable?”

Bumblebee nods, he makes a series of beeps that are, tonally, flat. Yet he has no real ability to inquire on why Windy had such delusions.

Windy, despite being an airhead, is quite good at reading Bumblebee. “Is it a crime to have friends in high places?” She pouts. “You’re terribly rude.” Bumblebee would beg to differ. “I’ll have you know I’m the prince’s soon-to-be-maybe-kinda-if-he’s-not-super-busy mecha in waiting.”

Bumblebee beeps, confused, and then tries to make the same series of nonsense words with a glitching of his voice bank to taunt Windy.

“It’s a work in progress!”

Bumblebeed waves off Windy, feeling a little more at ease. However, quick witted as he was, instead of letting her go; Bumblebee shows Windy the token Chromia gave him. It flickers on like a small beacon.

Windy eyes Bumblebee and the token suspiciously. “Who gave you this?”

Bumblebee blinks innocently.

Windy’s face tightens in suspicion. “Well, it’s right behind you.” she points at an unassuming door behind them both.

Bumblebee straightens and looks behind him, he turns to give Windy a questioning look before he makes the short trip to see her advice through.

“But!”

Bumblebee stops.

“I can get it for you.” Windy smiles as she skips past Bumblebee before he could attempt a protest.

Windy opens the door without knocking. “Hey! Slingshot! Where’s this week’s silverware?”

“To your left, numbnuts! Same spot every week!”

“Oh,” Windy leans closer into the room, hoisting the door open with her hips to grab a small box. She twirls with the box in her grip, the door slamming shut in her wake. She’s unfazed by the sound as she waddles over to Bumblebee and firmly plants the box into his arms. “Tada! What’s next?”

Bumblebee feels the token snatched away from him as the box busying both his servos leaves him unable to fight against the sly bot.

Windy takes it upon herself to find the second item on the list, skipping to the next door. She opens it with the same level of gusto. “Hey! Slingshot! Where’s the fancy purple plating!”

“Black box with a silver bow, bolts for brains! Now beat it!”

“You got it, boss!” Windy disappears into the room for a moment, a touch too long as Bumblebee fusses with the other box in his grip. But Windy exits the room with a much smaller box; a sleek black container tied off with an elaborate silver bow that they sought. “Found it!”

Windy came to Bumblebee’s side and set the box at his pedes. “There you go.”

Bumblebee watched Windy hesitantly.

Windy purses her lips at the nicer looking box as she picks herself back up, something within her small mind activated as she thinks of what lies beyond. “Silverware, purple plating…kitchen?” She asks looking up at Bumblebee, who nods at the simple conclusion that was derived.

Windy ignores Bumblebee for a moment, leaning to the side to look at her tray and supposed-duties. “Silverware, purple plating, kitchen.” She repeats.

Casting Bumblebee aside, she makes her way to the tray she set at the top of the cabinet—its personalized selection of candies sat on the corner. She snatches up the token that Chromia set upon it and turns it on.

Your day’s guest has arrived early, please get ready.

Windy’s small processor begins to chip away at the cryptic message—cryptic for her, at least. “Guest. Silverware. Purple. Kitchen? Guest.”

Bumblebee watches her like he would a zoo animal, with awe and fascination.

“Guest…guest…purple. Purple. Purp—OH MY PRIMUS!”

Bumblebee jumps a little from the volume of her voice, a short beep slips out.

Windy is gasping and gawking at Bumblebee as if he were the Primus themselves. “The duke! Holy Thirteen! Today is the date with the duke!” Windy feels the need to gasp after every exclamation.

Bumblebee would try to give a response of any kind, one that would surely calm the clamoring maid. None came to mind when he took to watching her again. She had reverted to talking to herself some more.

“Chromia you clever bot! Sending me away like that! He’s early…” Windy steps at the doorway and leans out to peer on either side of the hall. “I wonder where he is.” She squealed.

Another beep and Bumblebee decided that the best course of action was to abandon his resolve and prepare to walk on the plank—thus, he must leave the chattering bot to her own delusions. Bumblebee bent down and stacked the two boxes on top of one another and prepared to hoist them off the ground to make his journey anew. Windy cuts his intentions short by slapping her servos on the boxes before they’re even a millimeter off the ground and looks down at Bumblebee with optics that glitter like precious stones.

“I’ll trade you.”

Bumblebee blinks up at Windy. Suddenly, a strange opportunity has presented itself to him, he replays the statement in his helm to ensure proper understanding. He almost agrees after the third replay, but stops, it was too hasty. He considers his options while narrowing his optics at Windy.

Windy pouts at this trepidation. “I can give you some more candy to sweeten the deal.” She snorts at her own joke.

Bumblebee makes a conscious note that on either end of his supposed choices, there would be a big, angry mech waiting for him. On one servo, the duke was easier to duck away from, easier to avoid his gaze. Yet somehow Bumblebee found himself to prefer getting scolded by Chromia for his failure. A sharp pang of a hardly distant memory reinforces his desire to agree. He ruffled his plating into place, vented in deeply, looked at Windy, and nodded.

Windy lets out a rambunctious sound and begins to dance around the room. “Yes! Yes! Yes! Thank you!”

The orange maid shoos the yellow one and picks up both boxes herself without any trouble, Bumblebee is a little stunned as Windy gestures at him to pick up the tray she was originally carrying.

Windy brightens. “I’ll tell Chromia the boxes were too much weight, so we agreed to swap—I’ll play dumb on the duke business.” She winks in an overt, borderline comedic manner.

Bumblebee had to stop himself from being outwardly offended at the thought of being perceived as (physically) weak. He simply nodded.

Windy looked cheerful, her waddle turned to a march and then to a soft jog. “Alright! Let's go make a delivery!”

Bumblebee watches her leave for a handful of paces, she then stops. Turning around suddenly, Windy’s face is primarily obscured by the boxes. Her voice can still be heard, however. “You don’t know where his room is, do you?”

Bumblebee jogs a little closer, enough so Windy can see his face by cranking her neck up a fraction. He nods.

“Thought so.” Windy quips. “Follow me, the main staircase is this way, I’ll drop you off at the bottom. I gotta run to the kitchen and drop this off. Then you’ll just be goin’ up til you reach the top floor. As soon as you get up there you’ll see the big doors for his room, just walk straight and knock. He’ll let you in.”

Bumblebee smiles behind his face covering, taking note of her lacking need for specifics while shortening his steps to follow after the smaller bot.

Windy takes the lead in guiding their pair to the stairs. Bumblebee’s pace was slower than Windy, who took to blabbering about nonsense of her beloved crown prince’s whereabouts while Bumblebee tried to remember the floor plan of the Sapphire Palace from his training.

“…and that’s why I’m here, with you.” Windy half-shrugged under the weight she carried. “If he wasn’t so caught up with all his tutoring stuff then I’d be with him.”

Bumblebee looks at her, curious. He beeps out a long frequency with a rising intonation.

Windy assumes that Bumblebee is asking, “Doing what?” And answered accordingly. “You know,” Windy half-shrugs again. “Stuff.”

The same beep, now its intonation even higher.

“Stuff like…” She makes sure to look away and lower her voice. “…nappin’.”

A short, curt beep and Bumblebee shakes his helm, a small collection of twining beeps serve as a laugh.

“What! You can’t blame me for liking being spoiled! I can put in a good word for you! The prince is really nice, just a little paranoid.”

Louder, Bumblebee's unique laughter became.

Windy watched him with contentment. “Your laugh is funny. But in a good way!” She tried to replicate it herself, to a resounding failure.

Suddenly, Bumblebee could better understand why Optimus might keep Windy around. She would make a better jester than mechanism in waiting. Bumblebee snorts, which is a short, sudden rise in a bleep that is quickly cut down by a glitch.

Windy slows her pace, shifting the topic in the hopes to feel less embarrassed. “I still can’t believe Chromia picked you.”

Bumblebee matches her pace, a question came with the tilt of his helm.

Windy mumbled to herself. “I mean, I’m the favorite.” She looks at Bumblebee. “No offense.”

Bumblebee shrugs her off, not as though there was anything to take offense to. Yet, he does feel a small swell of pride at the victory over the barely younger bot. He managed to lose most of his supposed superiority at the possibility of teasing Windy. He holds his helm high and continues to walk with a newly fashioned strut. Windy chases after him, insisting on proving herself as a better choice.

“I mean, come on, I know everything about them! Optimus was up a wall about T.E.A with the duke all morning, I have to be there to protect him!” She cries out without tears. Bumblebee puffs his chest out, closes his optics and furthers his walk with swagger.

“You don’t know how worried that he’ll make a bad impression, and that he’s embarrassing Prince Starscream by agreeing!” Windy’s voice bellows louder as she chases after her yellow companion with shut optics, indicative of her tantrum.

That makes Bumblebee ease away from his proud walk. The morning comment was passable—given that Windy was, presumably, part of the prince’s personal attendants. Even so, knowledge so personal should not be known to her. Bumblebee makes a hesitant step to slow, losing all its previous sass.

Windy doesn’t notice. “I know Chromia says it’s good to rebuild lost bonds between houses, but I just want him to make more friends! He’s hopeless without me! I mean I helped him get close with Prince Starscream! He’s basically Optimus’ best friend now—second to me, duh—that should earn me the right to be there, at least!”

Bumblebee stops dead in his tracks, yet Windy continues her speedy pace. “And the duke isn’t that bad, I think. They could get along! I think! I had to spend the whole week convincing Optimus not to cancel! Do you have any idea how detrimental that would be!? I deserve—I mean he—deserves to see his grace, the duke! Optimus has to understand me! He must!! I am not a groupie!” She takes a klik to open her optics and look to her side mid-continuation. “Oh—the duke too, I guess, and all that political stuff. Did you know he cried after they ran into each other?” Nothing met her optics, she looked behind her taking a final step forward. “Oh, hey, why are you so far away?—OOF!”

Windy’s face scrunched up as she rammed into a broad, silver chassis.

As quickly as Windy hit the surface, the feeling of falling washed over her frame as she lost her footing. The boxes she held with precious goods slipped from her grip. Quick as a bullet, a talon-laced servo zipped out from the side to catch her as she stumbled back to crash against the floor. Finding a place around her waist, a simple tug hoisted Windy up from the ground enough that the tips of her pedes dangled with a soft graze of the marble floor. Pressing her frame close, the cargo was safe from shattering against the ground as the collective conforms of their bodies cradled the box just long enough for a second arm to slide it up and out from between their frames.

“Are you alright?” An infamously deep voice asked.

Windy shook her helm, carefully opening her optics to gaze up at her savior. “Primus! I’m so sorry! I wasn’t paying attenti—“ her voice dwindled in volume as the image before her materialized in her mind.

Unpainted silver sparkled humbly against the fighting auras of artificial and natural light of the windows and chandeliers, respectively. Deep red, and equally piercing optics dabbled with amber narrowed empathically at Windy’s less-than-ideal state of being. Every curvature of a long, tapered face, greeted Windy with pristine maintenance despite being a military head. The aura of a gentle figure with the making of a fearsome warlord watched Windy carefully, mapping out her features for pain or discomfort. Shapely lipplates parted as they moved to shape a new inquiry.

“Miss?”

Windy responded with a dismayed barrage of static and incomprehensible noise.

Megatron’s face contorted deeper into concern, carefully setting Windy down with one arm and holding the boxes in the other, he tried again. “Are you alright?”

Another non-answer from Windy, whose legs proceeded to buckle like a newly emerged datadoe. “Ha—hu—hm—uh.” She fell to the floor without much of a fight.

Megatron casts a careful glance at Soundwave. “I didn’t crush her, did I?”

Soundwave takes a moment to scan Windy momentarily. He shakes his helm.

That eases Megatron’s worry. He gives Soundwave the boxes and takes to kneeling down—then leaning in to try and match their gazes—and offers her a servo. “Hello? Young miss?”

Windy stiffened at seeing Megatron’s face again, her hand shaking as she reached for Megatron’s, hesitant, questioning if she was still dreaming. “Is that really you?”

Megatron wonders if the shock rendered her inconsolable. “Me?”

“Duke Megatron…” She whispers, reverently—far more than she would treat Primus.

Megatron decides to take her hand rather than wait for her to do so. Windy shakes in his grasp, her servo could have been so easily crushed without a second thought, yet Megatron treated her with the utmost care. Windy does not break her locked gaze with Megatron, dead set on engraving his very existence to the coding of her baseline modules; hoping that his afterimage is forever burned in her optical units. The duke, meanwhile, for the first time in his life, may know the true meaning of fear. He is quick to pull away from Windy when she regains her footing.

Megatron shoots Soundwave a terrified look. Expecting an answer soon, Megatron waits nervously for Windy to acknowledge him as a sane individual.

She does not, she is beaming from audial to audial like the simple-minded chip-huahua she might as well be. Windy begins to play with her apron, twisting and twirling it between her digits as she digits. “H-hi.” She giggles.

Megatron gives a strained, worried smile. “Hi. Are you alright?”

Windy’s giggle grows into a chortle. “I am now.”

Megatron loses his smile. “Pardon?”

Bumblebee lets out a sharp buzz and Windy is broken from her haze.

Windy stammered. “I mean! Yes, sir—!” She sounded like a soldier from one of Megatron’s battalions, she corrected herself. “—grace! Yes, your grace.”

Megatron can feel Soundwave bearing down at him from behind, amused. “I'm relieved to hear that. You must be more careful.”

Windy laughs hysterically. “I should!” She slaps a servo over her mouth. “Oh, my, I should…” she makes a quick effort to collect herself and bows deeply—at the hips, with her servos set at her abdomen, much like she made Optimus the other day. “Pardon me for being so...”

“Capricious?” Megatron actually chuckles. “Well, it’s a little late for such displays, little miss.”

Windy starts to tremble as the excitement dissipates and reality sinks in. Despite Megatron’s popularity with her social class, a noble was still a noble, and more than that, the duke was a guest. She makes no effort to stand. “Truly, I am very sorry.”

“Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not upset.” Megatron comforts. 

Windy picks her helm up to peek at Megatron, a thin line of coolant rims her optics. “Really?”

Megatron looks at the young bot playfully. “Yes, really, as you were.”

Windy stands at the order, and Megatron studies her for a moment. She pretends to not enjoy his attention. From the orange of her paint, to the bright blue of her optics, he notes her expressive nature and relaxes his shoulders. “I believe this is when you tell me your name, no?”

Windy loses her composure once more, her helm is reeling at the feeling of living out the fantasy of most of her fellow maids, she would have more bragging rights after their chance encounter. She truly, for just a moment, believes the duke is intrigued by her beyond simple curiosity. “Windy!” She blurts out. “My name is Windy.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Windy.” Megatron remarks. “That name suits you, you’re just as unpredictable as the breeze. How charming.”

Windy optics flash a brightness nearly unobtainable, she cannot comprehend an intelligible answer. Megatron and the others hear nothing but static.

Soundwave steps half a helm closer and hits Megatron’s back, while the duke takes the boxes from before back to attention. “I believe these are yours?”

Windy jumps, but makes no effort to reach for the box. “Yes, your grace. May I have it returned?”

“You speak well.”

“Thank you, your grace. My palace trained me well.”

“That’s hardly a good excuse given your behavior a moment ago, miss know-it-all.”

Windy’s optics flash bright white, and Megatron laughs at her.

“How—un—if—um. Your grace…” Windy tries. “With all due respect…”

“You’re very loud.” Megatron cuts in with his reasoning. “I could hear you from the other side of the hall, your assigned residence has impressive acoustics.” He gazes up and around the high-rise ceiling of the first floor.

Windy shifts her weight between her pedes, bouncing around like a nervous new build.

Megatron watches her carefully, and reverts to a sterner version of himself. “If I may be so bold.”

Windy locks optics with him, catching the change in his voice.

Megatron makes no effort to hand Windy her boxes, but rather, holds them carefully to his front. “I’d like to know what these are.”

Windy recycles her optics. “It’s a T.E.A set along with silverware, your grace.”

Megatron hums. “I thought so,”

“Is there a reason you ask, your grace?”bWindy begins to look pressed with confusion.

“I would think you are clever enough to deduce that for yourself.”

Windy opens her intake, then pauses. Her internal chronometer ticks are her, a little less than three quarters til noon. “Oh, that’s right. You’re early.” She nearly forgot amidst her excitement.

Megatron refrains from looking sheepish. “If you could believe it.”

Windy looks even more confused, stumbling away from composure for a moment. “Why?”

Megatron finds a lie without thinking. “I’ve never been to the Sapphire Palace.” He offers an explanation. “I suppose I decided to be a bit shameless to take in the sights, so to speak.”

Windy cranks her helm up, her wonderment is lost with every growing moment. “That’s…” she was ready to say ‘suspicious,’ she lost the word when she caught a glimpse of deep red. “Interesting.”

Megatron knew what she meant. “Your superior would be inclined to agree.”

Windy lowers her gaze to the boxes, letting out a soft gasp in remembrance to her companion. She is quick to find his place far behind her.

Following Windy’s example, Megatron looks at Bumblebee who goes rigid.

The sun twinkled still and oblivious of its place. Light bore into the room like an invasive plague upon Bumblebee’s yellow frame, exposing his existence to the world like an epiphany. He wanted to scream, yet there was nothing in his frame that could let him. Little to no shadow was cast, the warm rays felt like pricking needles as he was left to bake under a microscope of the duke’s attention. Only under such a bright spotlight, did he feel so little. Megatron was looking at him as if Bumblebee was as forgettable as he wished he could be. It was a suffocating level of disinterest, knowing and unknowing danced across Bumblebee’s processor like a deadly waltz. He was trapped.

Megatron nodded his helm. “Hello.”

Bumblebee could feel the aluminum of the tray bend and crackle under his grip. He left out a binary beep.

“He’s…” Windy is hesitant to address Bumblebee’s disability. “…new.” She finishes, surprising everyone and herself. “I’m helping him around, and he’s tasked with serving his highness the prince a treat. Right?” She turns to quietly pry a simple nod from Bumblebee.

He is not quick to answer, if at all, he can only think of the bleak, blaring, rearing, and endless torment of what the future holds—sprung into action by the past. Bumblebee tried to focus on Windy, his next beep weaker, strained.

Windy forgets the duke for a moment, and the small wave of familiarity grows at better sight of Bumblebee’s hidden distress. She departs from the duke momentarily with a quick apology. Stepping quickly, and carefully, towards Bumblebee, she holds out her hands to rest them over Bumblebee’s. “Are you okay?” She whispers.

Bumblebee shakily looks down at Windy, he shakes his helm in either direction once. It’s stiff, but Windy understands.

The orange maid leans a little closer to study Bumblebee. All of a sudden he appreciates her daring personality a little more, he wishes to warn her but the silence from his missing vocalizer leaves the intention useless.

Windy smiles at him. “Oh, geez! You can’t be that nervous!” She vocalizes loudly. “This is our job, silly!”

The noise in Bumblebee’s helm is drowned out by Windy.

“Come on! We’re gonna get in trouble.” Tugging gently at Bumblebee to drag him along, Windy tries to avoid the duke and his advisor as she nears them. “It’s okay, the stairs are really close.” She whispers in encouragement before raising its volume to acknowledge the duke once again. “He’s just nervous, it’s not often that us palace maids are lucky enough to serve such esteemed guests.”

Carefully setting Bumblebee a couple of steps away from Megatron, behind her, she reaches out softly. “It was a real honor to meet you, your grace. But preparations for your meeting with his royal highness are of great importance. May I have my boxes?”

Megatron ignores Windy for a moment, still looking at Bumblebee, yet nothing comes of it as the latter of which is doing all he can to refrain from catching the other’s image. He pools his attention back to Windy, pulling the boxes up from her reach.

“Allow me to join you.”

Windy blinks. “What?”

Bumblebee’s frame tensed, finding enough strength in his shock to face Megatron. The duke pays him no mind, well-acquainted with the varying feelings he instills in others.

Megatron looks down at Windy. “You’re terribly clumsy, and I worry for the sake of my first meeting with his highness. Let me share your role for a moment.”

Windy starts bumbling her words, looking back at Bumblebee—who is giving a look that screams ‘no’—and then to the duke’s apparent innocence on the matter. She tilts to the side. “Oh, it’s messy work, your grace. You would not care for it.”

“I can be the judge of that.”

Windy jumps on her heels, hesitantly. “I’d hate to waste your time.”

Megatron shrugs. “I’m already early, I have nothing but time to waste.”

“Your place is not in the kitchen, your grace. It’s uncouth!”

Megatron is thoroughly impressed by the confidence in the maid, if it were any other point in time he would humor her. Still, he has an investigation to see through. His optics lose any warmth. “Are you commanding me?”

Windy clamps her intake shut for a moment, the icy gaze from Megatron makes her rethink a few things. Namely, looking at Megatron directly, she inches away from him. “Thank you for your interest, your grace. Just one moment.”

Windy offers Bumblebee a worried look as she pushes him further away. “Go straight ahead, you should be able to see the stairs from here.”

Megatron pipes up again. “He has yet to see the prince?”

Windy nods. “That’s right.”

“And bringing a platter of goods even when our meeting is less than a joor away?” Megatron can catch a whiff of suspicion.

Windy, age aside, is not daft to Megatron’s prying. “Yes.” She replies.

Megatron too is not daft at the face of Windy’s sudden detachment, he knows when he abused his power. “Then send a message on my behalf.” He says to try a reestablish Windy’s tryst.

Both Bumblebee and Windy make similar expressions of befuddlement at Megatron’s request, the two maids look at each other carefully.

Windy turns back to Megatron. “And what message would that be?”

Megatron smiles softly. “Extend to him my apologies for having him host. I will take the responsibility next time.”

“Next time?” Windy makes a curious face. “Is that all?”

“That’s all.” Megatron concurs.

Windy nods, turning at her waist to whisper at Bumblebee. “Maybe Chromia was right about him,”

Bumblebee looks at her, worried for her own safety even when she cracked a joke. A hushed beep is enough to channel his need to have her escape with him.

Windy smiles. “I’ll be okay, you go and save yourself.” She jokes, it lands poorly and Bumblebee jolts forward to try and catch her arm, the tray fumbles in the sudden imbalance and he’s left pulling back to stabilize it. Windy laughs and shoos him away. “I’m kidding, he’s not that bad. Now go! Skadoodle!”

Windy’s giggle is enough encouragement to send Bumblebee away, he nods slowly and departs with a handful of glances back at Windy as she continues to insist that she takes the boxes. Megatron avoids her attempts, insisting that he will aid her, lifting the boxes higher than Windy is capable of reaching. Bumblebee feels a cold feeling come over his frame as he makes what he can only assume is eye contact with Soundwave who stands still while Megatron and Windy prance away. He does not turn back after that. Luckily, he does not need to when he sees the edges of the staircase and the voices of Windy and Megatron are drowned out by the corridors. He starts at the bottom of the stairs, slowly, his helm moves up to inspect the number of stairs.

And he hears it all again.

“Tell me—will your—duke—rescue?“

He forces himself to drown it out, leaving the memory spliced in the attempt. The hushed voices, the laughter, the yelling, and above all else, the shattering sound of armor against the marble when misaligned weight crashed into it. Bumblebee cannot bring himself to shiver, or move forward, he can only watch as his mind mismatches the visage before him to the memory that lives on within him. His mind builds a configuration of the thought before Bumblebee can cancel the coding from forming the picture—accidentally forcing himself to see Optimus fall again from the top of the stairs, to his feet. The tray dips and crackles in his shaking grip. It’s a morbid thought, one he cannot help but relive again and again.

“—hate for your kingdom—“

His audials were ringing, his battle protocols, or what was left of them, was the only thing that grounded him as a flood of equally bitter memories overlapped with the accident. A short crackle from his vocalizer reminds him of his failures, his depreciated place in society. He catches a glimpse of the shadow his frame casts against the light, it’s the same shade that obscured the palace the night of ruination. Shutting his optics tightly, Bumblebee uses his pedes to reach for the length of the bottom stair, somehow assured that his inability to see will take with it the nagging anticipation. A faint tap and Bumblebee’s optics flare open to see his half-raised pede grazing the edge of the stair. There are no voices surrounding him now, dimmed by the light he felt surround him. And yet, he can’t help but recall a pitched voice mocking him from the top. Delicate, feminine, targeted.

“You will not be saved by the hero you defiled.”

Bumblebee replays Megatron’s voice—it contrasts harshly with the voice at the top of the stairs, there is no overlap save for their shared ferocity. It isn’t reassuring, threads of what-if and maybe’s serpentine for superiority. There is no clarity waiting for him at the top, he is left wandering, lost, abandoned; he can’t help but blame himself.

The first step was the hardest, yet it it is quickly forgotten when Bumblebee takes to running, the number of stairs blurs in favor of reaching the top.

…

The tutor continues, it’s something important, Optimus knows this, yet he can’t manage to pay attention.

In a newly formed habit; he looks at his chronometer. It was still half a joor until the dreaded T.E.A session with Megatron. Without a mask on (forbidden by his tutors to prevent distractions, or cheating, Optimus had yet to discover the possibility for either with the mask on) he chews at his bottom lipplate and fidgets with his stylus. He thinks of nothing but the duke, his hope for their amicability, and Starscream. Poor, poor, Starscream. Optimus suppresses a sigh, and he hesitantly looks at his tutor who has given a tangential rant about…well, as long as he was busy. Optimus pretends to write something on his tablet while he opens a text-based communication log.

.:I’m so bored.:,

A pause. Then a series of all-telling ellipses.

.:I totally thought you were going to say nervous.:.

.:That too!:.

.:You should’ve canceled.:.

Optimus starts to doodle a sleek figure with pointed wings and an angry scowl, an artistic interpretation of his current chatting partner.

.:He’s your promised, Starscream! Shouldn’t you have begged him to stay or something?:.

Optimus could almost hear the scandalous gasp as Starscream typed away.

.:Me? Beg? How dare you. Blocked. Expect war soon.:.

It was strange how a week had come to mold Optimus so thoroughly, especially when Starscream was keen to find favor with another crown.

The day following Optimus’ apology, Starscream fared his own, with only his communication line information attached. After connecting, Starscream explained that letters were for romantics, strangers, or elders—which they were not, yet, and until that day came they were to text or call like normal mechs. Chromia would tell Optimus a slightly differing tale, but who was Optimus to refuse such a critical political maneuver? Bolstered by the fact that said political advantage was like a breath of fresh air. A very loud, sassy, and temperamental air, yes, but nevertheless a kinda-friend was still a friend and Starscream was incessant on helping Optimus develop a spine. According to Starscream, he “would rather die than be friends with such a wallflower,” so he took it upon himself to impart some what he would call ‘princely behavior’ until he decided they could truly be friends.

Optimus simply let it happen, curiosity and all that. He looked forward to speaking with Starscream, more so than his tutors, primarily because he found the other so fascinating. Their supposed-dead friendship blossomed like a springtime bloom after the winter’s frost had gone. It shocked them both. For the most part, they couldn’t stand each other, but that was also why they got along so well. They weren’t exactly a picturesque depiction of cross-kingdom relations, and Optimus wouldn’t have any other way.

.:No wonder he’s cheating on you.:.

Nothing.

.:...the student has surpassed the teacher.:.

.:Sorry.:.

.:Well it doesn’t work if you apologize right after. How am I supposed to blackmail you with these?:.

.:This incriminates us both…and also your idea…:.

.:Whatever, have you seen him yet?:.

Optimus scrunches his face in confusion.

.:What? No? He shouldn't arrive until another 10 breems.:.

.:What do you mean? He left two nearly joors ago.:.

A foolhardy slam on his desk jolts him back to the present moment. “Your highness!” His tutor calls out, quite loudly at that.

Optimus sits straight, closing the popup on his HUD. “Yes?”

“Would you care to recite what I was saying?”

Optimus blinks. “Uhm.”

“Your highness.” His face darkens. “How are you to run a kingdom if you cannot pay your tutors any mind? How do you expect to attend court meetings? Or form your own!” He begins to prattle on about a few other things, another rant on the rise, a terrible habit many of Iacon’s best scholars have. “You are far too old for this!”

Optimus rests his chin on a servo and mutters a rebuttal. “I’m sure I’m just going to be married off, anyways.”

His tutor whips back around. “I beg your pardon?”

Optimus wears Orion’s customer service smile—bringing down his arm to a demure one-over-the-other in a code switch so fast it would win him a medal. “Perhaps you misheard, I do apologize for my absent state. I fear that I have developed a helmache.”

The scholar-turned-tutor eyes Optimus carefully. “I do hope this isn’t too much for you.”

Optimus lets out a soft laugh. “No, not at all. I anticipate a meeting with the duke in the next joor, I find myself growing uneasy at such a thought.”

The tutor softened. “Ah, I see. I do hear he has a reputation.”

Primus bless he was so obsessed with cheesy historical novels.

And romance holovids.

Optimus casts a downward glance with a sigh. “Yes, as have I. Please do forgive me for lacking today, if I may be indulged, could we end this session early?” He looks back up to find the tutor's optics.

Oh, and perhaps Starscream was to thank as well. Maybe reincarnation wasn’t so bad if he got to abuse such a pretty face.

The tutor nods, understandingly. “Of course…our time is coming to a close either way.” He begins to pack away his items and Optimus does the same.

Bidding a final adieu to his tutor as they retreated from the room, Optimus haphazardly puts his things away. The doors opened calmly, the same could not be said when they closed, however. An accidental slip of the servo, and one of the guards let the door slam shut a few kliks to early. The results of which shook the whole room. Optimus had to lightly brace himself against his desk that shook with the room, and along with it, his meticulously cultivated datapads. They clattered pathetically onto the floor.

Optimus heard the outline of a yelp and hurried apology beyond the thick doors.

“Sorry!”

Optimus relished the colloquial apology. “It’s alright!” He returned in a similar fashion.

Brushing the shake from his frame, the prince bent down to pick up the fallen debris. One datapad, a traditional book, and his stylus that manages to roll down from the mini earthquake. Optimus wondered if they could install sliding doors, if they even had such a thing.

Stacking his datapads in alphabetical order, then picking up said stack to place on a higher shelved portion of his desk, something clatters against his pede. Optimus tries to look down, but finds nothing on the floor, he makes a face. Kneeling over the area of the offensive sound, Optimus searches for the tell-tale outline of what he could only assume was a datapad.

After a few more moments of looking—reverting to his hands and knees—Optimus peers under his desk to find a small compartment sticking out from the bottom. Much to his surprise, he is able to reach it easily. The compartment appears to latch open and tracing his digits over the opening, Optimus feels multiple datapads lines in a row.

His interest is piqued.

Optimus makes a smug sound. “Oh-hoh? I didn’t know I had a secret stash, what dirty little magazines did you have, old me? Hm?”

Optimus yanks all the datapads out so they fall onto the floor, making it easier to pick them out and place them at his side. Optimus makes no effort to stand, he’s far too curious to make the effort to sit dignified. Much less when he’s alone. The prince takes a datapad at random and flicks it on, fully anticipating a series of scantily clad pictures of flirtatious builds in questionable positions. Optimus looked forward to seeing them, even, morbid curiosity got the best of him at the worst times.

Unfortunately for Optimus, he is not met with something endearing or scandalous, all sees is messy scribbling.

Optimus turned his helm, then the datapad. “Maybe I wanted to be an artist?”

Turning the datapad led to nothing, so Optimus began to inspect the scribbles themselves. Upon further inspection, they appeared to be written text. He sets aside the first datapad and reaches for another, that still manages to be barely legible—even by Orion’s standards. The prime traces the writing with a digit. He scrutinizes the first set of glyphs particularly.

“D..de…r…deer? Dear.” Optimus’ optics cycle in and out to focus. “Dear?”

A letter, and not a very good one.

“Mmmm…muh, mug? No, meg? Gra…gruh…” Optimus continues the pursuit of tracing the glyphs. “Thgz…that’s not right.”

A gentle knock at the door startles Optimus. “Ah! Yes! Who is it?”

A quiet buzz.

Optimus makes a quizzical sound and quickly collects the collection of datapads and shoves them into a random drawer on his desk. “Come in!” He is sure to stand and pretend to look busy.

A yellow frame enters with a hurried expression, once they match gazes, the new figure caught the image of a maskless prime. He stood at the side of his desk, servo resting on the flat length at the top, Bumblebee watched Optimus look at him blankly.

“You’re new.”

Bumblebee stops to stare at Optimus for a moment, forcing his ventilation to still in an effort to hide the fact he sprinted up the floors. Optimus stares at him, very much alive.

A weird feeling passed through Bumblebee, like he was facing a ghost, he turned away with a nod; walking the short distance to the small, decorative table at the center of the room and setting his tray upon it, stiffer than stone statue. Afterwards he does what he’s in the growing habit of doing, he offers Optimus his information encoded on a small token.

“Thank you?” Optimus takes the token, unaware of what to do with it, and takes to inspecting it.

Bumblebee watched Optimus fumble with the token, at first he twirls it between his digits, then flips it a couple of times. The maid is intrigued at the lollygagging for a short while, the feeling dwindles into curiosity, then to plain confusion after a breem when Optimus has taken to trying to pry the token open with his digits. Every now and again Bumblebee would try to take the token back, servos hovering over and back to his sides, stopped by Optimus’ concentration.

Optimus stops his attempts and rests the token in the palm of his servo. “I do not know what this is,” he finally admits.

Bumblebee’s look is dull at the reminiscent behavior to Windy, he pities the prime as he lifts a single digit, taking a short moment to let Optimus acknowledge the coming act and presses the token on. A short buffer passes as the token recovers from Optimus’ assault and Bumblebee’s information glitches into view. Optimus coos.

“Fascinating, thank you…” He leans in to read the details. “Bumblebee.”

A short beep of dismissal.

Optimus turns the token off after he finishes reading through it—preening at the ability to do so—and returns the device to Bumblebee. “What brings you here?”

Bumblebee blinks.

“Oh. Right.” Optimus turns away from Bumblebee towards the short table. “Snacks?”

A nod.

Optimus hums. “Curious, I never eat at this hour. Much less when I’m expecting company.”

Bumblebee makes a short beep in remembrance, scrambling back to the coffee table and reaching for the second token to hand to Optimus.

“Why haven’t I seen these before?” Optimus asks himself, he too inspects the new token—it is of higher quality than Bumblebee’s, carefully casting light upon the polished sheen of silver, he catches the crest of his palace. Interest piqued, Optimus presses the token on.

Your day’s guest has arrived early, please get ready.

The message rotates as Optimus and Bumblebee read it.

Bumblebee looks at Optimus, patiently waiting for his reaction.

“Pits.” Optimus growls, which is most certainly not what Bumblebee expected. “Damn it all to the pits.” He continues. “That glitch was right.”

If Bumblebee’s intake wasn’t covered, he would gawk at Optimus using such crass language. His optics, however, are not hidden, and Optimus catches his shock with a side glance.

Optimus shy’s away with a soft voice. “Oh dear, I do apologize. I don’t know what came over me.” He tries to lie.

Bumblebee’s helm tilts to the side.

Optimus makes an awkward glance to the floor. “I shouldn't act carelessly today.”

Bumblebee decides to step back.

Optimus’ servos come up to deflect. “It’s not your fault! I’m…nervous.” He admits a bit too quickly.

No beep, only more staring.

Optimus’ audial fins flutter with a hum. “I should get ready.”

Bumblebee nods.

Optimus feels himself growing increasingly awkward, while doing nothing to stop it. “Can you write?”

A shake of the helm.

A louder hum escapes Optimus. “Well, I don’t want you to feel inconvenienced.”

A shrug.

“At least you’re comfortable.” Optimus notes to himself, but it makes Bumblebee stiffen. Optimus tenses as well. “Not in a bad way! Please! Feel at ease when you’re with me!”

Shoulders slowly, almost distrusting, lock back into place. The two stare at each other for a klik too long, neither making a sound at the thought of causing the other discomfort.

Optimus figures that because he is the higher ranking individual, he should be the one breaking the tension. “Thank you for bringing me the message.” He offers somewhat hesitantly. “If you’re uncomfortable, you’re welcome to leave.”

Bumblebee, being the lower rank, does not take the suggestion eagerly, for all he knows it's a mere display of niceties. He stays put.

Optimus makes a slow nod at Bumblebee’s rigid stance. “Very well, in that case, would you care to help me get ready?”

Bumblebee does not nod, he only bows. An acceptance.

There is a small sense of relief as Optimus takes to giving orders—a recent habit he’d been developing. “There’s cans of paint in the closet, along with polish, glaze, and wax, bring a small detail brush and two towels. I’ll be in the washroom, be prepared when I come back out.”

As soon as the instructions conclude, Bumblebee makes his way to the closet a little deeper into the room. Optimus feels strange while he walks to his washroom, clearly put off by the fact he’d become more comfortable ordering others around; when it came to Windy or Chromia, they had long became comforting figures in Optimus’ life, like sisters or family members. To order them was easy, akin to asking a favor. However,with Bumblebee’s own compliance came the realization that they were following orders, not humoring a brother.

Bumblebee was a stranger, even when it was his responsibility to cater to Optimus; there was always an inkling discomfort from that knowledge. To be the figurehead of an empire came down to giving orders, and the knowledge that they will be taken. He was the pinnacle of power as soon as his sire stepped down or, Primus forbid, passed, it was only natural that any and all would bow at his pedes.

Optimus entered the attached washroom and closed the door at the bitter thought.

The clatter of brushes shifting against one other as Bumblebee looked for the right one was caught by Optimus’ audials beyond the door, somehow relieving the tension from before. Rather than paying him any mind, hoping the little bot enjoyed the solitude as much as Optimus did, the prince made his way to the bath to twist the hinges and start the flow.

Typically, Windy or another attendant would aid Optimus, brushing and scrubbing his plating while he lay in the tub like an incapable bitlet. One of the many reasons (commanding aside) that Optimus cared little for monarchy. Optimus considered himself a little fortunate that he would not have to deal with needless chatter when he was already high-strung.

The sound of the filling tub drowned out any sound Bumblebee may produce.

Optimus watched the tub fill and tapped his digits against the basin, waiting for the solvent to rise. His mind, of course, dipped to the topic of the duke as he watched the steady flow of solvent. Like images torn from a magazine, Optimus couldn’t help but feel a bit deceived when he to work with three exceedingly different bases of interpretation of the mech. Chromia was too harsh, Windy too lax, and Starscream too comfortable. Optimus would be approaching the duke as a new mech, no memories to hold to for comfort.

Rising levels of solvent went unnoticed by Optimus as he deepened his thinking.

Closing his optics with a small gush of air that could be considered a sigh, Optimus could do nothing but relive the events or their barely-first encounter. He couldn’t help but note the look Megatron held towards Optimus—distant, treating Optimus as more of an inconvenience. Although the extent of this supposed inconvenience was lost to Optimus amidst his processor scrambling at the sight of Megatron.

Finials twitch at the memory, turns out he did have one to hold Megatron to, and it was not a pretty one. Treated so aloof, regarded hardly, yet now he asks for Optimus’ time? Through a letter, without closing remarks, asking in some vague, roundabout way that pressured Optimus to respond? Optimus felt nerves give rise to anger.

“How dare he.” He grumbled, distaste towards him aside, Optimus couldn’t deny he was upset at the prospect of being amicable with the duke for any reason—it wasn’t a matter of fear anymore, but comfort. Optimus was already losing his chance at a comfortable life when he was reinstated as crown prince, it didn’t help that being friendly with the duke was the best thing he could do. The irony of it all was infuriating.

Optimus clicked his glossa, losing touch of humble Orion Pax and into the persona of Primacy. “Does he not know who I am? He should know better.”

Slowly, the liquid rose to dangerous depths, but Optimus would not relent to his imagination. “Primus! Why am I so nervous! He’s the one with the audacity to ask me out when he has a fiance!” Not true—courtship was hardly an engagement, more so it’s precursor, but Optimus was already seeing red. “To be bonded! What am I! A mistress?! Ugh!”

Without another thought, Optimus stands and reaches to look for his favorite cleanser and a tool to scrub himself with. “I am a prince. Royalty. I’m literally his superior.” Optimus fails to find the cleanser and starts digging through the cabinets in a half-blind rage. “What happened to respect? Dignity? Has he gone mad? Why should I bend over backwards for him, just to play nice? Like a pair a bitlets? Hah! He has no right to see me.” Optimus dug a little deeper and found the copper sheen of his cleanser at the back of the cabinet, forcing his arm in and trying to slip past everything in his way—and mostly failing—he continues his tirade against the duke who is unable to defend himself. “I’m going to a meeting next week anyways, whatever he wants to say it can wait. It’s not like he seemed to be in a rush! Mr. Wasting-a-letter-on-one-sentence. What’s his problem?”

Snatching the cleanser successfully, he fiddles with the cap that was closed a little too tightly. “I mean—sheesh, why is this stuck?—it’s not like he probably cared for me either way, baseless mech.” Optimus wouldn’t outwardly dare to call Megatron a particular cruel name, yet. At that moment he recalled Megatron’s presumption as well. “Primus! And he’s early! What is his problem? Does he not know how much of an inconvenience to me he is?”

A splash of solvent had Optimus whipping his helm back to see his bathtub overflowing, “Slag.” He spat, quickly tossing the container onto the washroom's vanity, it failed to land as it fell and clattered loudly against the floor as he lunged to turn off the flow of solvent.

The sound of metal crashing against tile made Optimus cringe as a splash of solvent hit his breastplates. He watched his bathtub pathetically, albeit relieved he managed to turn the flow off. Not willing to spend more time feeling embarrassed at his failure to bathe himself, Optimus, sitting on his knees, lazily reached for the cleanser from before. His arm waved in its attempt to reach the jar, barely managing to capture it in his grasp when he finally twisted at his side to make a final attempt. Optimus glared at the container, fiddling with it once again, standing up in the process so he could actually get in the bath.

Suddenly, the container popped open, and Optimus looked into it, excited that he achieved what he sought.

It was empty.

Already beyond the feeling of mere annoyance, he threw the container down and let the metal clatter loudly against the floor, again. “Damn it!”

His temper was immediately chastised with the horrible sound from before, he tensed up and cringed again. “What am I even doing all this for?” He borders a sob.

A creeping sensation of deja vu slides along his spinal strut when he manages to vocalize his miseries. Slowly, it builds, and Optimus shivers as he views the washroom with optics that aren’t his. The feeling of helplessness is not new, warranted, or welcomed by Optimus; he believed himself beyond it now. The visage before him blurs in and out of focus with coolant lining his optics, Optimus covers his face before he feels the first tear fall.

“You’re lucky.” He tells himself. “You’re a prince, you hold power, whatever you see fit will be your decree.” The words offer little comfort when he was the one speaking, the intention thinned with the crackling in his voice.

Delicately pulling his servos from their place, Optimus looked over to a mirror. One of many, the full-length reflection of his face affixed to a mix of grief and disbelief are impalpable, he looks away. The steam of solvent wafts in his direction, he sees the tub and treats it like the sea.

Testing a servo on the edge of the tub, Optimus feels the scalding liquid and lacks the foresight to yank his hand away in pain. If anything, he welcomes it, an unbearable heat to distract him from the world. Methodically, he dips the rest of his servo in, the heat is so sharp it feels cold until the prickling needles of the sweltering solvent truly register as unpleasant.

“I am beyond this.” Optimus must tell himself.

It is so much easier said than done, to demand omnipotent comprehension was to feign understanding of everything, while denying himself his psyche. Optimus knew better, but it was a delightful wish to indulge a world where fear did not grip him at the back of his mind, where he could be as heroic as Rodimus and as confident as Megatron, or even who he used to be. A servo became an arm and carelessly, Optimus plunged into the torrid depths of his bathtub, inconsiderate of the spilling solvent in favor of withstanding the heat it pertains.

Optimus shut his optics and let his face sting against the scalding liquid, he let his worries melt away with the heat. The anger departed quietly, nearly unwillingly, it was pushed out by thoughts of assurance to Megatron’s own existence as a distinct separation from his own.

The rest of the bath went by quietly, lulled by an acceptance to come what may. Optimus exited the bath and dried himself.

Standing at the door that would open to a room to chill his comfortably warm frame, Optimus hesitated opening it. But it opened, as all doors must, and Optimus saw Bumblebee waiting for him at his vanity with a stern expression—although not directed at him. Stepping towards the seat, Optimus acknowledges the immaculate cultivation of glaze, paint, polish, and brushes that awaited him, as if Bumblebee too knew of what would come.

“Thank you,” Optimus managed, taking his seat.

Bumblebee responds with a nod, taking the first item, a polish, and circling it into a small rag, starting at Optimus’ arms. Narcissistically, Optimus only pays his reflection any mind as Bumblebee is hard at work. The silence between them is almost pithy, an air of understanding set between the two without a word needed. Optimus wonders for a moment what their shared understanding is, he doubts they share much of anything in common; the thought doesn’t linger, he won’t let it. Instead, he tilts his helm in admiration of his beauty, once again detached from it, like a third party or a judge. Optimus focuses on forcing his optics out of a glare, relaxing the top ridges to a flatter line, or evening pushing them up higher—no, too surprised, his intake slips wider to a soft part. Now he looked wanton, Optimus grimaces. Bumblebee circles to Optimus’ shoulder, blue optics shoot to watch Bumblebee carefully rub the polish into his armor, only then taking the moment to realize he holds a brush in the crook of his other servo, swiping on a small dollop of paint when it is needed before blending it out with the polish to make the finish universally concise. Optimus can’t feel the work as it is completed, a touch so feather light he could continue to admire himself if he truly wanted to. Optimus rather not delve too deeply into his delusions of narcissism, he watches Bumblebee work instead, careful to overt his focus when Bumblebee makes a move that might catch Optimus in the act.

Eventually, Bumblebee finishes both arms and hovers for a moment, towel and brush in his respective servos, as he contemplates on how to tell Optimus he has to start on his chest. Optimus takes the hint. He moves without a word, away from facing the mirrors, and out so Bumblebee can work. After a quick inspection, Bumblebee sets down the towel for a moment and reaches for a second brush for the red paint that went neglected until then. Attentively dipping the brush into the paint, the concentrated hue is painted onto Optimus with such delicacy he cannot help but think he inhabits a painting. Bumblebee’s brushwork feels wasted on Optimus, somehow undeserving of such care. Optimus watches the purposeful hold of the paintbrush, the way black digits hold the weight of the paint-laced brush is fierce, strong, yet wavering.

Optimus stays as still as a turbofox mid-hunt. “What about speaking hand?”

Bumblebee lifts the brush away from Optimus’ chest, conscious of how easy he could ruin his hard work with conversation. He looks to the prince, expectantly.

Optimus doesn’t look at Bumblebee, he feels his gaze is suffocating at times—he knows it is—the window takes his attention instead. “Speaking hand. Are you familiar with it?”

A yellow helm shakes before its followed by a similar inquiring beep, its inflection raises higher.

Optimus’ optics flare a little wide, face still looking beyond, his optics move to the edge of their containment to induct Bumblebee’s image into his mind. “You don’t know what it is?”

The maid nods, raising his servos up and inspecting them, brush still in grasp.

Optimus’ face follows, watching Bumblebee inspect his digits. He figured as much, even in Orion’s homeworld, hand was not used to its full potential. Still, Optimus takes a moment to consider the possibility of speaking hand to be nonexistent, given that a mech like Bumblebee would be well learned in it if he lacked the ability to speak through vocalizations or binary sets. Optimus looks inwardly at the time that slowly ticked on in his HUD, then back to Bumblebee to stare at him curiously, a little more at ease.

“I can show you.” Optimus offers.

Bumblebee makes a sudden sound—likely the blaring honk of his alternate mode. He stands a little straighter, wiggling his digits at his front, testing whether Optimus’ was really referring to something so novice.

Optimus takes the items from Bumblebee and sets it on his vanity, lifting both of his own servos and intertwines them with Bumblebee’s. Optimus moves them in tandem. [My name is Optimus Prime.]

Bumblebee’s field unintentionally flares out in dismay at Optimus, servo’s still amidst their nerve circuits interacting.

Optimus smiles, and repeats the movement, speaking out their translation as well. “My name is Optimus Prime.”

Bumblebee’s servo’s twitch at the repeated act, unknowingly, he attempts to replicate it.

Optimus catches his attempt with a new focus at their connected servos. “If you want to spell your name out, the translation for Bumblebee would be,” He moves his servo a away for a third, returns it for a second, and pushes his digits forward into Bumblebee’s for the last syllable; each movement is met with a resonating pulse from Optimus’ nerve circuits that are closest to his neural net on the outer rim of his protoform, thus only encapsulated by his armor. Each jolt is small, but deliberate, emphasizing the syllables of the name rather than the specific glyph system it is written in; the movement either makes the pulse-wave grow or wane, adding a third dimension to the emphasis of what is being said.

Bumblebee tries his best to match the movement and pulse-waves, to a solid success for a first try.

Optimus brightens. “Very good! Think of the words as the way they are spelled, rather than the combination of glyphs to form a single word.” Optimus follows this comment with the alphabetical base form that chronolinguistics begins with, speaking them out with every matching movement.

Bumblebee concentrates on repeating the movements to their respective letters and Optimus patiently lets him learn. The time that should have been dedicated to Optimus’ upholding was lost to another lesson, only this time it was Optimus that played tutor. Soon enough Bumblebee had learned to sign his name and had a better grasp on the alphabet used, he could vaguely string together drawn-out and somewhat messy sentences—but he figured it leagues better than questioning beeps and bops.

Excitedly, Bumblebee made his first attempt. [My name is Bumblebee.]

It took a little longer to sign than Optimus, who relied upon a more varied system of complexities that made communication faster; it didn’t stop either of them from preening in delight at Bumblebee’s attempt, though.

[It is nice to meet you, Bumblebee.] Optimus signs in the same, drawn out, direct-spelling variant that Bumblebee is able to understand. When the meaning is realized, Bumblebee’s field is so loudly consumed by delight that Optimus laughs out loud.

“Grammar comes later, but it’s not as important. When our fields intermingle, tonal indications are usually made so don’t worry about coming off differently. Just be honest with what you want to say.”

Bumblebee nods enthusiastically. [Thank you.]

Optimus smiles in turn. [You are welcome.] He thoughtfully separates their servos, but still holds onto Bumblebee’s as he speaks to him. “It’s almost time, I’ll finish getting ready, you may return downstairs. Thank you for all your hard work.”

The yellow bot deflates at their lesson finally ending.

Optimus prepares to take his servos away to reach for the polishing towel. “I can keep teaching you if you’d like, though it isn’t much use when you can only converse with one bot.”

Bumblebee recklessly catches Optimus’ servos before he can take something into his hands. [Only one O.K.] He signs words in rapid succession. [Yes. Teach. Happy. Happy. Happy.]

“I’m glad I could help you,” Optimus blinks at the earnest movement from Bumblebee, he can’t help but feel saddened by the attempts, it would be easier to let the bot download the language pack from Optimus’ files; that, however, would prove to be useless when it was in a language alien to him.

Well, alien to Bumblebee, Optimus realizes. Then he further realizes that he can read the new variant of neocybex much better than before, he could be fluent very soon thanks to his archivist coding. An idea pops into his helm, and Optimus decides to abuse his power. “I will request to have you transferred from the Emerald Palace, I will teach you hand manually until I can…” He couldn’t exactly admit to translating a file pack. “Until I can create a language pack to give to the others.” Was the half lie of the day.

Bumblebee’s optics cycled so wide Optimus could see the mechanics trembling from straining, his servos trembling as well, clutching Optimus’ own so hard that all the hard work taken to polish them went out the window as silver was now scuffed black. He nodded fervently. [Thank you.] He signs, again and again and again.

“You’re welcome, now go take a break, I’m sure I’ll see you soon enough.”

Bumblebee stands tall, taking Optimus’ servos with him. Pulling Optimus’ servos close he looks deeply into Optimus’ optics and departs with a final word.

[Protect.]

Before Optimus can question what he means—even considering a misspelling of ‘promise’—Bumblebee is lifting the trey he brought and is out the door with a final, deep bow.

Optimus’ servos hang in the air for a klik, hearing the loud steps of a hurried maid from beyond the door Bumblebee left slightly ajar.

…

Windy shone brighter than a shooting star on a starless night.

Chromia knew it would be the death of her.

Windy bounced on her heels. “Can we keep him?”

“No. And don’t refer to the duke like that!” Chromia was quick to reprimand Windy.

Windy pouted. “Plea-se?”

Chromia pulled Windy by the protrusions on her helm and yanked her close. “Don’t be so loud! What if he can hear you?”

Although being comfortably located on the other side of the kitchen’s island, Megatron could, indeed, hear them.

“I’m flattered, but I do have a home of my own.” Megatron chimed in.

Windy was quick to offer a solution. “It’s okay, you can sell it.”

Chromia yanked Windy again. “Windy! Have some tact!” She quickly turns to Megatron with a forced smile, “I do apologize, she’s very young and has a habit of being…outspoken.”

How Windy manages to drag a duke and his advisor to the kitchens of the Sapphire Palace was beyond Chromia, she tried to inquire about it, and insisted there was an effort on Windy’s part. Megatron and Windy, however, offered identical accounts. Megatron even insisted on arriving with the box’s Chromia sent Bumblebee for; Chromia found she could not trust either of them.

Megatron nods slowly, almost against his will. “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who is so…outspoken.”

The term ‘outspoken’ was doing so much heavy lifting, the meaning was lost. As a matter of fact, it was a placeholder for ‘shameless.’ The bodies inhabiting the kitchen danced around the same awkwardly phased collections of not-even small talk. Windy had been so brazen that there was no room for questioning. Megatron’s next comment would remedy that.

“I can see why the prince is fond of her,” Megatron notes.

Chromia lets go of Windy. “Pardon?”

Megatron appears taken aback. “I don’t mean to embarrass the Windy if it’s untrue, but she was boasting of her closeness to the prince prior to our,” Megatron decides to load another word with an unintentional layering. “Encounter.”

Chromia appears frazzled at the duke’s knowledge of Windy and Optimus’…friendship. After all, that is what it was, a friendship, Optimus was sure to claim it as such. As did Windy. The rest weren’t so keen. More so a nuisance. 

“Well,” Chromia buffers her sentence. “The prince’s favor is very important.” She internally cringes as soon as she says it out loud, within her peripheral vision she sees Megatron shift. Chromia didn’t mean to lace her statement with more overtly political comments, at this point in her life it was almost second nature.

The comment landed as poorly as one would expect.

Megatron made a prolonged ‘ah’ sound. “Yes, that is true.”

And just like that, conversation dwindled once more.

Both Chromia and Megatron, regardless of their stone-faced exteriors, we’re bashing their helms against a metaphorical wall for letting such prime conversation die.

The strained quiet was lifted by Bumblebee’s entrance into the kitchen.

“Bumblebee!” Chromia gasped. “Where have you—” She immediately finds the tray designated to Windy in his grasp. “Oh.”

A slow, rearing turn of the helm, and Windy finds herself faced with the prospect of nothing good. “Windy, why does Bumblebee have your tray?”

Bumblebee follows Chromia’s gaze to Windy who stiffened at the unwanted attention.

Windy made a terse sound. “We agreed to trade!”

Chromia wouldn’t allow her temper to show. “On what grounds? I was not informed of this.”

Windy’s intake flexed open and nothing followed for a while. “The boxes were too heavy for Bumblebee so I…”

“Bumblebee is both taller and stronger than you, this should not have been an issue.” Chromia comments.

Windy looked at Bumblebee for assurance, then quickly looked away knowing of her guilt on his behalf.

Megatron and Soundwave watched on, quietly, in their own right.

Soundwave turned his helm slightly towards Megatron, as if to emphasize the words over comm. .:Opportunity: Discovered.:.

Megatron nodded silently. .:He looks calmer, I guess serving the prince must have done a number on him.:.

.:Lord Megatron: The same.:.

The two swap looks that are annoyed and smug, respectively, and return to listening in.

Chromia didn’t attempt to warrant a response from Bumblebee, she pressed further onto Windy. “Tell me the truth, Windy.”

It was obvious that Chromia was making a show of power, albeit in a roundabout way, she knew why they would have traded—Chromia long deduced that for herself when Bumblebee entered, but given how Windy had grown a bit too comfortable in her place (hardly one, by most standards) she made it her mission to emphasize that Windy was consistently acting out of place that day, even if it hurt her to do so.

“I…” Windy’s optics were glued to the ground, her apron creased in her tightening grip. “I…”

“It’s my fault.” Megatron cut in, the whole room turned to his attention. “I insisted on my curiosity to investigate the Sapphire Palace that I incidentally forced Miss Windy to serve as my guide.”

Chromia is unconvinced. “That does nothing to explain—”

Megatron raised his servo to silence Chromia and continued. “Even though Windy was tasked with another responsibility, she passed it to Bumblebee as she equipped herself with dealing with my incommodious presence. Bumblebee didn’t know where to go, or which rooms to guide me to if he were to make the attempt. She did what she thought was needed of her—I am to blame for misleading you, Madam Chromia.”

Bumblebee listened on as he walked to the center of the kitchen, under the guise of placing the tray away and cleaning the plates. Chromia and Megatron were preoccupied with staring at each other, cautious of what emotions to display. As soon as Bumblebee sets his tray down, Chromia yanks him to her side and says nothing. Chromia doesn’t dismiss him, rather, she keeps him at her side. She calls for another, handing them both the T.E.A set and silverware, sending them away to prepare the room that will be used soon; a job that should have been allocated to Bumblebee. After watching them depart, she takes a moment to collect herself, back turned from the rest of the room. Bumblebee analyzes her composure shift to something he would see within the Emerald Palace during a ball. Chromia, despite her seemingly innocuous place amidst the ranks contained within the palace, is of noble blood and wed to a commander. She was not lacking in power, merely her proximity to obtaining it for herself against her large family. Her shoulders roll back and her back struts straighten to a refined curved, in a preparation of a battle she was not yet prepared for; better to emphasize a supposed unity across the chaos that is the Sapphire Palace than let the duke witness them falter at his mere presence.

Chromia holds her servos together delicately, she would not let herself miss an opportunity. “Your grace.” She cooed, turning at her heels swiftly. “I appreciate your dedication to parsing blame, however not required. May I ask why you would…indulge such humility.”

Megatron paused, any amusement he had dripped away like snow melt in the spring. The jab is not harsh against Megatron’s will, it does not, however, fall far from what he is accustomed to hearing. He acknowledges the fighting words. “Once upon a time my mere presence in a kitchen would be a luxury, now it is my presence that is the luxury. I rather not pretend that the two are mutually exclusive, I find my history imperative to my character.”

Chromia steps closer, her field pulls Bumblebee along in a subtle nudge of ‘watch and learn.’ “And what character you have indeed.”

Megatron watches her as they begin to dance along a slow tango of noble conversation. He was aware of his lacking favor with most houses, Chromia’s was no exception. “You flatter me, Madam.”

“I make no such efforts as a conjunxed mech.” She scolds lightly—taking advantage of her age as the one thing she can misuse when dealing with Megatron. “Even so, I will overlook Windy’s ineptitude for your sake, your grace, given how you valiantly bare yourself.” She says. “I do hope you’re enjoying your stay at the Sapphire Palace, curiosities included.”

A subtle nudge at Megatron’s lacking discrepancy, in overstepping his command and treating the location as a hotel. A way of mentioning Megatron overstaying his welcome.

“Your hospitality is nothing short of impressive.” Megatron answers, which could be interpreted in one of two ways—well or not at all.

Chromia’s gaze follows Megatron as she maneuvers around a small island at the center of the kitchen. “I’m honored by your praise, however, I fear that I must request your departure.”

Megatron catches Bumblebee ducking away at her side. “Oh? Am I being a bother?”

“Not at all.”

“Then I see no reason to leave.”

Chromia has to cut a scoff short. “I fear you are distracting the others, and your meeting with the prince is soon. Time may be something you have in excess, but I cannot say the same for his highness.”

Soundwave’s visor brightens at Chromia’s jeering of Megatron. Soundwave takes a half step forward, but Megatron stops him with an arm. “You fray your wires with worry over my well-being, how kind of you.”

Chromia makes a stop at Megatron’s front, a wider stretch of space separates them rather than a collection of objects. “It’s my responsibility to do so.” She gestures at Bumblebee to take the place at a counter that holds a tiered tray, empty, but to its side was an immaculate collection of treats and goodies made for the upcoming T.E.A preparations; a silent order to work. Which he did, pushing himself against the edge, hoping to do away with Chromia and Megatron by busing himself with placing the goods in an aesthetically pleasing manner from the bottom up. He felt somewhat guarded by Chromia’s presence superseding his own, yet it did little to ease his shaking servos as he carefully placed another pastry on a plate.

“Indulge yourself.” Megatron speaks between the tense atmosphere of the room, stepping forward with the authority he would hold in his own home. “After all, this is the closest I will get to where your conjunx wishes me to be.”

Chromia’s composure splits like wood to an ax. “Do not speak of my conjunx you—” She has to cut her sentence short when the illusion of equal footing against a duke is lost.

“What?” Megatron’s optics narrow so thin they appear like slits, a knowing grin grows malevolently across his face as he finds the opening he pried for. “Finish your sentence.” He neatly commands, taking another step forward. “I know you were taught better. Tell me what you think of me, I assure you, I won’t be shocked.”

Chromia bit her glossa, her servos curled into fists at her front.

“Illegitimate?” Megatron tries; one step forward. “Misbegot?” Another step. “Bastard?” A final step and Megatron stands in front of Chromia, dangerously close while he towers over her.

With a shaky vent, Chromia attempts to fix herself in Megatron’s growing presence. “Not at all, your grace. I overstepped.”

Megatron bent at the waist, pushing his shoulders at an angle so he could reach Chromia’s audial rather than her face, his cape flowed like a second wall to pin Chromia in place. His voice is sweeter than the treats that sit to their side, dripping with a luxuriate sense of superiority as he utters the next term.

“Disposable?”

Megatron can hear every joint, mechanic, and moving system within Chromia lock into place. Not turning his helm, merely moving his optic, he notes her optics are bright white and shaking. He picks himself up. “I see.”

“I would never utter such a term in your direction, your grace.”

Even if her voice does not shake, and her words do not stumble, Megatron knows that he won.

“My direction, alone?” He asks.

“Ever.” She corrects just as fast.

In equal silence, Soundwave watched on, intrigued. Not with Chromia’s attitude, Megatron winning a fight with a noble as-per-usual, or even Bumblebee’s behavior. Soundwave deduced that would come into play later. Instead he watched the unused platter of sweets like Ravage to Ratbat. The tastiest meal that will forever go uneaten.

Megatron detached his focus from Chromia to Soundwave, and then to the treats Soundwave was watching like a helium-hawk.

“How unfortunate that we are to bicker so childishly.” Megatron says to deflect, waving to the room like house guests. “I apologize profusely. As you were.”

The rest of the kitchen staff rather not take a gander at the possibility of what Megatron could do when he was angry, so they obeyed the command and went back to work. Megatron looks at Chromia as well. “You too, Madam.”

Chromia gives Megatron a side-eye and brushes her silks down, making her way from Megatron back to Windy. “Of course, your grace.”

Megatron watches Chromia make her departure with a victorious grin, he too leans against the same counter Bumblebee works against with the same winning smile. Curiosity overrides his subroutines to stay still and play nice, Megatron called out from where he was. “You, Bumblebee, correct?” He was one step (Megatron scale) away from the mech.

Bumblebee jumps, looks over, and nods. He’s now holding a piping bag full of whipped energon.

“If I may be so bold, may I sample the goods deemed unworthy of our darling prince?”

Chromia whips her helm back at Bumblebee so fiercely that Bumblebee he has no choice but to look at her. She mouths ‘no.’

Bumblebee beeps a high pitched tone, no one really knows what it was supposed to mean.

Megatron, more than sweets, loved liberty, and the freedom to do as he pleased. So, as far as he was concerned, beep means yes, and yes means he gets to eat the rejects. “Wonderful! How generous! Come, Soundwave.”

Chromia is, again, at her limit with the duke, which was surprisingly short lived; she would blame the duke for that. “Your grace,” She begins with a curt tone. “I would hate for you to spoil your appetite.”

Megatron made sure to play daft at Bumblebee’s armor clattering as he leaned in closer. “Madam, with all due respect, have you seen me?”

She didn’t answer. A voice from behind her did. “I do,” Windy chirped.

Megatron took what he could, and Windy’s appraisal would have to be good enough. He holds a small, round, layered cake with shavings of bismuth and platinum-infused energon cream and points it at Windy like a toast. “Thank you, Windy.” He takes the same treat and points at Chromia. “I am a warbuild—if not, a laborframe—and I will sooner eat this kitchen out of commission before spoiling any appetite.” He tossed the treat into his mouth, he savored, chewed, and swallowed it faster than Chromia can think of a rebuttal.

Which is a faulty constraint of time because Chromia doesn’t have a rebuttal, she doesn’t react much, really. She simply watched on as Megatron and a sheepish Soundwave ate away at the treats.

Megatron grabs a sturdier looking item, a small square of a fudge-y grease filling set between a halved oil cake with shavings of copper and tossed it at Windy in a halfway attempt to show gratitude for her help. “Come on, you get one too.”

Windy makes a short leap forward to catch the treat—successful in her attempt—she perks up and cradles the treat. “Really? Thank you!”

“Of course, you too Bumblebee.”

Bumblebee is still shaking with the piping bag in hand, which bothered Megatron somewhat. “Are you alright?”

Bumblebee is hesitant to nod, it comes slowly with deliberation.

Megatron figures he has good reason to fear him, but Bumblebee is not the demographic he wants to be feared from. Megatron forces Bumblebee to stop what he’s doing by plucking the piping bag from his hand and squeezing the entire thing into his mouth—he can hear Chromia’s gargled sound of disgust and remembers her as his target audience. He feels a little proud.

Megatron licks his lipplates before speaking. “If you have a reason to fear me, I will ask for it.”

Life returns to Bumblebee with a confused chirp. He looks up at Megatron without a sign of fear.

Megatron had a habit of showing off his southern side to his fellow southerners, and he knew how to pick them out.

Wide-set pedes for desert spaces, a retractable mask for storms and identity-keeping, thick digits for labor-intensive work. The only thing Bumblebee was missing was the sharper edges on his armor that Megatron and most others had. Bumblebee recognizing what Megatron was saying is an additional plus.

“My reputation does not succeed me.” Megatron tells Bumblebee in a Tarnish dialect, arguably the most common variant, and uses his bigger body to shield them from Chromia while keeping space between them. “Where are you from? Kaon? Tarn? Stanix? Polyhex—”

Bumblebee’s optics flash at the last. Megatron hums in approval, feeling the tugging attention of Chromia, he reverts to standard northern dialect. “One of the better cities, good oil there.” He reaches for another treat. “You don’t have to be so scared of me, I’m on your side.”

Bumblebee isn’t shy to show his disbelief, if anything, he’s annoyed by the statement. He rolls his shoulders a bit and steps away.

Megatron smirks. “So he does bloom from the depths!”

Bumblebee continues to pay him no mind, Megatron couldn’t care less, he’s used to one-way conversations. He swaps between dialects like a switchboard. “I can see why you came here, I’ve heard it’s started to get rough towards Tarn and Tesarus.”

Bumblebee lets out a low, threatening beep. His doorwings shift upwards, defensively.

Although prone to passivity, Bumblebee had grown disillusioned with the prattle of a pampered duke. Deep down, he was afraid, but now faced with the enemy did he realize more so that he was afraid to stand around and do nothing.

And anyways, he had bigger things to deal with now, there was chronolinguistics to learn, and his teacher to protect.

“I’ll fix it.”

Bumblebee’s wings twitch, he makes no effort to look at Megatron.

“I’ll fix it and you can go back to a safe home.” Megatron adds. “That’s why I’m here.”

A soft laced panic shot though Bumblebee and his mind went to what he feared. He let out a whipping buzz, a growl. Megatron looked somewhat taken aback at the reaction but before he could do anything else, Bumblebee took the tray of carefully-prepared treats and left the kitchen.

Megatron followed Bumblebee leave with a watchful gaze, Soundwave stepped to his side to usher him out as well.

“Time.” He offers.

Megatron feels his nerves return through an sudden chill coursing through his frame, nodding firmly, he lets himself be guided to the room reserved for their company.

…

Optimus enters the hallway on the second floor that inevitably leads to the final staircase he must descend to the first floor. Despite Chromia’s insistence to have the prince escorted, Optimus managed to convince the head of staff to refrain. It would be a journey he took alone, a final luxury before meeting the duke, giving him a final chance to collect himself. Optimus didn’t pay any special attention to the decor anymore, opulence could offer no comfort. He knew better than to fall prey to his worry, a failing endeavor as of late, even when he had long made the attempt to paint Megatron anew in his mind—to some success—the lingering knowledge of the past lives on with every revised thought.

The light from the windows at the staircase’s front caught Optimus’ attention as he made the final step into the bright, white light of the middle day. He looks down to sees the stairs, and feels…annoyed that his home does not have an elevator, or any greater technological conveniences. Optimus reaches for the railing and voices a mantra for every step he takes down.

“This…is…different…the…past…does…not…influence…you…….stupid…novel…stupid…stupid…” He continued to chant the final curse until he finally stepped onto the cold floors.

Optimus finds himself within an empty hall, he figured there would be something living at the bottom—anything, really, it was not common to find the first floor so vacant. The prince excused it for the planned event and considered the rest of the staff were off preparing their spots in the other rooms, windows, and doors lining the place where the all-important T.E.A would take place. Optimus took the first steps to lead himself to the room, almost hurried by the lacking presence surrounding him—he would rather not keep the others waiting even if he were on time.

Embarrassingly, Optimus pulled a deep red cape he had attached to his back (a spur-of-the-moment decision taken soon after Bumblebee had left to hide some of the forgotten upkeep) and let it drag across the floor with a soft sound. Already wearing something so gaudy, Optimus opted against any jewelry to dissuade some sense of desperation to appease a mech that he was meeting both on a whim and out of political requirement.

Now long familiar with his residence, Optimus entered the east wing of his palace that was facing the direction the sun rises and spends most of its time during the summer stellar-cycles. He looked carefully for a small section of the east wing that branched into a greenhouse where his old self would study biology through flora. One of his many old quirks, according to Chromia. At the brightest point, towards the middle of the hall, Optimus caught the glittering refraction of light passing through stained glass and eases his steps.

Finally at the front of the entrance—the twin doors already propped open for him—Optimus caught a glimpse of what was waiting for him.

Beyond a thicker portion of flora that had to be trimmed soon for obstructing the short path, Optimus saw the silhouette of a silver frame wrapped in a purple silk, seated at a small table with another chair at his front—across the table. The furniture was a wrought iron, from what Optimus could deduce, a textured gray in a darker hue that tucked itself away against the brighter tones of blue, green, and pink plant life. The location was chosen for such a view, Optimus considered, Megatron was a burly mech and already sitting within such a delicate view of easily-destroyed plant life must pair poorly with his demeanor; thus, the staff had selected a strong, sturdy table for them to sit at. Optimus felt a bubble of amusement at his staff taking such a thing into consideration, it did little to deter the curious picture of a sharp, serious duke amidst a barrage of pretty plants and crystalline structures, but there was an attempt.

As quiet as he could be, Optimus took another step forward, ducking to the side of the branch that obscured his view and gently pushing it away. No one seemed to notice him, yet, which was further fuel to Optimus’ fortune as he derived a better view of Megatron conversing with a maid—Windy.

Optimus paused at the sight, they both appeared to be…content. Although Optimus stood at Megatron’s back, given how Windy appeared to be over the moon, a wave of relief passed over Optimus as he stood still to watch his attendant smile, laugh, and happily answer whatever Megatron may inquire of. If she was at ease in his presence, then the duke was surely not so bad. Optimus was sure the young maid feared Chromia more than the gladiator-turned-duke, and that was no easy feat by Megatron’s preexisting reputation. By extension, he felt pleased to see the duke in a new light, chatting idly with his friend. His discomfort and anger from the prior joor felt disingenuous by the warmth of the sight before him. It was almost ethereal, the framing of Megatron’s figure was picturesque, accentuating his polished silver as its center. Optimus smiled to himself. Passing a quick glance over the others, Chromia stood rigidly at a corner away, at her side he saw Bumblebee preparing the concoction that would serve as the driving center of the noble pair’s meeting. Given the look in Chromia’s optics, Windy was breaking more than a few protocols by fancying the duke so openly, although she was likely unable to do anything about it so long as the duke would humor Windy.

For just a moment, Optimus leaned into the edges of the path to be masked by the brush, choosing to enjoy the image before him instead of trying to impede on it. He rather enjoyed his hiding in the vegetation, merely observing, taking notes, and studying the would-be renaissance painting. Ideally, he would stay there forever, a passive onlooker to the glamorous life of nobility—his old role as a reader.

It was short lived, however, when Windy made a sudden choice to straighten while she jumped excitedly at a would-be proposition. She caught a glimpse of Optimus’ colorful figure from beyond and her optics cycled a little wide as her laughter was cut short.

Teasingly, Optimus chuckled and used a single digit over his intake with a smile to quietly tell her to keep his existence a secret. Windy, being the youngling that she was, failed to do so under the attention of a military head as her conversation partner.

Megatron caught her drifting focus. “What are you looking at?” He asks loud enough for Optimus to hear as he turns his back. At the sight of Optimus in a subservient position, hidden away from the rest, he stands so quickly his chair nearly falls back. Stumbling over himself, he makes a lunge to catch the chair, pushing it back to stability. “Your highness!”

Megatron’s falter assures Optimus further, he decides to put on his act. “Oh-hoh, I’ve been caught.” Optimus laughs a little louder, using the same servo that silenced Windy to cover his smiling face.

Megatron’s surprise was not well-hidden when he heard Optimus laugh, nevertheless, he did try. He bowed deeply at the waist with an arm folded at his back, and another at his front; palm facing up and cradling the area on his chest where his spark resides. “I, Duke Megatron of Iacon, greet the heir of Cybertron’s North, his highness Prince Optimus Prime, Prime-to-be.” Despite his efforts, the greeting felt as forced as it sounded—more so laced with nerves than an actual distaste for uttering it.

Optimus walked closer to the table set out for him and Megatron, admiring the efforts taken to decorate the greenhouse so carefully. They picked a good spot, at the center of the small location cobbled with the same stones as the garden and basking in the warm light from the sun under the dappling shade of the larger plants. “There's no need for that, your grace.” He offered, Megatron tensing at Optimus’ voice fueled him to laugh a little more. “But if you wish to be so formal—I, Prince Optimus Prime of Cybertron, greet the Duke of the Silver Spires of Iacon, Northern Capital of Cybertron.” Optimus bowed too, but not as deeply nor with the rigid formality as Megatron, he was the higher rank after all.

Quietly, Optimus looked at a small pop-up on his HUD. Windy had decidedly made a game of his endeavors outside of his room with the help of Chromia, setting up a point system for Optimus as he dealt with the high-strung regulations of nobility. Megatron was polite and Optimus matched his grace, plus 10 points. If he was lucky, and played his cards right, he could go to the archives that evening and trade in a total of 30 points.

He would rather not detail the similarities of this game to that of his newbuild academy days.

Megatron stood straight as soon as Optimus made his way to bow, refraining from embarrassing himself by staying in a submissive state while Optimus matched his formalities. Optimus too picked himself up to find the bright red of Megatron’s optics looking at him with a look of wonder. It was the same face Elita, Rodimus, Jetfire, his tutors, and the others made when they too had their time to meet Optimus—and how he adored it. The way they would look at him like a frail relic of the past, glowing, glistening, untouchable, with an even fire that left them speechless—it was almost addictive, and detrimental to his ego. Orion Pax would balk and cackle in the back of his mind, selfishly taking in his fantasy to be as clever and handsome as the bots in his novels; slowly living up to the ideal set out to him by his beloved novelas. Even so, it was an act put together by Optimus (and others) to portray himself in a way that would ensure an easier life. And it did, he was quick to notice the ways others would change after just a handful of encounters with the prince. The reactions were simply an added bonus to it all.

Passing from Megatron’s front with a gentle tilt directed at Windy, Optimus lifted a servo to pet her on the helm. “Did you have fun while I was busy?” He asked.

Windy giggled under the gentle shake Optimus placed upon her. “Yes, your highness.”

Optimus smiled warmly at her. “Good,” a quick look at Chromia, and another to the chat log they shared, he made sure to lift his servo too soon. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, but I will ask that you do not trouble Chromia or the duke so much.” He scolded lightly.

Windy’s sulk was palpable, passing a glace to the mech behind Optimus. “Yes, your highness…”

“Now go with the others, please.” He waves his servo to shoo her away.

Pleased with a lacking jobation, she nodded and skipped over to Chromia with a smug expression.

Optimus watches her stand confidently at Chromia’s side, well aware of the manipulative tactics used to get such a coveted spot—she was lucky the duke took kindly to her. “Be patient with her,” Optimus requests to the duke, focus still set upon Windy. “She’s awfully young, and I fear I spoil her too much.”

Megatron’s optics flicker carefully. Taking in Optimus from the side, his voice strains in response. “Ah, yes, of course.”

At such a lacking tone, Optimus takes to focus back to Megatron—who is utterly besotted, a blink away from a gawk while a convoluted mess swirled behind his optics. Optimus snorts, Megatron jumps at the disgracing sound. Optimus’ HUD pings; minus 2 points. “Pardon me,” He stifles another laugh, using the back of his servo to press against his intake. “I’m still not used to getting that look.”

“Look?” Megatron asks quietly.

Optimus takes advantage at his helm tucking away to bring it back, looking from the floor up to Megatron’s face.

The duke was tall, as expected, he looked foreign, also, as expected. Where his northern counterparts were typically brightly colored, smooth-framed, and sleek in their design—much like Optimus and his staunch waist-to-hips ratio—Megatron was bulkier in a way that emphasized his foreigner status, yet still as well proportioned as Optimus. His shoulders were broad and pushed back, chest not quite puffed, his back was straight enough to indicate good posture as the light glistened off unpainted, silver armor that was polished modestly enough to give him enough glow to make it apparent he was a living frame. Although Optimus could see how his frame remaining unpainted more often than not would play a role in how he depicts himself—cold, distant, and a visage worth fearing when inching towards an appearance so similar to the dead—he would rather credit it to simply not caring. Large pauldrons emphasized his width, one had a sharp edge attached as the rest of his figure danced between smooth and sharp.

The duke was acuate where it mattered, his knee-struts and leg armor occasionally curved into sharp designs and rounded off in other aspects such as his torso; rounded in preparation to deflect a spear or bounce off an arrow, his waist tapered seductively and two wing-like shapes stood for hip fairings that covered his thighs. He was sharp in his appearance, both literally and figuratively. Claws and crimson optics were narrow and sharp, angled like daggers. His helm was rounded over top with two horn-like shapes rounding out and curving in at his chin. Primus permitting, Optimus could see the small scuff marks and scratches of a sparring match the day before, buffed out with little precision and coated haphazardly with polish.

The duke looked as though he belonged in the pits or campaigning off world, it was no wonder the rumors were hard to shake off.

Optimus’ optics traced back up and was met with the scrutinizing gaze of a flustered looking warframe.

He looked serious, the strained expression paired poorly with the rest of his appearance. Dare Optimus says he looked…impatient.

Without the panic gripping his spark, Optimus came to a very fruitful realization.

Megatron was handsome—exceedingly so. He could no longer fault his staff for reacting so lasciviously.

Windy’s romantic prattle came to mind.

“Duke…Megatron…” He started, losing some of his fake personality.

Megatron stepped to the other side of the table to pull out Optimus’ seat. “My Prime, I-“

“Born in Tarn, raised in Kaon, matured in Iacon.”

Megatron stopped halfway through pulling out the chair, confused. “Yes?“ He only barely managed to look at Optimus.

“35 mechameters tall,” Optimus whispered. “Pink energon type, 29 vorns old.”

Megatron stood straight, he looked at Soundwave, then back at Optimus. “Yes, how do you..?”

Optimus kept going, leaning a bit closer as the duke would back away. He ignores his HUD and loses points. “Fond of sweets? Especially oil cakes and rock candy. You hate anything bland tasting, and that extends to the individuals you encounter? No? You’re a poet and natural scholar. Your ideal partner is anyone who’s a good listener.”

Megatron’s optics widened as much as they could, unable to contain his stun. He could feel Soundwave’s matching stupor from across the greenhouse. “That’s…correct.”

Optimus gasped and stepped back just as quickly, a silver mask snapping into place as servos slapped over it unconsciously to further muffle his voice. “So she was right?!” He looks to Windy and Chromia, the former of which is nodding and the other is hiding behind her servos. Back to 0 points.

Megatron, as confused as he was, tried to remain calm. “If I may be so bold, where did you come to learn this?”

“My maid...s.” Optimus answered distantly, quickly tucking into himself as he shuffled through his HUD to deactivate the mask. “I feel like I’m meeting a celebrity...” The prince mumbled as he smacked his left audial twice.

The mask snapped back by the third smack.

Megatron blinked. “Pardon?”

Optimus leaned a little closer as he tried to whisper. “You’re very popular with my maids.” He adjusted himself accordingly, inching back as he felt Chromia glare holes into him, he would rather not make it to the negatives today. “Possibly all of the palace maids.”

Megatron didn’t even offer a polite smile, he was so dismayed his intake hung agape as he tried to collect himself. “You really are gone.” He whispered.

Now it was Optimus’ turn to look confused. “I beg your pardon?”

“I mean no offense, I merely remember you differently. That’s all.” Megatron adds to correct himself, he finishes pulling the seat out and gestures at Optimus to take a seat. “Please, sit.”

Optimus takes his seat, and looks up to Megatron as he graciously pushes Optimus into place. “If I received a handful shantix for every time I heard that, I could buy myself a new palace.” He tries to joke—an attempt to portray himself a little more lighthearted given his previous deviation in character.

Megatron stiffens at Optimus’ back, he quickly makes his way to his seat and takes it with a speed and level of dignity that can only be described as sparse. “I apologize for my comment, please disregard it.”

Optimus hides an attempt to appear off-put by the mech’s words. “What?”

“It is not my intention to cause you offense, your highness. Please correct me as you see fit.”

Now, Optimus actually gapes. “Excuse me?”

Megatron goes rigid in his seat. “Have I caused you offense once more?” He has the gall to appear forlorn.

Optimus peered to his side, Chromia and Windy had the exact same expression as Optimus. Safe to say they would be of no aid. Optimus looked back at a fretting duke.

“Not at all.” He offers, and Megatron relaxes a fraction. “I do have to ask though,”

Megatron perks up. “Yes?”

“Why did you extend this invitation under such…compromising insights.”

Optimus can see Megatron waging a war in his mind simply by looking into his optics for a moment as they revert to flickering varying hues, brightness, and opacity. It’s obvious that he’s hesitating, and Optimus lets him, strangely sympathetic but more so curious at the reaction as the room falls quiet. Optimus would think it polite to look away, but abandons the idea when Megatron does so first, at Soundwave instead of him. They must stare at each other for a a couple of kliks, which only seemed to make things worse when Megatron returns to prolonged optical contact with Optimus, and he is significantly more flustered.

“Do you remember when we saw one another?” It’s a passive question, more than anything else, leverage.

“At the Onyx House? Yes, I do.” Optimus answers calmly. “Does that have to do with this meeting?”

Bumblebee arrives at the table brandishing a pot filled with hot T.E.A pouring the mixture into the cups of either noble, pushing an awkward silence. The yellow mech isn’t shaking, surprisingly enough, rather, deeply entrenched in what he is doing. At the perfect level of steaming liquid in each cup, Bumblebee departs with a bow at the helm, taking a handful of even and steady steps back to Chromia. When he turned back around, Optimus mouthed a small thank you.

“It does,” Megatron ultimately answers, pulling Optimus back to focus on him. “I was caught off guard by your appearance.”

“My appearance?” Optimus parrots, lifting an arm to inspect it. “I’ve been told my frame is the same as it has always been.”

Megatron lets out a soft chuckle—dare Optimus say, forcefully. “No, your expression. You…” He paused when a darkness takes to his face, contemplating his next words. “Appeared frightened.”

In a familiar ping of panic, Optimus has to force it down with a laugh. “Was I? It must have been shocking for you, please disregard my impoliteness. I know that I was...different before my accident.”

Somehow, the designation of ‘accident’ didn’t impart a reaction from Megatron, he merely continued his intent. “And yet you remembered my designation.” Megatron commented, looking straight at Optimus. “I was told you were amnesic.”

A second shot of panic pierced through Optimus, his exterior would remain (mostly) unaffected by the comment. “My processor has a habit of being fickle.” Optimus half-lies. “I recognized my younger brother at an earlier moment. I can only suppose it was a good day for my fractured mind.”

Megatron takes the excuse easily enough. “I see, that’s reassuring to hear. I would hate to see more of you lost.”

“More?” Optimus’ face twitched for a moment in confusion. “I’m sorry, please pardon my prying—but…were we close with one another?”

Megatron’s face blanks, not in shock, or anything to such a degree, it was a blank face that came with an epiphany—finding an opening. Optimus doubts he is capable of deducing the extent of it. Yet.

“We were.” He admits.

The room stills for a moment, save for Soundwave and Megatron. Optimus’ is visibly taken aback by this, expecting a denial. He loses his composure as he flinched away from Megatron. “We were?”

Megatron notices the sudden need for distance, but does not relent. “We exchanged letters often—they were small, usually insignificant, but I have come to treasure them dearly. Although we rarely interacted in the mesh, you always looked out for my sake in any way you could.” He tenses and looks away, the sound of his fists curling on his lap was barely audible. “I failed to recognize how…precious you were to me until your accident.”

Optimus flushes; his internet temperature rising to increasingly dangerous levels. “I had no idea…”

Megatron continued despite this. “I was so shocked when you recognized me, I continued to deny myself the luxury of you and…” He moves forward to lift his cup, letting the light gleam on his chest, specifically allowing a harsh light hit the area covering his spark chamber. “Will pay dearly for it.”

The only thing keeping Optimus’ jaw from the floor is the hinges keeping it in place, his voice box stutters in an attempt to weave a response—going so far as to look for aid in Chromia and Windy, but they prove to be as useless as his own processor when they watch on slack-jawed and awestruck in their own right. Chromia’s optics are devoid of color as Optimus watches her raise shaking servos to cradle her helm in an existential crisis. Windy, meanwhile, is mouthing ‘What!’ repeatedly and making absurd poses in the shock of the news that they were in the presence of, going so far as to grasp onto a catatonic Chromia and shaking them both. Bumblebee was in a similar position to Chromia, although he seemed to be rethinking all his life decisions.

There is no way to prove or refute this, namely because Optimus had lied about his memories being reawakened by some outside force and not the fact he was stuck living a book. All of a sudden, Optimus was rethinking every plot point in the once-disregarded novel to an extreme. Megatron’s questionable motives, and justifications for such. Could it be he acting out of love? Did he kill Optimus to protect him from the reality of a shared dream that became twisted in their minds? He had a hard time hiding the passing thoughts that crossed his mind from planting themselves plainly on his faceplate.

Megatron took a long, satisfied sip of his drink, setting it back down to its matching plate with a serene expression. “I know this must be difficult for you, and I apologize for the extent that I am imposing on you...it’s just that—I wanted to see you, again, as alone as I can allow myself to be with you,” Optimus didn’t like the implications of such. Megatron continued with a distant look, pain clouded over his optics. “I needed to tell you my truth, one last time before I find myself holding another. You deserve to know this, your highness. You were robbed of so many precious memories, I wish to impart you some of mine.”

Logic tried to ground Optimus from the absurdity. Now, on one servo, Optimus could argue that the duke behaving so compliantly was a good thing—if only he knew why. A series of options presented themselves within the prince in tandem to Megatron’s strange not-quite-love-confession, confession. Optimus could also argue, to a beseeched extent, that maybe the duke really did fall in love with him and now he was dealing with a whipped duke who would serve him on his servos and knees despite courting another. But that presented a far more concerning series of much-needed explanations, the most obvious being Starscream (in general). Another was purely political, highly favored in comparison to whatever nonsense love was, Megatron saw his opportunity to take advantage of Optimus’ amnesia to push his way back up onto the ranking board; and took it, tossing aside another prince as need be—and his dignity. That made a considerable argument, explaining why the duke was acting like a starved pup at Optimus’ pedes and only now made a show for it. The third was a bit more far-fetched than politics, but considerably less ostentatious than love; the duke was in danger. Of what, Optimus could think of many reasons, none of them carried any favor, though. From encroaching nobles on his territory, to a catty fiance, Optimus was circled back to the exact same question.

“Are you alright?” Optimus asked, he preemptively gave up on any attempts to appear a certain way—the duke’s character was far too troubling to try masquerading about as a benevolent prince.

Megatron’s twinkling optics flicker by this being the first question Optimus takes to. He opens his intake, a weak response paints itself on his lipplates. “Yes?”

Optimus had pressed himself to the back of his seat. “I hate to be rude, but I sincerely doubt that.”

“Is there a reason for you to doubt me?” Megatron inquires.

“Many.” Optimus answers, and decides for himself that Megatron cannot be of a sane mind if he had driven a staunch response from everyone in the room. He sits straight, pushing himself forward to lean in and inspect Megatron. “I have heard many things about you, but not one of them paints you in this light.”

Megatron does the opposite of Optimus. “Am I acting strangely to what you've opined?”

Optimus neatens his posture to avoid being so close. “It would be impolite of me to answer that.”

“So I presume the answer is yes, then.”

Optimus’ intake fights between opening and closing, looking for an answer. “I find it worrisome.”

“And why is that?”

“Your grace, with all due respect to you, when we last saw one another you were exceedingly dismissive of me.”

Megatron stands so fast Optimus stumbles back and catches himself on the back of his chair. The duke places his palms on the table and leans in close with an expression so serious Optimus feels as though he is the one at fault. “For which I must apologize excessively, your highness. I had no right to treat you in such a way. I was denying myself.”

The emphasis on singling out Optimus was the first red flag he notes. He thinks back to his beloved romance novels, specifically, those set in the time period he inhabits. Megatron’s behavior was not matching up with any description of him; if he were to follow that role, he would be detached, cold, but yearning. Whatever the pits was going on now was growing more suspicious by the klik.

Optimus fumbles with his position against the duke, suddenly love-stricken seemed like a scarily unrealistic option, and the other two weren’t any better. “Yes, well, that is all fine and…well. I have never taken issue with it. So please do not extend such profuseness, I only find it curious that you are now so…accommodating.”

Megatron’s face darkens seductively. “I can be less accommodating.”

Optimus’ voice pitches high from stress. “That is not the point I am trying to make.” He takes a look away and Megatron reaches for his servo, a whisper away from touching.

“Please, just listen to what I have to say.”

Sirens are blaring in Optimus’ helm as ‘infatuated duke confessing to a departing lover’ loses the prize for what he is currently at the precipice of, his intuition knows better than to be so naive. He yanks his arm away and stands, pushing his chair out at an awkward angle. “No, I would rather not.”

Megatron’s servo stills in the position Optimus left him in. “What?”

Optimus takes another step back, his servos coming up in a defensive position. “I think we should cut this meeting short.”

Megatron’s face flickers in thought, and Optimus is met with an impending sense of dread. “We have only just begun.” The duke insists.

“You bear news that is shocking, and I find myself in need of rest.” Optimus replies, taking another step back to set his servos on his thighs and bow. “I thank you for your time, but I believe we should depart for today. We can meet again another time.”

“There is no other time,” Megatron bites in response. “I need to do this now.”

Optimus stands back up, slowly, his face twitches into an expression of apprehension. “Your grace, I think it best if you leave now.” His voice shakes.

Megatron catches his slip, and tries to amend Optimus’ fear with a forced smile. “I am not going to hurt you, your highness. I ask that you don't look at me like that.”

“I have never humored the thought that you will hurt me.” Optimus’ ventilation turned asper, knowing of the lies he tells. “Why would you say such a thing?”

Megatron’s voicebox deepens in response. “You are looking at me with fear.”

“I do not fear you, only what you have to say.” Optimus replies quickly, but they both know it's another lie. “Now I will ask you again to make your exit, before I do.”

Megatron’s jaw clenches, and his servos tighten against the table with a soft screech. “I cannot let you go, your highness.” The sentence caters to more than one meaning.

Eventually, amidst the tension brewing between Optimus and Megatron, Bumblebee had abandoned his post and hurried to cut between the two nobles with a commanding blare from his voice box. A tell-all sign to stay away.

Optimus quickly pulled Bumblebee back from squaring up to Megatron, mid-beep, rendering it far less threatening. “What are you doing,” He reprimands and pushes the yellow bot away. “You could get hurt.” He hissed in a whisper.

Megatron tensed furthermore at the comment that was not lost to his well-equipped audials, he backs up instantly. “And you say you never humored the thought.”

“I know you will not hurt me.” Optimus glares. “That is all.”

“Your highness, under no supposition do I intend any form of threatening behavior.” Megatron meets the glare with his own.

Optimus scoffs, sending a greater wave of tension through the room. “I think you have failed quite thoroughly.”

“I know you don’t remember our past, and a piece of me selfishly hopes you never do.” Megatron pleads with a servo hovered at his front. “But know now that I would never do anything to bring you harm.”

Bumblebee makes a sound at Optimus back, forcing himself back between the two, making a grasp for Optimus servos.

Optimus stumbles back. “Bumblebee what are you—?”

Forcing their servos into an intertwined place Bumblebee painstakingly spells out the word that he takes issue with. [Harm. Harm. Harm.]

Optimus doesn’t try to pull away from Bumblebee, but tucks them both closer to try and comprehend what is happening. “What are you trying to tell me?” He whispers, pushing his field closer to his digits.

Megatron watches on, equally confused. “Your highness, what is this?”

“Would it kill you to be silent for one moment,” Optimus spat under his vents, engrossed in what Bumblebee had to say.

Bumblebee continues to take the repeated measures to spell out the words. [Harm. Harm. Duke. Dangerous.]

Optimus jolts, nearly separating their servos, but Bumblebee clings to them desperately. [Harm. Duke. You.]

Optimus carefully looks at Megatron, investigative. “Do you know something that I am unaware of?”

Megatron measures the intensity of the statement, its weight like uranium on his conscious. He does not answer, however, it is answer enough to Optimus who’s glare dissipates in favor of a growing feeling of unease.

Bumblebee watches too and takes this with heed, pulling at Optimus to follow him away from everyone else, pleading with frantic beeps and using all his strength to tug.

Optimus tries to remain level headed despite the behavior from either end he’s trapped between. His face does not hide his distress. “Bumblebee wait—” He looks at Megatron, pleadingly. “What do you know? Do you know why he’s acting like this?”

As if willed to do so by the Prime’s will, Megatron and Bumblebee lock optics, trapped in their own fates; aware of how they now intertwine. Bumblebee reacts with a primal fear that feeds off of something self-sacrificial, he pushes forward in front of Optimus to serve as a half-sized guard. Optimus makes the attempt to pull him back, Bumblebee denies him the right, stubbornly refusing to back down from Megatron.

Megatron optics cycle wider as it dawns upon him that he was wrong to dismiss the young maid as a quiet reject.

He nods. “Yes, I do.”

Optimus holds Bumblebee back with the same wide expression as Megatron, and swaps glaces between the two. “Why? What is going on?”

Megatron hesitantly makes an attempt to get closer. “You know something.” He reverts to the safety of dialect to disguise his words.

Bumblebee grips tightly onto Optimus’ arms wrapping around him.

“What is it?” Megatron asks. “What do you know?”

Optimus makes a confused sound as Bumblebee reaches for one of Optimus’ servos, pulling it to attempt to voice his truth. [You.] He signs to Optimus.

“Me?” Optimus asks.

Bumblebee shakes his helm and uses it to point at Megatron, signaling the same word. [You.]

Optimus pauses to stand a little straighter to face Megatron. “He says ‘you.’”

Megatron stops his steps, reverting to northern dialect. “Me?” He is visibly confused by this translation. “I had nothing to do with this until now.” He says to Bumblebee.

Optimus has to switch focus repeatedly to translate for Bumblebee. He doesn’t face Megatron as he continues to try and understand while serving as the middle-mech. “You…you…you. He’s saying ‘you.’”

Megatron lets out a frustrated growl. “I have done nothing.”

Optimus tilts away from Megatron’s rising temper. “That’s all he is saying.”

Megatron bites back a scoff. “This is ridiculous, I have done nothing! I am acting for your sake, your highness.”

Optimus looks mildly offended at this fact. “I do not need your pathos, how can you act for my sake when you do not know me.”

Megatron bristles. “You are guilty of the same! Insisting that I am a threat!” He points to the way Optimus and Bumblebee guard each other.

“I am insisting on a threat! For my own! Do not hold me to the standards of your memory of me!” Optimus, for once in his life, is able to lash out. “Have you gone mad?!”

The others watched on, helplessly, Windy tugged on Chromia’s arm for assurance but the head maid could not offer her anything—she turns to a universal comm line and requests for guardsmen.

“You have pulled me into this madness!” Megatron bites back, too reverting to his pent-up emotions.

“I have done nothing to you!” Optimus argues. “I don’t even know you!”

“Do not lie so easily,” Megatron growls. “Your maid is being deceptive, I carry no guilt. Whether you like it or not, you must listen to what I have to say.”

“How sure you are!” Optimus laughs bitterly. “I will not! How dare you come to me, demanding my attention and devotion? I trust this bot more than I ever will you!”

Megatron’s weight slams into the table, clattering the empty cups and tiered display of goods comes falling down. It goes ignored by the two embittered nobles.

“Do not act so selfishly while I am doing what is best!” Megatron lets out a livid bellow.

“As am I!” Optimus doesn’t let Megatron’s strength or size deter him, he is quite happily giving into his rage. “You are doing nothing but serving yourself! I hear not what you heed because you give me no reason to! You are vague and incessant, rude and imposing, have you failed to consider how strange it is to a mech so close to marriage beckoning me like a lost lover! You do not know me, you have no right to demand anything from me!”

“Of course you must always come first!” Megatron’s shout is as furious as the last. “I am tossing myself aside for you and this is how you treat me? You are the one without shame, not I. Endlessly holding onto an ailment as if it was your crutch, you cannot hide behind this forever. You will have a kingdom to rule, but if this is how you are to be then I am sympathetic to its eventual fall.”

“And you would like that wouldn't you.” Optimus snarls.

Megatron’s expression is so deeply taut with anger, still not yet losing against reason, that he has to make an effort to calm himself with a gruff exhale directly out his intake. His shoulders sag as he feels the anger sapping the energy he had as he attempts to calm himself with a ragged breath, turned away from the room, but his glowing red optics are narrowed into tight slits in reminisce of his wrath. “If you would listen to what I have to say, we can move on from this—”

“No.” Optimus’ limit is reached and his patience worn, still holding Bumblebee’s servo he makes his attempt at a graceful exit from the room. “Enough, I’ve had enough.”

Megatron bites the inside of his cheek, and hits his fist against the table weakly, attempting to stop Optimus with a newfound clarity in his mind. The failure in his attempt is obvious. “Your highness, please—”

Before Optimus manages to take the first step, Megatron is circling the table to reach Optimus in the hopes of serving as a barrier to the door.

Optimus raises a servo up to stop Megatron, it fails and he ends up touching Megatron’s chest with a flat servo. He steps back, extending his arm to serve as a shield. “Spare me.” Optimus grits. “You’ve wasted enough of my time, I would think you value yours more. Excuse me.”

Megatron grabs Optimus’ arm with a strength that he has no right to impose, stopping the prince. “Listen to me—”

Beyond feelings of frustration, Bumblebee lets out a yowl—broken and binary—pulling attention onto him, just enough for Megatron’s grip to loosen, and makes for Optimus’ servo and starts sprinting.

Optimus, besides himself, is pulled to the side and then forward by Bumblebee’s steadfastness, unprepared for the sudden break for so-called freedom and lets out a startled sound as he is yanked along by Bumblebee out of the greenhouse. He hears Megatron and the gaggle of other bodies call out for him, yet Bumblebee has taken such speedy measures to ensure their departure. Optimus all but lets this happen; quietly assured that he’d be free from the disastrous situation if he simply played along by the time his processor recovered from the stun.

Like a bolt of yellow and blue lightning, Bumblebee and Optimus whiz past the three guardsmen that Chromia had called moments prior. Bumblebee continues to drag Optimus along as the prince makes optical contact with each of them, bearing a blank expression while doing so. He tries to wave at them, some piece of him needing to insist that he was fine. It was a failed endeavor, although he did manage to entrance the guardsmen long enough to stop them, following the two escapees with blank expressions.

Chromia lunges out from the doorway of the greenhouse. “What are you doing! The prince is in danger, after them!”

The guardsmen scramble, their armor rattling against one another as they make their change in trajectory.

Megatron follows Chromia’s half-sprint out of the doorway, and is then followed by Windy and Soundwave, pausing for a brief moment as they all try to digest what had happened.

Chromia whipped around to glare at Megatron. “You!” She points up at him. “This is all your fault!”

Megatron isn’t beyond knowing his guilt on the matter, but would rather not hear it from the bot that dealt him a borderline functionalist aggression earlier that cycle. Knowing this, Soundwave shoots Megatron a glare that he can feel from his side.

“Yes. I know. Don’t start.” He mumbles in response.

Chromia, naturally, believes this is targeted towards her. “‘Don’t start?’” She mocks. “‘Don’t start?!’ The prince has been kidnapped and you’re telling me to refrain from acting out?!”

“Kidnapped?” Megatron didn’t bother to hide his disbelief. “He let himself be dragged along by a bot half his size and a quarter of his strength! What danger is there?!”

Chromia howls and holds herself. “You know nothing of the prince. He’s beyond his strength! His size! He’s soft, kind, meek…”

“Pathetic!” Windy cuts in, treating the list like a game.

“I was going to say ‘acquiescent.’” Chromia’s tone flattens to annoyance. “Why would you ever use that term to describe his highness?”

Windy shrugged. “I’ve heard him use it for himself.”

“That doesn’t mean you ought to!” Chromia snaps before reverting back to scolding Megatron. “The purpose of my tangent is that your understanding of the prince is a gross misunderstanding, he is naive and lost, and must be cared for accordingly.”

“I think you’re the one making the misunderstanding, did you not see him when we argu—debated? He’s clearly not fleeced.” Megatron retorts. “But if you’ve going to be so ceaseless, I will go after him myself.”

Chromia bristles, her silks catch in the flared plating. “Most certainly not!” She makes a lunge to stop Megatron, but he lifts his arm away before she can make the attempt. Not that it would work.

“It was a statement, not a suggestion. I will tend to my mess, myself.” Megatron steps around Chromia. Throwing a look over his shoulder as he starts jogging away, he addresses Soundwave. “I’ll be back…later. I’ll comm you.”

Soundwave’s shoulders sag in an expression of a sigh, Windy (on the tips of her pedes) pets his shoulder sympathetically. The visored mech watches her attempt to comfort him, looking at her servo, then to her.

“It’s okay,” Windy offers. “This kinda stuff happens all the time.”

Soundwave was not reassured.

Chapter Text

“He’s alive.” A hooded figure spoke.

Another, without the same precaution to hide themselves, laughed. “ Oh, I’ve heard. Primus bless. ” Their tone took a familiar sweet tone, dappled in the same veil of feigned adoration.

“What do you mean, ‘Primus bless’! That wasn’t part of the plan! How could you fail?!” The first voice hissed, pulling the hood closer to their face.

“Would you calm down? This hardly changes anything now that he’s, well,” the other absentmindedly twiddled a long, almost rusted rod in their claws, “in a precarious position.”

“Precarious my aft! Did you not see si—” they let out a sharp hiss, twisting back to make sure that the only one who might have heard their mistake was the sleek, black figure they spoke to, “—Ultra Magnus handing the throne back to him? This was all for nothing!”

“Dense as always it seems,” the softer voice trilled. “Be grateful I’m siding with you of all mechs. Failure or not, we will avoid suspicion even if he’s functioning, the Lord High Protector hasn’t suspected anything outside of an accident.”

The larger of the two individuals paused in introspection. “Are you sure?”

“I am.” They purred in assurance. “And anyways, now I gain the upper hand.”

A flat pede stepped back. “ D on’t you mean ‘we’?”

A beautiful face turned to another with a smile as they flung the rod aside, it made a clang as it hit the concrete floor. “Right, of course, we have the upper hand,” heels clicked forward with drawled out the correction alluding of their laughable partnership. The lithe figure cornered their counter against the dark, detached section of a train station that neared the border between two halves of the planet, the beating winds of hovering locomotives on the tracks passed without so much as a deafening tone. It was a commoners method to transport—something neither speaker was—inexpensive compared to the luxury of a groundbridge.

The backside of a sleek, black servo gently caressed a shocked faceplate, “Now that he’s crown prince again , do you know what that means?”

Blue optics narrowed in anticipation , enough to indicate a no.

The dark figure smiled, fangs peek ing through shapely lips with a pointed cupid’s bow. “It means,” they whispered, “Ultra Magnus is going to step down sooner rather than later. His age is peeking through the faults of his reign and the others are not welcome of his widowed status.” They snidely looked the other up and down. “No offense.”

“None taken.” The deeper voice growled.

“Of course,” a soft thrum of an engine rumbles between them, a telling sign of their mockery. “Now that Iacon is weaker than ever, they’ll be paranoid. Even that little civil leader of yours is getting anxious. A Lord High Protector without his Prime is as good as merchant in the rust sea, after all. Surely you’ve heard whispering through the court? Playing regent is an obvious ploy on Ultra Magnus’ behalf, but for us, this opens a new series of possibilities.” They gently pulled their index digit on the length of their converse’s jaw, raising it up with a flick. “All we need is another to stand by his side—one that aligns with our beliefs for a just Cybertron.”

They departed from one another without a word, no longer safe in the creeping presence of the darkness. In the morning, news of a fatal train crash would spread through Uraya, but never beyond the small city that prided itself on all walks of life, northern and southern. After all, its passengers were poor and forgettable commoners, no more worth than a peasant or peon. The investigation would rule it an accident; the station was older, and Uraya was no more wealthy than Kaon or Simfur. The culprit? The failing tracks had loosened a metal rod from its place, sending the locomotive to its end.

Out the doors like crazed hens, down the steps like trickling water, across the courtyard like huntsmen, through the gardens like mechanimals, and out the palace gates like freedom was an option. A daze clouded over the prince asguardsmen, nobles, and others alike screamed for their escape to conclude as they scampered throughout the various locations confined by the royal grounds. It all happened in a blur for Optimus, every now and again he would think to catch a glimpse of a familiar face, only to depart far too quickly to deduce a name to match. He, however, never made an attempt to stop Bumblebee, the poor mech was as crazed as Optimus in his own right.

Buildings, landmarks, and the like passed in an a random order that Optimus couldn’t be bothered to pay any mind to. When marble turned away from the cobblestone that etched the walkways within the palace’s area in favor of stone with a heavy clatter as weight shifted onto the sturdy surface, Optimus realized its novelty and turned back; he saw the Onyx House grow small with every new step, and the collection of multicolored and scuffed guards scramble to chase after them, pushing their way through the doors towards the gates Optimus and Bumblebee had long passed. A blur of silver muddled by purple loomed behind the hulking mass of scampering warriors, a gleam of red urged Optimus to refrain from looking any longer.

That was around the time when they entered town.

Tattering cape in tow, a soft clatter of unequal steps coming to a surprising halt, Optimus blinks out of his haze with a handful of subroutines that tried to redistribute energy to his frame—it took about as long to do so as it did Bumblebee to disregard the bustling city life, only whizzing his helm around to find the best strategy to get away from their pursuers. The ghost sensation of a soft tug against his neck left no room for error in Optimus’ mind as the metaphorical shackles that bound him tensed with the growing distance from his residence. They would break soon enough, Optimus anticipated that silent snap almost as much as a successful escape.

Disregarding the stumbling from behind, Optimus looked straight ahead to find the roads were even, maintained, and glittered with the sameindication of wealth as did every other item that decorated the territory.By the looks of it, the location was uptown; clean, yet intimidatingly uninviting in the barriers of entry most of the shops and buildings lining the streets would entail. It was expected (being the closest civilian district to the palace)to naturally hold the upper crust of Northern social life. There were a few signs that caught Optimus’ attention, all shiny and perfect with their slogans and names. To his left, straight, on one side of the road that leads directly to the palace, was a sign that read ‘jewelry’ and a handful of complexities that Optimus failed to capture. The one to its side, ‘treats.’ Another had ‘armor,’ which seemed a verily out of place given that most nobles referred to such as ‘plating’ to refrain from violent implications. The thought was interrupted by a couple walking out, a high-ranking knight and their beau doing some shopping. Optimus couldn’t help but wonder how obscenely expensive the contents of these shops would be, and how easily he could obtain anything within it if he had not let himself be the accessory to his own kidnapping.

Even so, the roads were narrow and the buildings tightly packed to make space for the bodies that took to walking on the sidewalks. It bordered on homely if it were not so decadent in its display of wealth and glamour. A scant overlap to Orion’s uptown Iacon. A few bots rushed past them in alt-mods carrying goods from an early harvest, small clutches of raw energon blared bright blue with a dapple of emeralds in the mix. Optimus’ helm chased after the earthy scent of goods yet to be processed, catching the glimpse of the primary gate that served as a border to the town and the royal grounds. Optimus noted how it was cracked open, indicative of their exit.

Looking up from the wall, and back to the city, silver spires stretched their length up and wide, as if only now awakening to the presence of their prince. A warm light emanated out of them, fighting against the sun’s beams, as Optimus thought of the stories encapsulated in their walls; apartments, perhaps, or a library. It didn’t matter, really, what mattered was that he could finally face the view from his room that once whispered promises of security and safekeeping. He had long abandoned them, only to face them now with the help of a paranoid maid.

Bumblebee then pulled in the opposite direction he was facing.

Most of the inhabitants crossing the busy sidewalk would move out of the way with Bumblebee’s rushing. When more and more bothered to look up, echoed gasps of disbelief hung in the air with every new glimpse of Optimus. Now, at least somewhat coming to his senses, Optimus took the time to smile and wave as he was yanked along for the ride. They passed a confectionery, then stopped at the confectionerywhen Optimus took to window shopping with a delighted coo before a guard jolsted them back to their escape route. Somewhere along the route, his cape getting caught in the decorative fencing of a garden-styled building—a flower shop, most likely—ripping it clean off save for a small portion stuck in place by the grooves of Optimus’ armor. Bidding adieu to the worthless fabric, Optimus too sent it a reverent thank you when it when it would go on to trip a guard, causing a five-mech pileup.

Optimus couldn’t say he ever felt more alive as Bumblebee held onto his servo and ran them up, out, and further away from the glittering grounds of his supposed hometown. For a moment, Optimus entertained the idea of getting reformatted and disappearing off the face of the planet; it wouldn’t be so hard, as long as he had the means to do so. Which, given the unplanned nature of their escape, he didn’t. Nevertheless, Optimus was many things if not optimistic, so he took to considering jobs he could take to support this. A dockworker seemed like a good option, he had the strength and size for it, and the chance to move up the ranks opened the idea of off-world exploration. Optimus looked around as he jogged behind Bumblebee at the chance of finding a ‘hiring’ sign.

In the case of failure,where days of balls and T.E.A were to await him at the end, he could at least say he tried to run, that would make for a humorous anecdote while sipping on the liquid of lux.

The idealistic humor that Optimus fabricated came to a stuttering halt when the sound of sirens and rapidly projecting images of Bumblebee and Optimus popped up on every window, sign, and billboard imaginable, stopping the two for a klik as they looked around to find their faces surrounding them. Peering over to his side, Optimus took into account Bumblebee’s worsening expression of terror, and quickly made the attempt to read off the obviously hyperbolic description of Bumblebee's apparent crime with a new cloud of anticipation—not to be confused with the growing number of clouds in the sky that would bring with it acidic rain—he too would become the talk of the palace grounds for the stunts they were pulling in broad daylight. If they got caught.

“Keeping going.” Optimus said. “It appears that you’re now a wanted fugitive. The less we stop, the less likely they are to catch us.”

Bumblebee's optics widened, then narrowed with the encouragement and started running again.

Optimus let himself get dragged along, if not only by the sheer purport Bumblebee had by grasping onto his servo as tightly as he did. Reality now known, he wasn’t against going into hiding, he delighted at the prospect of running away from his problems. Now that it had taken a literal meaning, Optimus’ frame was buzzing with apprehension at the chains binding him finally snapping. The sound wasn’t as reassuring as he hoped they would be, though. He knew his status, and knew that disappearing—the way he wanted to—was a good as scrap. Fleeing would not serve him well in the future when he would eventually come to be found and Bumblebee deemed the guilty party, his conscience would tell him. His face darkened as they turned into a corner.

Robbed of most light, Optimus exited his thoughts as they entered the random alleyway. Letting go of Optimus, Bumblebee found a suspicious looking door and started banging on it as if it owed him money. Optimus remained comfortable at his back, turning down either end of the alleyway in case they were followed.

The two can hear scrambling from behind the door as something is shuffled around, only to be followed by a thud and then a curse. A small crook of the door opens with an angry bark.

“What do you want—!”

Bumblebee lets out a sharp bleep.

The door is opened fully and a pink and white bot steps into view. “Bumblebee?” She recycles her optics. “Well I’ll be damned! Long time so see, huh? What bring you—”

Frantic beeping cuts the bot off, when Bumblebee pulls Optimus in.

The bot at the door jumps and screams. “Primus!”

“My designation is Optimus, actually.” The prince answers jokingly. “May I have yours?”

“Ar…cee…” Arcee says, then adds. “Your highness.”

Bumblebee calls back Arcee’s attention as plays a game of charades only he can understand.

Prince and pauper watch on, trying to decipher what Bumblebee is blazing on about. They both fail.

“In any case, it's nice to meet you, Arcee.” Optimus comments with a quick glance to Arcee.

“Um, likewise, your highness.”

“Feel free to call me Optimus.”

“You know, I would rather not.”

Optimus agrees with a helm tilt, not yet a nod. “That’s fair.”

Another blare of sirens and projected images of Bumblebee and Optimus floats around the corner. Bumblebee yelps at the opportunity, pulling forward to yank Arcee out so she can see for herself.

“Ah.” Arcee says, seeing only a portion of the wanted posters. “That’s a first.”

“I hope we aren’t intruding. But it seems Bumblebee is making you our accomplice.” Optimus notes.

Arcee nods as she still tries to read more of the text, failing. “Yeah! Yeah, I think I got that.”

Bumblebee and Optimus wait for her to realize she is standing in the way of them hiding. After a solid fifteen kliks, Arcee catches herself with a soft sound and scurries out of the way. “Right! Come on in…I guess.”

Bumblebee pushes Optimus in before himself, a series of strained beeps encourage Optimus to take steps for himself.

He does. Stepping once, and he is through the door, Bumblebee squeaks out a beep as he falls forward—only to be caught by Optimus as he takes to conversing with Arcee.

“This is very kind of you to do, thank you.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“I would say yes, but I would think you consider me to have some unspoken level of power over you—so the answer will have to be no until I can convince you otherwise.” Optimus offers.

“Great.” Arcee says, unimpressed, leaning over to shut the door with her elbow. “Pardon my asking, your highness, but what is going on?”

Optimus preens with unknowing. “I do not know.” He holds Bumblebee up. “You will have to ask him.”

“I cannot, your highness.”

Optimus lowers Bumblebee a fraction. “Oh, right. I shall ask on your behalf then.”

Setting Bumblebee down, then forcing them to sit cross-legged in the cramped space only to then realize they are in some kind of back-room; walls of lace, fabric, and any other silken goods took up space on the wall in large spools. Optimus hums at the colorful sight as he takes hold of Bumblebee’s servos, interlacing their digits.

“Tell me about yourself.”

Bumblebee blinks, unaware that this was the course Optimus would take. [What?] He asks, his field lacing together his puzzlement to make the statement a question.

Optimus smiles simply. “I know your name, your job, your ailment, but little else. Tell me about you. I would like to get to know my student.”

“Um,” Arcee prompts. “With all due respect, I think you have bigger crystals to mine.”

“He cannot give a desirable answer when his spark is at 200 rotations a breem.” Optimus answers coolly. “So let’s start simple. Where are you from?”

Bumblebee shuffled his door wings into a passive state, contemplating an answer. [Polyhex.]

Optimus perks up. “Oh? How is it?”

Bumblebee shrugs. [Rough. Hot. Long ago.]

Optimus nods. “I see. How long have you been in Iacon, then?”

[Twelve vorns.]

“And how old are you?”

[Nineteen vorns.]

Optimus considers the time passed, he introduces a follow up question cautiously. “Does that mean you came alone?”

Bumblebee inadvertently sent feelings of grief through their touching fields.

[Yes.]

Optimus looks apologetic at the answer. “I’m sorry.”

Bumblebee shakes his helm. [O.K.]

Arcee watches on, utterly confused. “What are you doing?” She forfeits any signs of niceties.

“We are speaking by hand. You can get the language files when I’m done with them.” He offers, then adds more so to himself. “Which I will have to finish sooner rather than later.”

“Speaking by…servo?” Arcee asks, lifting her own to inspect its unrealized potential.

“That’s right. Although, its value to you is obsolete for now.” Optimus answers. “One moment, please.”

[Who is this bot?] He asks Bumblebee.

[Arcee.] He signs.

“Well I know that much.” Optimus replies. “What is she to you?”

[Friend.] Bumblebee answers quickly. [Very good friend.]

Optimus nods, looking up to Arcee in the process. “He says you are close.”

Arcee responds with a shocked expression, her servo falls to her side. “We are.”

“May I ask by what means?”

Arcee goes to look at Bumblebee, who looks right at her and offers a reassuring beep.

“We were both trained by the elite guard.” Arcee answers. “He was part of my squadron.”

Optimus’ optics recycle at Arcee's answer, focusing on Bumblebee. “You were taken in and trained by the elite guard?”

Bumblebee nods proudly. [I. Very good.]

Optimus offers a proud pulse through his own field. “I have no doubt that you were. You’re a very brave bot.”

Bumblebee’s doorwings fly up and flutter at the compliment, an unspoken thank you.

Arcee is familiar with the display, she ducks her helm in and laughs to herself. “We were good. Probably the best out there.”

Bumblebee lets go of Optimus’ servos to start boxing the air. Arcee laughs louder and does a similar move, punching in and out on opposite arms, flexing them both out, then crossing them over her spark. “We were untouchable. They had us working across the galaxy for the Northern Empire.” Her voice holds in reverence at the memory as her optics light with fire. “We had to fight off a legion of terrorcons, once, and emerged from the depths without anything more than a couple of scratches. Another time we had to do a recon mission during the Tetrahex Standstill where we defeated mercenaries out for your kind’s blood, and you didn’t even know it. Pits, I don’t think you even knew who we were.”

“Well, I do now.” Optimus mused in delight. “And you all did that before your current age?” He asks Bumblebee.

“Oh, yeah.” Arcee answers on his behalf. “Bee was like our little prodigy, everybot thought he was just some scout but we couldn’t have done it without him.”

Bumblebee’s optics flash bright, and he lets out a small clicking sound to mimic a soft chuckle, his doorwings fly up and down with it.

Even at such a lovely display, Optimus utters a question that sucks the room of its atmosphere. “What happened?”

Arcee and Bumblebee stiffen, and Optimus knows he’s made a mistake.

“It’s…complicated.” Arcee answers gruffly. “We weren’t active for longer than 3 vorns.”

Optimus offers the two an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, you shouldn’t answer that.” He turns to Bumblebee to try and shift away from the topic. “Is that why you signed ‘protect’ earlier today?”

Bumblebee nods enthusiastically, taking hold of Optimus again. [I will protect you.] A complete sentence, extra emphasis on his intentions.

Optimus gleams at the show of metier. “I will forever be in your debt, thank you.” Taking hold of Bumblebee’s arms, pulling them down and intertwining them once more—he leans down and taps Bumblebee’s forehelm with his own. [But don’t forget to protect yourself too.]

Bumblebee lets out a short beep, glitching in embarrassment by the show of affection. He nods his helm against Optimus, a slight scratching sound of his paint transferring onto Optimus’ crest. Arcee makes a quiet chuckle.

"What is this place, anyways?” Optimus asks, suddenly.

Arcee’s helm whips back to Optimus. “My boutique!” She answers cheerfully. “I mean, it’s technically mine, if you ignore the loans I had to take out to afford the place. You should’ve seen the looks on their faces when an ex-guardsmech asks for a loan to open a boutique, it’s a lot like yours right now.”

Optimus clamps his intake shut. “Sorry. It’s very lovely.”

“It’s a mess back here, your highness. Don’t lie, I know they teach you nobles better.”

Optimus shrinks into himself. “I’m sure the main floor is gorgeous, if your patterns and fabrics are anything to go by.”

“If you manage to live through this, I’ll give you a tour.” Arcee winks, just before the chime of her doors pulls her attention away from the prince. Her face darkens. “Pits, who knows who that might be. You two stay back here, and don’t make a peep. I don’t know what’s going on, but if Bee trusts you then you got my trust too.”

Optimus answers on Bumblebee’s behalf as well as his own. “Thank you. Be careful.”

Arcee laughs as she steps to the curtains that serve as a barrier. “Don’t underestimate me, when I get back I still want an explanation.”

She turns and welcomes the guests, starving Optimus or Bumblebee another chance to speak. Optimus waits for a moment, watching Arcee’s shadow bob against the creases of the curtains.

Pulling back, Optimus begins to prompt a less than ideal topic with a whisper. “Now that we’re both a bit calmer, let’s get to the less favorable topic. If you’d allow me to start.”

Bumblebee too sits back, he squeezes their servos together in preparation.

Optimus takes this as a sign to continue. “Take your time, and tell me what you know.”

Bumblebee’s servos encloses over Optimus’. It takes a while, but eventually Optimus is able to string together Bumblebee’s sentences.

[I don’t want to scare you.]

Optimus shakes his helm. “It’s bound to happen, you won’t scare me more than I already have been. Whatever it is, I will take it with grace.”

Bumblebee watches Optimus, hesitantly, he beeps out a small sound.

Optimus reassured him with a similar squeeze of the servos. [I will be okay.]

Reverting to chronolinguistics was a helpful push in the right direction. Bumblebee concentrates on weaving a precise answer. Waiting, Optimus takes in a portion of air for his systems to funnel through, holding it in long enough for Bumblebee to finish.

[I saw you fall.]

Optimus lets out the vent suddenly when the sentence was completed—ruefully at ease with the statement, save for his frame starting to react to a stressor. Somehow, he knew that it all had to come back to that accident. Bumblebee tenses in his grip, but Optimus soothes him with a whispered answer. “Alright, alright. It’s okay. I’m okay. What else?”

Bumblebee softened his hold and continued.

Every syllable was flexed between their digits with patience, Optimus had to wait on Bumblebee to spell check himself as he danced every new word. It was excruciating, the length it took for Bumblebee to piece together the words he was painting between their servos. Optimus couldn’t blame him, regardless of how frustrating the snail’s pace would soon become; he wouldn’t give himself the chance to feel resentful to the poor youth that held such a burden—only now narrowly blessed with the chance to speak it.

[You did not trip. No accident. Intentional.]

The last word gave rise a hot sensation along Optimus’ back, starting at the center and spreading out. Intentional, he knew what conclusion would be derived from the statement, there was only a choice left if he had not fallen by his own error. Feeling felt a lot stronger than hearing, when Bumblebee’s statements were paired with the uneven emotions pulsing through his field, there was an intermingling sensation that Optimus could only describe as suffocating. Whether he had deduced the feeling within himself or Bumblebee first, it didn’t matter, their surroundings—no matter how safe they could have been—felt dimly suspicious. Optimus had to suppress the need to look back, around, everywhere, as long as he knew there was nothing looking back. He took to asking instead. [What else did you see?]

[You were pushed.]

Optimus’ servos twitch as his face darkens at the admission, a twist of betrayal contorts his features painfully and completely entangled by his own mind.

Optimus is better equipped to handle the shock now, as opposed to his first day, he presses his field close even though Bumblebee can feel it. Distant thunder is muffled by the walls of fabric in Arcee’s establishment, but it still makes Optimus shudder. He cannot shake the unease from ghosting over him, blurring the world from his optics with a translucent veil. The shock was still, for the most part, underwhelming on Bumblebee’s part—almost concernedly passive.

Optimus can only attribute his reaction to shock, a freeze response his frame has taken to properly digest the news. He thinks he is shocked, at least, he wants to be, his emotional subroutines are blaring at him with warnings of his spark taking a higher rotation rate, and its associated risks. Optimus dismisses the warnings, he does not feel the change in his frame even when it should be obvious. Bumblebee is made aware of the growing rotations per breem as he looks to Optimus, searching for an opening to pull him back down to calmness. Optimus ignores him. The reaction is viscerally physiological, he is aware of his frame reacting, he feels the crawling sensation of defeat press close at his back, patiently awaiting its turn to consume him when shock had its fill. Even so, his mind is so detached from the world around him, it remains blissfully passive. It treats Bumblebee as a character, and his words as dialogue. The numbness buzzing over as his frame attempts to drown out the other feelings, whispering justification to the detachment he’s always had with his new body, a final bid to the succumbing to depersonalization. His face fell, neutral.

Optimus forced his optics closed as the detachment grew in his mind, linked by the strings of his knowledge—treating the replayed images made by his optical systems as a picture book, one he read with little delight, only out of need. His frame was ready to reject the idea while his processor refused to acknowledge it as truth. He felt cold. A thousand thoughts crossed his mind, but Optimus’ logic module had taken to preserving itself above the others to question the trustworthiness of Bumblebee’s account.

Perhaps he was speaking to an unreliable narrator; the logic module crooned. Yet, weren’t they all? So trapped by the confines of their mind that the objective truth would never come to be. Bumblebee was young, and mentally frail, for all Optimus knew it was a farce; another political play to take advantage of him. He wouldn’t put it past anyone in the courts, or any politician regardless of the universe he inhabited. Although he didn’t want to think so, that voice in the back of his mind regarded it with more enthusiasm. He reacted accordingly with it, his face betrayed nothing. [What else?]

Bumblebee’s frame tenses at Optimus’ poker face, he begins to struggle with his answers. [I heard a voice, with you.]

The prince refrained from an answer for a short while, expecting Bumblebee to continue as he tried to collect the mess his mind had made of every moment leading up to the one he could only assume he was living through. Intuitively, he checked the date and his chronometer, still splayed in the intricate text of a language he had yet to fully capture. It only grounded him slightly. He tried his best to paint himself in a calm light, optics still closed against the dim light of the backroom. The soft crackle of distant thunder urged him to open them and face reality.

Bumblebee was waiting. How infuriatingly considerate.

[Who?] Optimus finally asked.

[I don’t know.]

[Are you sure?]

[Very.]

Optimus goes to let out a deep sigh by turning his helm away from Bumblebee. “Okay.”

[But.] Bumblebee senses Optimus’ trepidation. He tries to add additional information quickly. [They know the duke.]

Optimus turns back sharply.

Bumblebee’s behavior towards the duke was now made apparent, if he could not find one half of the guilty party one would focus his attention to the other; regardless of the basis, Megatron seemed to be the next best thing in terms of a perpetrator. Were it any other point in time, Optimus might allow the accusation with the extent to which Bumblebee seemed convinced of the duke’s guilt. Optimus, however, now had more than a past life working in his favor. For one, it would be absurdly convenient for Megatron to be a guilty party. It was almost too easy for him to carry blame for what happened to Optimus given that he killed him in an alternative universe, likely his own if Optimus had not fallen in the first place.

Optimus tensed. There he goes reverting back to a novel long lost, its story embedded into his processor like a thick residue. Yet, its existence provided some use. Megatron will have failed in his attempt to kill him in the future given his current attempts at so-called amicability, despite how questionable they were. Aided in Optimus’ general switch in demeanor.

Yet that answer did not find approval by his logistics systems.

Optimus contemplated the thought of Megatron’s own personality divergence; a distinct variation from both the novel and first-hand accounts, wholly unreliable and marking of a greater problem; Megatron was as unpredictable as Optimus, an unfavorable thought bolstered by logistic threads in his mind.

Optimus disregarded the attempt on his life, perhaps a little too quickly, suddenly filled by a need to understand the circumstances surrounding it. [The duke said something.]

Bumblebee was quick to answer. [He said he knew.]

[So he knows about the attempt?]

[I think so.]

Optimus points a narrowed look onto Bumblebee, almost disappointed. [You think he wanted to try again.]

Bumblebee ducks slightly at the guarded look from Optimus, still, he answers honestly. [Yes.]

That made even less sense—if Megatron was to kill Optimus, in accordance with any logical course of action, it wouldn’t make sense to do so now when he’s already suffering from amnesia, let alone in public. If Megatron had an issue with Optimus prior to his fall, the problem had effectively corrected itself. If he already tried murder once, and failed, then it would only make sense to follow a second option; take advantage of Optimus’ amnesia. Which, based on what Optimus lived through, was what he was doing; which did give some credit to Bumblebee’s theory, but not enough. Even when Megatron failed to be amicable, the attempt was apparent. Bumblebee had acted under the wrong impression and it made him innocent of any outside influences; Optimus threw out political spy idea. Infuriatingly enough, Bumblebee had to be telling the truth and knows nothing more than what he saw.

Optimus scoffed, further irritated by the drive of emotional subroutines that had been damped for the sake of mental clarity. If Optimus were any duller he would conclude that Bumblebee would be right and Megatron tried to kill him, only now taking the time to try and hide it. Still, that was not a satisfactory conclusion for Optimus. He pried further. [How do you know this?]

Bumblebee understood the question. [I overheard them mention him.]

[Them?]

[Pusher.]

Optimus’ felt a small flicker of annoyance at the chosen noun, it seemed a bit undermining to the prospect of his assassination attempt.

Then, Optimus realized that Bumblebee was alluding to a mere mentioning—the duke was not present during his fall. Which was even more suspicious if he knew of it, which gave a bit more ground to Bumblebee’s claims, yet it hardly held up long enough to be more than a passing thought. After all, the first issue with that assumption was that Megatron was treating Optimus’ accident and his awakening as important; only the extent of which Optimus was not privy to. In respect to the duke’s knowledge, reincarnation might as well be a fairy tale, thus, prompting another problem. The duke, regardless of his involvement, shouldn’t assume the fall to be anything more than such, because falling and waking up is a natural course of action. If he were guilty, it would be a big oops, and he’d keep his distance to dissuade suspicion in his direction. Failure is hardly such when the victim was safe, healthy, and has no recollection of what happened—it merely opens another door. If the duke were truly guilty he would have left it as is and taken to other plots. But he didn’t, he sought Optimus out in a desperate manner; amnesia as a reason for a personality switch should have been a good enough excuse to deter him, except it wasn’t. It only angered him further, which meant one of two things: Megatron is an idiot or he knows more than Bumblebee. And, given that the duke has proven himself to be everything but stupid, the latter was the final conclusion.

Optimus separates their servos. “You misunderstand.” His voice dips into a whisper. “The duke couldn’t have tried to kill me just now. It’s illogical.”

Bumblebee tries to reconnect with Optimus, who gently pushes him away. “No. It doesn’t make sense for him to try after a first failed attempt, it—”

Undeterred, Bumblebee beeps furiously and pulls Optimus’ arm down to manually transfer a file to him; ushering open his wrist guard and along with Optimus’ and tapping them into a wireless connection. Optimus cannot pull away fast enough, and the file pings in his HUD.

[07-24: MEMORY LOG: 3:48 D.C.:...PLAY?]

A video, taken straight from Bumblebee’s hard drive. Optimus looks at Bumblebee, who nods his helm to encourage Optimus to play. Hesitantly, he does.

The video glitches, and starts with the sound of wide-set pedes stepping on the familiar tile of the first floor of the Sapphire Palace. It’s in the first person, obviously, through Bumblebee’s perspective. He looks to his side, dredging along an empty bucket with a rag in it, he finds place along the floor as the windows remain without curtains, a habit for the first floor of the Sapphire Palace. Every now and again the light comes and goes with every window and wall that is passed with no hurry on Bumblebee’s behalf. It continues as is for a moment, leaving Optimus confused.

Then he hears it, voices. Bumblebee must have heard it too, the video’s focus goes up at an angle close to the stairs. The voices are not easy to make out, their volume greatly obscures their words to nothing more than bits and pieces, Optimus finds himself squinting and leaning closer, as if that would grant him clarity to the glyphs spoken. Through Bumblebee’s optics, Optimus feels the hesitation. Willing to step closer, he gently leans down to set the bucket down to no sound, lucky. However, just as Bumblebee stands from setting the bucket down, yelling follows, Bumblebee’s head goes back up and then to his side as he ducks behind a pillar as the volume increases.

“Do you really think they’ll believe you!?” Is heard clearly, reverberating through the halls. “Do you think they’d believe you suddenly had a change of spark and want to do what’s best for the people?!” A laugh. “They were wrong! You do have a sense of humor!”

Optimus doesn’t recognize the voice, try as he might. Bumblebee in the video, meanwhile, bravely steps closer; he seems to press himself against the pillars. He manages to find himself closer, but still too far to see anything more than the faint outline of Optimus’ frame at the top of the stairs.

The unfamiliar voice continues, regardless. “You’re free to try as you please, prince, but this whole time you’ve been no better than your predecessors or I.”

Optimus wishes he knew more than what was being alluded to, but the sound of his own voice blanks his processor.

“I have made many mistakes,” Optimus’ voice growls, it’s a stark contrast to how he spoke now, his voice carried a nation with every glyph; knowing, aware, arrogant. “But I would never do them to undermine Iacon or the north.”

“Of course not. Tell me, Optimus, will your precarious little duke read that letter and come to your rescue? When that poor fool has nothing but hate for your kingdom and for you? You feel the touch of the matrix once and now you think you’re capable of change?”

Both versions of Optimus spoke at once. “What?”

“Oh, you heard me. You will not be saved by the hero you defiled.”

Optimus becomes catatonic, the worst of it, he doesn’t remember; he should, the unknown voice should have awakened something inside Optimus, anything, as long as it gave credence to recollection. It doesn’t, watching the video instills nothing of that night to his chagrin. Instead, he feels the perspective of Bumblebee as if it was his own, merely a witness to his own death.

“How do you know about—“

“About the letter? The vision? Come now, Optimus. I said there’s optics and audials everywhere, but I never said they were there for your protection.” A short pause, indicating movement. “You know, if I were you, I’d really be regretting that letter right now.”

“What?”

“Optics and audials, prime. There is a reason I get to be this bold.”

"No." Optimus heard himself in the loss of composure. “No.” The echo of stumbling. “I-it was only you, my vision only showed you.”

“My, is that so?”

“How—how did you manage to infiltrate my court, you witch.”

“Oh, if you couldn’t figure it out, what's the point of me telling you?”

“You’re lying, none of my people would ever do this.”

“Perhaps. But they’re not just your people, you know. They are the people of a duke, a baron, your brothers, and any other noble. A collection of cultures, bots, and beings condensed to a single term. The ‘North.’ Such a limiting term, don’t you think? There’s dozens like you, clutching onto whatever power they can while clawing at whatever scraps within their grasp. I can't say I’m any different. But my claws are very sharp.

It’s alright, in the end your attempts will be futile so you have nothing to worry about. You can go out with a clean slate, saved by your selflessness, remembered for your bravery, praised for your salvation. Isn’t that nice?”

Through the video, Optimus can see himself fall to his knees at the edge of the staircase, a ghostly feeling overtakes him as he sees himself pulled into a loving gesture by a sleek, dark, figure. They utter something quietly to Optimus, Bumblebee is unable to pick it up with how close Optimus and the figure are. It’s a small comment, short and sweet, they pick themselves back up sooner than anticipated and give Optimus a slight push.

The video cut before there was the sound of metal colliding with the stairs. But he knows what happens, he wishes he could feel it again as long as it meant he could remember.

Optimus cannot formulate a conductive answer to the video, he fights against the ability to close his servos, the movement is rigid and failing, searching for something to explain what he witnessed. He becomes hyper aware of himself, a stark contrast to before. Aware that this body is not his, nor the life tied to it. Everything around him shifts like a falling house of cards, frail, inevitable.

Another memory comes in place of his fall, desperate to avoid reliving death. Optimus feels the overlap. He sees his carrier’s disappointed face, blurred and flashing by as Rodimus and Sentinel are somewhere, he can feel their sparks close through their bond—a phantom pain now. It does nothing to comfort him.

Suddenly, an accident occurs, he could hear the piercing cries of his younger brothers; something broke beyond Optimus’ fractured sense of self. A vase fell, shattered, but it was always an accident. Optimus tensed, a lie he told himself; yet not him, the real Optimus, what his memory was telling him. They were all playing with it, pretending to be the characters painted on the piece. They took their roles too seriously, and the vase broke with a careless kick in its direction. Optimus could not remember the guilty party, but remembered taking the blame for it; the bitter anger that resurfaced from taking the blame warmed his freezing frame. A feeling that did not belong to him. He felt resentful of his brothers, the shattering sound paired perfectly with their screeching cries begging for forgiveness at the sight of such an accident.

Optimus feels his spark fall faint, a new overlap with the feeling of falling. He thinks it's a revelation, hopeful of seeing the guilty party’s face despite the agony of reliving it. He is left with only the pain instead.

You will not be saved by the hero you defiled.

The voice embraces Optimus in a hug, crushing him. Their words existed to keep him from straying, it was not the voice that hurt; only their words. Optimus feels the fear that resides in his frame grasp at the words, grieving their betrayal. Why did he feel betrayed? Orion’s spark pulls in, trying to refrain from touching its encasing. Fear kept him safe, fear kept him protected, fear is what kept Megatron away. But he formed a cruel contract with the herald of Unicron. After all, it served its purpose. As soon as he strayed, it ate away at him. He took his chance, and tossed it away for the sake of extending himself. He didn’t need to remember, or know the truth, it was never required. Megatron’s ineffable existence led to this, it was his fault. It had to be. Too much shifted and not enough would return to a life on lease. In the end, he was on borrowed time. Optimus was destined to die. If not betrayed by Megatron, then at the cost of his wrath, or the final consequences of the silver mech’s actions. He could not fight fate that wove them together, even with a new spark.

A servo waved frantically at Optimus to pull him back to the real world. Optimus’ optics go online, unaware that they had gone dark, only to stare at the black pop-up. Moving it out of the way, he locked optics with Bumblebee. Optimus studies the look on his face; distressed, concerned, apologetic, profoundly aware of the damage he’d done.

Optimus’ optics downturn sympathetically, his frustrations dragged away by the presence of an atmosphere dampened with the promise of rain. Bumblebee softens at the look. Another being too young for the throws of the life Optimus led, he had a trio of them now.

Lifting a servo up to rest it on Bumblebee’s helm, he speaks. “Thank you for telling me.”

He knows that the frame he harbors wasn’t his. Memories crept along the lines of code of his processor, squeezed away to make room for Orion, almost welcoming the excuse to hide away—picking and choosing what parts of them they wish to make known, the fall not one of them. Optimus considered the notion of being welcomed, and humored it. Dead and gone, in a figurative way, Optimus parted without a goodbye—there was no loss on his behalf, accepting Orion to take his place as he selfishly disappeared to the best of his abilities. The memories from before fade into what they were, memories, indications of the past, nothing more than obscured visions from a dirty crystal ball. Despite having just met with the past, sloppily offered on a filthy plate, he could only bother with the future. He considers his own misunderstandings stemming from his inherent nativity. And just like that, Optimus’ processor flickers back on track at the first sound of rain falling.

He does not know who could have tried to kill him, he cannot care when reality comes to rear its ugly head.

The yellow mech senses the shift in Optimus, he tries to reach out a testing servo. Optimus grabs it before it can touch him. A shot of regret mixed with fear passes through, his voice box short circuits a frazzled sound that parses Optimus to speak.

“You have to go.” Optimus commands, standing them both with little effort.

The duke’s purpose mattered not, what mattered was Bumblebee’s unaltered memory. One he had saved and left unedited; he was a key witness. One way or another, Bumblebee’s place was now the most dangerous of all—he was not protected by status or wealth, if his witness status was known, it would result in his death. Another branch of worry stemmed when any being aside from Optimus now posed a risk to Bumblebee.

Bumblebee makes a low buzzing sound, unwilling. And the sound of rain falling begins to patter harshly on the outside.

“If we are caught here, you will be killed. If it be by my house or another.” Optimus states bluntly, uncaring of the cruelty in the tone of his voice. There is more at risk than a few bruised feelings. “The guards will come here, and correctly suspect Arcee of harboring us. Do you have any other close friends you can run to?” He holds their hands together to allow Bumblebee a chance to answer.

Bumblebee shakes in his grip. The signs he makes are sloppy with the weight of inevitability coming down on him. He must realize now how hasty he was, but Optimus cannot blame him either; the young bot was far too noble for his own good.

[Crosshairs. Ratchet.]

Optimus makes a relieved face. “Ratchet? You’re close to Ratchet?”

Bumblebee approves of the deduction. [Mean but kind.]

“That’s terribly paradoxical,” Optimus notes randomly. “Do you know where he lives?”

[Same residence.] Bumblebee continues. [Emerald Quarters. Rooms are close.]

“Emerald quarters?” Optimus asks suddenly.

Bumblebee looked at their general surroundings, seeing that they were surrounded by fabric, he figured that the attempt to show him would be useless. [House.] He answered.

Optimus makes a small realization. “The attached buildings to the palace. Is that where you reside?”

Bumblebee nods. [Big outside.] He notes. [Bigger on inside.]

“And the last place they’ll look for a fugitive.” Optimus finishes the thought. “Give me your I.D. token.”

Bumblebee fusses with his subspace, pulling it out quickly.

Optimus snatches it up, and begins typing into it as he speaks. “You will have to go alone. Wait out in town for now, away from this boutique. I’ve attached my comm link, connect to it, and when I send you a signal, use it to sneak back to the palace grounds and give Ratchet this message to ask for sanctuary.” He closes the token, handing it back to Bumblebee. “Can you do that for me?”

Bumblebee makes a hesitant reach for the token, yet his servos do not shake. He nods.

Stepping away to pull at a dark, heavy fabric from Arcee’s selections, Optimus fastens it around Bumblebee’s frame in a cloak-like creation.

Optimus opens the back door while Bumblebee fidgets with the makeshift cape. The door slams back, aided by a strong gust of wind and the harsh pattering of rain on the ground. Optimus peers either way down the alleyway, which is fortunately empty. Bumblebee and Optimus step out into the cold rain slamming against them at an angle. Optimus ignores it in favor of sending Bumblebee off, hastily closing the door in the process.

Making sure to pull the hood forward to obscure Bumblebee’s face, Optimus uses the proximity to cup Bumblebee’s cheek, bringing him close to press their forehelms together. “I know you can do it, I have absolute faith in you. I know you promised to protect me, but for now, let me protect you.”

Bumblebee too shuts his optics and presses close to Optimus for one last attempt at sharing warmth. Optimus takes the gesture to press a kiss onto Bumblebee’s forehelm, the same way he suspected a creator would when sending off their creation to the academy; he selfishly wishes it was so simple as that. “Please, be careful.”

They separate and Bumblebee activates his face shield and departs with a final glance to Optimus, who nods at him to go.

Optimus stares at Bumblebee’s back until he turns the corner and disappears in the rain, he is comforted by the fact that the rain will protect him until Optimus can formulate a distraction to allow his entry back to the palace.

One deep vent in, and Optimus’ mind races with the issue of the duke and his messy involvement.

He has to return to the palace, if not only for Bumblebee; freedom was never an option, neither was an easy life. And, unfortunately, the duke’s desperation was his one-way ticket into returning without so much as a scolding.

The thought irked him considerably—the duke was by no means innocent, and his knowledge on what happened to Optimus was obvious, if not equally worrying. Yet, Optimus didn’t seem to mind the prospect of dying once again, at least, not Orion. He was tired, he realized, tired of the stress that binds to him regardless of the life he leads. It comes out as a cry of frustration when he slams a fist against the walls of the alleyway with rain hitting his plating at a strong angle.

If it were not obvious to Optimus before, it was now; Megatron was going to tell him the same thing Bumblebee just had. Unfortunately, the arrogant glitch was innocent as well.

And it’s easy to conclude why, now that Optimus has more than enough experience with reading into things. For one, the dark figure from Bumblebee’s memory was incessant about Megatron’s favor to them—something that would have been clear if Megatron did not lash out. That poor duke was under about as much stress as Optimus was, if he were even a touch more aware of his place he would not have allowed himself to betray the icy exterior he worked so hard to maintain.

He feels a pang of remorse, knowing that his need to send Bumblebee away meant that he would remain under the impression of the duke’s guilt. But it was for Bumblebee’s own good, it would warrant excess precaution on his part until Optimus returned to him.

“Peaceful life my aft.” He grumbles, picking himself up from the filthy ground, uncaring of his equally sullied frame, and departs from the alleyway in the opposite end as Bumblebee had.

...

Megatron snarled as he pushed his way out to the secondary gates, pushing his pauldrons up and out of the way to yank his decorative cape from its place—saving it from anymore ruination—and stuffed it into his subspace. He too entered the bustling life of Iacon as the rain thickened, obscuring his vision. The downpour had begun about halfway into his departure from the gilded halls of the royal grounds, by pede, no less. Escaping Chromia was maddening enough, he scantily saved by Windy’s needless praising of the duke and his capabilities of finding the wayward prince—not even a little distressed at the thought of Optimus’ disappearance. There was some hope on that end, at least, if the obsessive little thing wasn’t fretting, Megatron would save himself from watering down the feeling into his own emotional subroutines.

Stopping only a pace from the gates, now wide open to prepare for another search team likely on the way (this time, equipped with more than their lacking wits). A considerable collection of elite guardsmen stood around, yelling at one another their plans to split apart in search of the prince. They were a privatized fleet that waited on the royal family and little else, they too resided in close proximity of the royal territory if the entire northern hemisphere wasn’t included. Failing for a better term, the elite guard were essentially the royal family’s specially trained lapdogs, a part of the military Megatron had no control over.

Not that it stopped him, however.

“You!” Megatron barked at a young cadet. For now, ‘duke’ would go on hold in favor of ‘general.’ “State your designation, and what your others are planning.”

The young bot flailed to come to salute Megatron. “Smokescreen, sir! I’ve been assigned to go west, sir!”

Megatron narrowed his optics at the trembling figure. “Who gave you these orders?”

Smokescreen, still in a salute, looks back for a moment. “Commander Ironhide, sir!”

“Ironhide’s here?” Megatron tries to look for the dark paint of the mech in question, he sees it, but only barely as the rain dulls every color from the weight of its fall. He isn’t terribly surprised, a prince is missing (he wasn’t willing to use ‘kidnapped’) so it was only natural it became an issue of all hands on deck. Still, Megatron couldn't help but feel annoyed at the other’s presence. “At ease.”

No thanks were in order, Megatron sidestepped the youth and made his way to the figure huddled by a handful of others. Now, respect being the one chance he has at gaining the other’s attention, something he knows he does not have, Megatron does not call for Ironhide’s direct attention. Instead, Megatron stands tall and walks into the crowd surrounding Ironhide. They all part as soon as they start catching a glimpse of Megatron and his obvious intention. This continues until Megatron reaches Ironhide directly without a word, only to stop at his front. At his back, Megatron can feel the other guards flashing each other uneasy glaces, he ignores it.

“Commander.”

“Megatron.”

Off to a great start.

“How busy you must be to refrain from niceties.” Megatron notes with little ire—when it, indeed, irritated him.

“I don’t got nothin’ nice to say to the bot behind this mess.” Ironhide answers with a click of his glossa.

Megatron scoffs, rolling his optic and helm away from Ironhide. “Your conjunx has a wide intake.”

Ironhide, much like his lover, has a short temper that is easily abused. “Don’t say nothin’ ‘bout my beauty, mech.” 

“There isn’t much to say, anyways.” Megatron taunts. His servo goes up quickly to prevent Ironhide from blowing a gasket; which is visibly brewing if his faceplate was anything to go by. “I’ve come to offer my aid, given that—as you put it—this is my fault.”

Ironhide snorts, unconvinced. “Why? So you can cause a whole ‘nother ruckus? Ain’t you’ve done enough?”

The servo that was held up came to Megatron front, as he bowed down in a mocking display of passivity. “Oh, I assure you, there is still much that I can do.”

Ironhide scowls. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Megatron corrects as he stands. “One moment, please.” He snaps his digits and a small projection forms at his fingertips, using his talon and thumb to make the screen bigger, it becomes apparent that it is a comm screen, Soundwave’s designation and profile is visible.

It rings. Only once. A click comes in to inform Megatron of the recipient's answer.

Megatron wastes no time with greetings. “Soundwave. Lock the ports and shut down public transport systems, I want no groundbridges or trains in or out of the center of this city. When you finish that, access Iacon’s CCTV. Report to me with any findings.”

The call ends with no word from Soundwave, Megatron knows he will get the job done. The guards surrounding them are all shocked with varying degrees of awe sprinkled about. Megatron feels that tell-tale sign of his ego getting stroked, and a smirk finds itself comfortably on his lipplates.

Ironhide sputters indignantly. “What the frag is all that? What rights do you have to be manipulatin’ all of Iacon like this!”

“You forget who I am.” With one arm at his back, the other comes out to gesture at Iacon as a whole. Proudly, Megatorn let the rain fall on him like a spotlight. “I am the Duke of Iacon, am I not? You are on my territory the moment you fall past those gates. Although I have little control over it directly, those darling little papers your master signed makes everything I do my right so long as it serves the purpose of Iacon’s greater good. And isn’t the prince the principle of goodness in need of protection?” He finishes with a victorious grin, eating up the begrudgingly impressed pout that Ironhide has. His ego was forever unfulfilled even with such shameless acts to bolster it.

Ironhide grits his dente. “You just gonna stick around here and wait, then?”

“I have two legs and I intend to use them.” Megatron responds. “Why don’t we go opposite directions, see who wins.”

“This is no laughing matter, Megatron.” Ironhide bites with a sudden ferocity in his tone. “Chromia told me what you said, and I don’t give a rustrat’s aft ‘bout what you think ‘bout this mess.” Ironhide points at the gate, Megatron’s gaze follows. “Outside those walls, his highness is a walking target just waitin’ to get snatched up, ‘specially in his current state. And I’ll be damned if you think I’m lettin’ you fox your way out of responsibility by playin’ coy.”

Looking at the wall, Megatron’s ego is whipped back into check by Ironhide in the form of his optic twitching in discomfort. Even if he’s unwilling to admit it, Ironhide was right, he got swept up in his insecurities again and cost them time that should have been spent looking for Optimus. The show he put forward was aimed at himself and ultimately backfired. And rightfully so. “Perhaps.” Megatron answers coolly. “Allow me to go west, then.”

Ironhide relaxes a fraction at Megatron’s cooperation. “I’ll head east, you need some help?”

That was about as far as Ironhide would go in terms of offering aid to Megatron. “No need, I’m just as capable on my own. I’ll attract less suspicion this way.”

Ironhide offers a chuff in response and the two depart from one another without another word. Passing the gates once more, Megatron sticks to the sidewalk as he heads west towards a handful of unfamiliar buildings. Despite the pretty words he put forward, Megatron didn’t familiarize himself with Iacon very much, he never felt much reason to. Looking up to his left, away from the gate and to the town, Megatron notes the dwindled city life as most ducked into the nearest building to wait out the storm. Finding some refuge from the rain under the canopies of the local shops, he hears steps, and ignores them momentarily. However, looking to his side when a certain confectionery caught his attention, Megatron finally sees the frame behind the steps. He stops under the sweets shop.

“Cadet.”

Smokescreen straightens. “Yes, sir!”

“What are you doing?”

“Going west, sir!”

“I never told you to come with me.”

Smokescreen’s vigor dampened. “Well, no, not exactly, sir. But, you know, since I was also going west…I thought…that…you…might need backup, sir?”

“What possible aid could you offer me?” Megatron deadpans at the cadet who is half his height, age, and strength.

“I’m pretty quick, sir!” Smokescreen punches the air. “Safety in numbers! I can help, sir!”

Megatron clenches and unclenches his jaw at the juvenile, there was no way he would win against vitality in its purest form. “Alright, fine.”

Smokescreen hollers in excitement. He catches himself with a muffled screech and another salute. “Thank you, sir!”

Megatron rolls his optics. “And stop calling me sir, it’s annoying. And makes me feel…” He immediately regrets starting a new sentence, but he is above trailing off so he finishes it. “Old.”

Smokescreen, for all his youthful energy, does not know how to read a room. “Um, well, aren’t you, si—ahem.” He applauded himself for catching the one thing asked of him, and then causing another rise of anger in the duke.

“I’m not even thirty!” Megatron bristles, pointing a digit at Smokescreen. His anger dwindles for a second, when taking into account that he will be sooner rather than later. “Yet.” He goes back to being upset. “I am not old!”

Smokescreen takes this a chance to flex his own age. “Wow! I’m eighteen! You’re like,” He pauses, pulling up his servos to try and subtract the difference. He fails. “At least five vorns older than me.”

Megatron watches Smokescreen’s struggle and comes to terms with the fact that all elite guards must have ‘flunked the academy’ as a prerequisite. “Forget it.” He waves Smokescreen off, going back to walking. “And it’s eleven vorns.”

Smokescreen chases Megatron, catching up to his side. “So I was right!”

Megatron’s helm tilts to the side in consideration. “I guess.”

Smokescreen preens. “Yeah, I’m pretty smart. Don’t you think, sir? Oops.” He covers his intake.

Megatron’s optics twitch in annoyance. “You’re worse than Windy.” He grumbles.

Smokescreen doesn’t hear it over the rain. “What should I call you?” He asks, earnestly enough.

“Duke, your grace, general, commander, lordship,” Megatron lists. “I don’t care as long as it’s not ‘sir.’”

“You got it, Megatron!”

Megatron prepares to scold the mech for going straight into ‘terms that are strictly familiar’ but doesn’t, or rather, can’t, since he was the one that allowed it. “Sure, just keep quiet unless you see something.”

Smokescreen accepts the orders easily enough. “As long as what I’m saying now doesn’t count. Yes, Megatron!”

Megatron internally cringed, somehow, the use of his designation as a direct substitute for ‘sir’ was going to have dire consequences. He decided to ignore it to the best of his abilities, given that there was a greater task to tend to at hand. When he and Smokescreen had managed past the small collection of shops, the rain had worsened and veiled most of their attempts at looking out. Lifting a servo to serve as a shield as he looked farther in the distance, the disarmingly lifeless streets were an ominous sign to Megatron.

Recalling the small lecture Ironhide had delivered onto him, Megatron gestured at Smokescreen to cross the street so he could broaden their range. Fortunately, Smokescreen did take the commands without a peep and skipped over to the other side. Taking a look over to try and find Smokescreen, Megatron was irate to find that the rain did indeed worsen their visibility considerably when he found that Smokescreen’s figure was harder to detect—and heat vision was a useless when searching for one target within an entire city. A look up to the dark skies indicated that the acid rain had no signs of leveling anytime soon, Megatron clicked his glossa, flying was not an option unless he wanted to get struck by lightning.

He yelled for Smokescreen’s return after two blocks, which proved a greater issue when the round of rain colliding with the roads only made his already loud voice dwindle in power. It took nearly a breem of yelling to get the point across, things were not looking good.

Arriving at Megatron’s side, now shielding his own optics, Smokescreen’s voice grew loud to convey his message in the pouring rain. “Any sights of his highness?”

“No.” Megatron answers, still looking out. He figures this attempt at a search and rescue is useless and old fashioned. Keeping Smokescreen at his side, Megatron sees the soft glow of a restaurant’s sign flicker in the distance and walks towards it, Smokescreen follows along without needing to be told.

Entering the quaint restaurant, the atmosphere is considerably different compared to the rest of uptown Iacon. For one, its interior is small and humble, held together by prayers and a homey ambiance. Smokescreen must have had the same conclusion when he tries to comment on it.

“Huh, this is different.”

Based on the sheer lack of customers, and the fact no one stood at the front or greeted them, Megatron would have to be inclined to agree.

Another careful step in, trying to decipher a meaning behind the desolate space—while doing a routine check for danger—Megatron is met with another wordless response by the location and its possible inhabitants. Standing at the center of the small local, Megatron set his hands on his hips and did a full 360 of the place as he stood in the same spot. The dimmed lights seemed intentional, almost haunting, maintained but not to the brightness they should. The door was also open, so it wasn’t closed for the day. A final look to a small register, the cash cabinet was looked in place, shut from use in a prior joor.

Megatron nodded approvingly. “They’re out for lunch.”

“They are?” Smokescreen asked.

Megatron points to the door. “Open door,” Then the lights. “Electricity is running,” And finally, to the front where a small register remained. “Register is locked. Out for lunch.” He walks to steps and sits in a small booth. “Business must be slow, they wouldn’t expect anyone with the storm hitting.”

Smokescreen waddles over to sit on the other side of the booth. “Then why are we here?”

“You have Ironhide’s commlink, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Give him a call, I’m not a fan of this method of searching.”

Smokescreen looks hesitant at the request, but can’t exactly refuse it. He calls Ironhide.

“And put it on speaker.” Megatron grabs a napkin from a small container, taking it and a small condiment container with grease in it, starting to draw on it.

The comm line opens. “What?” Ironhide answers curtly.

“Commander!” Megatron coos. “How is the search on your end?”

“Megatron?” Ironhide’s double take to the caller I.D. is heard, as if the rain against his plating. “Where are you? Why is it so quiet?”

“We’ve taken refuge at a local restaurant.” Megatron says, not looking up from his doodling. “I’m afraid our little skirmish left me with bruised pride that shall now be taken advantage of.”

“Oh yeah? What’ll it be then?”

Lifting the bottle of grease from the napkin, Megatron sets it down and pulls Smokescreen closer (over the table at an awkward position). Setting his optics on the grease-laden napkin, Megatron starts to speak. “Given that I’ve only barely taken to cutting Iacon off— something that will take a bit longer to fulfill when Iacon is as big and busy as she is—and we’ve been searching for about a joor with no signs of the prince; are there any other methods you’ve tried I should be aware of?”

Ironhide goes silent, only the pitter patter of rain echoes through the call. “‘Fraid not, mechpower is all we got for now.”

“What about a tracker? Have you contacted the head medic for the prince’s spark signature so we can use a locator with it?” Megatron takes another handful of napkins, setting them around the original to continue his art.

“Actually–” Ironhide pauses. “Yeah, we did. But the medic wouldn’t give us the info.”

Megatron stops. “He wouldn’t give it, how?”

“At all.” Ironhide clarifies. “He was talkin’ up a storm about ‘doctor-patient confidentiality.’ We gave up before we wasted any more time.”

“That’s weird.” Megatron mumbles. “Is it not something on file?” He asks, in a louder voice.

“Nope, too risky.”

Megatron hovers over the table, his talons tap rhythmically against its surface in his tell of stress-filled thought. “Stay on the line.” He says, then comms Soundwave.

One ring, then he picks up. “Lord Megatron.”

“Anything?”

“Negative.”

Megatron pinches the space between his optics on his nasal ridge. “Check the southeast district.”

A pause. “Negative.”

“What?” Megatron feels a cloud of nerves start to take hold. He goes back to Ironhide. “Have you found anything that might even allude to the prince’s location.”

Ironhide finishes sending another set of orders to his mechs. “Not a damn thing.” He answers with a bitter tone. “A couple of mechs stumbled into his cape, but he was out of their reach by the time they got back up. Said he was going west, but we ain’t got nothin’ from that way yet so we regrouped out front to try other directions.”

Megatron hummed. “Where are you looking?”

Ironhide lets out a rugged sigh. “Streets, shops, cans, alleyways, you name it and we’ve tried it.”

Megatron turns to Soundwave’s comm. “What about the Apex district?”

“Negative.”

“Delta district?”

“Negative.”

“These are all western districts.” Megatron bites.

“You’re checkin’ too far.” Ironhide sighs. “Ain’t no way he made it halfway across Iacon on pede, in a joor. Try somethin’ closer.”

“Closer?”

“Something southwest, maybe?”

Megatron hesitates, hovering over the two commlinks with a cautious air before he barks out a final order.

“Soundwave, check the red light district.”

“Now hold on a klik!” Ironhide is audibly scandalized. “That’s a bit too southwest! What are you implyin’ by sayin’ he’s over there?!”

“I don't know.” Megatron hisses. “If no one has found him at the palace’s perimeter then he’s obviously gone further than we’ve considered.” He gestures at Smokescreen with his helm to look down at the makeshift map he’s made of Iacon that took up the entire table—significantly more through that anything the elite guard had to offer—it had details in thinner lines of alleyways rather than roads (which went almost entirely ignored in most official maps) while cameras were indicated by large blobs of the grease.

Smokescreen tilted his helm to the side and whispered. “Couldn’t you just pull this up?”

“Not every map has a thorough depiction of the seedier sides of Iacon.” He whispers back.

Soundwave interrupts, suddenly. “Prince: Found.”

Ironhide, Megatron, and Smokescreen yelped in unison. “Where?!”

Soundwave didn’t even try to play it off, he sent them all a live video feed of Optimus standing in front of a CCTV with his hands over his chest talking to someone. Occasionally, he shoots a glare up to the camera and continues his conversation.

“Red Light District: Jade Street.”

Ironhide is astounded over the commlink. “How the slag he get over there!?”

Smokescreen is astounded to a different degree. “How did Soundwave get my comm line?”

Soundwave snickers, returning to talk to Megatron directly. “Prince: Alone.”

Megatron studies the live feed, and it seems exactly the case. “His apparent kidnapper is nowhere to be found.”

“Maybe he shook him off and started running the first chance he could?” Smokescreen offers.

“Fat chance.” Ironhide snorts. “We would have seen him on the cameras.”

“Affirmative.” Soundwave agrees.

Megatron’s face goes down to the makeshift map, tracing wildly at the possible transgression. “He must have used the alleyways, taking directions from passersby while doing so…”

“That ain’t possible!” Ironhide was left aghast. “We shoulda’ seen him!”

“And I agree.” Megatron contended. “But it’s likely that he did so while trying to outrun his kidnapper,” Megatron couldn’t believe he used the term almost literally. “If we couldn’t find him—the whole of the elite guard—then it’s likely the other wouldn’t have either. I mean, he’s practically taunting us by now making himself known.” He finishes.

“Clever mech.” Smokescreen whispers.

“And suspicious.” Megatron’s optics darken. With one final look at the map, Megatron snatches the collection of dirtied napkins into a ball of damp mush, and throws it into a bin as he prepares to make his exit. “Smokescreen and I are closer to Jade Street, we’ll go ahead first and see if we can catch him. Meet us there as soon as you can.”

Ironhide offers a gruff approval of the plan. “You got it.” The comm link cuts off with Ironhide starting to bark orders to move to Jade Street.

Megatron departs from Soundwave with a thank you, leaves a tip at the counter, and drags Smokescreen out the door to a storm that died down into a drizzle. With the clouds receding, it is becoming increasingly apparent that the evening is near, and with it an equally desolate night if the storm manages to depart.

“Guess our luck is starting to show.” Megatron remarks with his hand out to greet the sprinkling, although the nearing dark has left the acknowledgment of the rain to become primarily physical.

Smokescreen hums excitedly. “Which way is jade street?”

“Southwest, of course.” Megatron responded. “It’s more than a couple of blocks.” He takes a look up to the sky, then to the feed Soundwave had bestowed upon them. “If I fly it shouldn’t take me more than 5 breems.”

“But I can’t fly,” Smokescreen starts, more akin to a whine.

“You’ll catch up.” Megatron offers, grinning over his shoulder. “Eventually.”

Smokescreen tries a rebuttal, but before he knows it Megatron is halfway into his transformation and the blast from his thrusters leaves the youth tumbling back and coughing from the smoke.

Megatron can half-witness through his sensors the sudden shift Smokescreen takes as his heat signature accelerates behind him—indicating his own transformation and hitherto movement to the all-allusive Jade Street. In an opportunistic bid, Megatron speeds up considerably in the hopes of dropping 5 breems to 2, nearly missing the street in its entirety. Dropping his acceleration to a dangerous degree in its suddenness, Megatron somehow manages to not crash land with the manual override his programming took to combat a dangerous shift in speed.

Jade street—as according to maps and Soundwave—was one of the starting branches that took to smaller roads, not ideal for landing a jet. Megatron notes this and continues slightly until he happens upon the much more accommodating Spade Avenue. Taking a small u-turn, he continues to drop his speed while rearing closer to the parts of the road below that were kinder to his landing gear and free of pedestrians. When he comes to a near-skittering halt, he transforms back into root form to a graceful strut, ignoring those few that he walked past with stunned expressions.

Stepping away from Spade Avenue, onto the sidewalk and towards the delicately desolate Jade Street through a small way that inadvertently connected the two, Megatron made sure to refrain from looking down unless he was to catch the optic of some sleaze or drunk looking for a quick buck. They were, as he so affectionately put it, from days past for an excitable pair of adopted youths. Now, there was a grown mech walking among them, and he could not be bothered to pertain to them as he did in the past—he had a bigger problem than the possibility of a growing charge. Entering onto the desired street in question, Megatron looks down either end in the hopes of finding Optimus. When that failed him, he took to looking through the live footage, only to find that Optimus had disappeared from the spot. Mumbling a curse, Megatron closed the projection and turned to his left (the inadvertent winner of a coin toss over the right) to try and levy an attempt to find the prince with wit and luck.

In another bout of selective attention, Megatron passed a gaggle of concubines who cooed as he passed.

“Wow! You weren’t kidding, it’s the real deal!” One of them crooned.

“My, he is handsome.” Another spoke, taking a sip at their drink.

A third took to inspecting Megatron with a greater sense of analysis. “Look at those legs! Is that fashionable in high society now?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” The fourth, and significantly lower voice of the quad said. “Maybe he just likes being tall.”

Megatron stops, just barely out of sight for the group, at the edge of the stall they inhabited, hidden by its wall. Still, he manages to hear them speak.

The other three giggle, the first leaning in closer to the fourth to murmur an appraisal, unknowing of Megatron’s continued presence. “So is he as proud as they say?”

“Ask him yourself,” The fourth chides. “I’m sure you can charm him long enough to get a little more than just his ego.”

“And what an ego he must have!” The second jokes, and they all erupt into a guffaw of upper class mockery at the innuendo.

Megatron turns around, and stomps back to the literal hole-in-the-wall establishment. Turning from the wall to the dugout that blared with red and pink lights, he was met with wide optics—two pairs of yellow, one green, and the other that alluring shade of blue.

Green optics cycled wide, going over to slap one of the yellow optics on the shoulder. The first voice. They inhabited a shiny black frame, smaller than the others, and objectively the prettiest by northern standards—if Megatron were to take an objective gander. Their waist tapered thin, their legs crossed, as they turned to another with a hiss. “He heard you, Era!”

Era shrugged, their frame was painted a yellow color that was duller than the light emanating from their optics. White and black accents painted themselves along the transformation seams of their armor. They were sturdier, larger, and stronger by the looks of it—a more southern gander at objective beauty, if Megatron had a preference, they would come in second place—and they appeared all the more content with the attention. “Let him, I’m sure he’d rather me than you, Zephera.” The third voice.

The second of the yellow-optics rolled back in annoyance, a green frame, dark, akin to an emerald as they shined with a knowing aura of dignity that the other two seemed to lack. They were classic in shape, not too bulky, nor stylized to be exceptionally thin. Still, a beautiful bot. They were also older by the way their optics narrowed naturally in rest, almost a mix of the previous two. The second voice followed through. “Goodness, such grace and humility exemplified by you.”

“I do not seek your lecture, Crest.” Era scoffs.

“Then do not entice it.” Crest snaps.

Beyond the bickering of the other three, Megatron finds the face of Optimus sitting among them, taking a sip from his own drinking and greeting Megatron with a mischievous grin.

“Good evening, your grace.”

“Your highness.” Megatron doesn’t match the greeting, meeting the smile with a scowl. “So this is where you’ve spent the day, drinking with courtesans.”

Optimus holds his drink to inspect it. “This isn’t a cube of high grade, if that’s what you're alluding to. And I’m not drunk.” He uses the same drink to point at Megatron. “If you are to accuse me of anything, do say that I’m avoiding responsibility.”

Megatron’s temper thins at the shift in character, comparing it to their T.E.A earlier in the day. “I figured that much to be given.”

“Then are you here to take?” Optimus answered with a narrowing of the optics.

Megatron doesn’t enjoy being on even footing with Optimus, it feels too familiar in a distant manner, worsened by his attempts to portray himself highly. He breaks their locked gazes for a moment. “I’ve upset you.”

“You have.” Optimus answers honestly.

Megatron looks back to Optimus with a puzzled look, unsuspecting of Optimus’ agreement.

“I’m not going to lie to you,” Optimus answered an unsaid question. He sets his drink down, offers a quiet bid of thanks to his companions, and approaches Megatron with an even look. “And I won’t deny my own faults in this disaster of my enabling. I’ve had to do a terrible amount of thinking, these past stellar-cycles, and I’ve grown tired of you centering each of them.” He follows up with a pointed look at Megatron as he reaches his side.

Megatron waits for Optimus to stop where he was, with that sassy sway of his hips and even glare, but he doesn’t, he walks past Megatron and steps onto the sides of the street cowed with vendors and makes his way up the road—likely on the same route he came.

With only his helm, Megatron follows Optimus as he walks away, stopping only to turn at the waist and shoot a question.

“Are you coming or not?”

The gaggle of concubines laugh at Megatron as he attempts to ignore them, heated embarrassment swells in his chest. He follows Optimus carefully up the street.

“Where are we going?” He has the nerve to ask.

Optimus shrugs as Megatron finally catches up to his side. “I believe I’m supposed to call it home, but I find that term a bit ironic.”

Outside of the red and pink lights, Megatron can finally capture the image of Optimus as they pass under a street light. His silver armor was scuffed, the paint on his forearms was scratched and tattered, showing more bits of silver where the paint chipped off. Some erosion from the day’s earlier storm had stripped his frame of shine, leaving him dull. His helm was scuffed and lacking nearly all its paint. Despite all this, he walked with a greater level of confidence than he had earlier in the day, his optics shone in a healthy blue, pulled into an even expression.

“I think a duke should know better than to stare.” Optimus comments, forcing Megatron to pry his gaze away.

Megatron tries to remove some of the embarrassment. “I was worried for your safety, your plating is dull and your finish, lacking.”

“Cosmetics are a luxury I was not keen to entertain when I spent the day running away. I apologize profusely for disappointing you.” Optimus laments sarcastically.

Megatron stops their sardonic walk with a flare of his temper, thin patience unfurling like twine. Yanking Optimus into the nearest alleyway to avoid being seen by others, he manhandles Optimus to hold him at the shoulders, narrowly avoiding the fleeing need to press him against a wall to further his point. Megatron’s talons refrain from excessive pressure. “I know you are upset with me, and I will admit my fault in causing this. However, do not treat this so casually, if your little escapades with the maid relegated to the palace grounds, I may tolerate this attitude. But you are miles away from the palace, in a condition that is worse than half of those within the slums, with no means of protection. The elite guard has spent joors looking for you, you have cost your state thousands in taxes and wasted time. I cannot even imagine the ruins your family must be in, unknowing of your condition.” Something within Megatron snapped, and he pushed Optimus against the wall. “Do not make it a point of pride to be a burden on others.”

Optimus huffs, mockingly, yet seemingly unaffected by Megatron's temper. An air of arrogance surrounds him. “So you think of me as a burden.”

“You will not ignore my warning in favor of a red herring.” Megatron growls in reply.

“I wouldn’t if you were not a liar.” Optimus retorts, giving rise to the same anger as before. He struggles against Megatron’s hold for a moment, when he inevitably fails against the handiwork of a mech designed to kill, he falls back against the wall with a small thunk! The two look into each other's optics for a moment, Megatron’s gaze is bordering a glare, but softens when it realizes Optimus isn’t glaring, either. Optimus has a pained expression, he looks away, beyond Megatron’s forearm with a shaky sigh. “I can’t even stand to look at you.”

The duke loosens his grip. “Your highness,” He tries but Optimus is quick to cut it off.

“I don’t understand you.”

Megatron stops, his mind blanks at the sudden admission.

Optimus rests his helm against the wall in defeat, losing some of his fire. “Why must you center this worthless existence?” He yearns for the answer, the pained expression grows on Optimus’ face. “You’ve made such a mess of things.”

Megatron pulled back without comment in favor of letting Optimus continue.

Optimus feels less imposed on as Megatron makes the effort to make himself distant, but does not follow up for a short while. Reminiscent of their first meeting, he searches over Megatron in the hopes of an answer he will not receive.

He’s exceedingly hesitant, his intake sits at an awkward opening. Eventually, he manages something. “You lied to me.”

Megatron’s optics narrow somewhat, likely at the vagueness of the accusation.

“You do not love me,” Optimus clarifies. “You do not love me, were were not close, and you have lied to me. Yet I cannot understand why—why you would lie over something so irrelevant, when the truth is much worse.”

“You are right, I do not.” Megatron admits without any bitterness, more so to present the facts truthfully. “I needed to get close to you.”

Optimus’ lipplates tighten, he takes in a shaky vent. “I know how I fell. I know it wasn’t an accident.”

Red optics flash in shock and a wave of nerves pass through him, he takes a sudden step forward. “Then you—!”

Optimus shuffles back, so much so that he trips and falls into the ground, leaving Megatron to still midway into coming close, arms up in the hopes of appearing nonthreatening. “Then you understand why I had to lie.” He pleads in a softer voice.

“I don’t.” Optimus laments, thankful that Megatron isn’t trying to help him up. “I can’t understand something I am only now aware of.”

“I admit my fault in that, I’m sorry.” Megatron says, his faces pinches into a silent scolding of himself. “But it was never my intention to cause this.”

“We would have spared ourselves this mess if you’d been upfront.” Optimus’ comment is bitter, leaving a foul taste in its wake.

Megatron clenched his jaw prior to speaking, swallowing his anger from rising once more. “I was thinking of a way of bridging a new relationship so I could tell you what happened.”

Optimus didn’t like that answer, his voice took a louder tone. “So you lied to me?”

Megatron straightened in defense. “Of course I lied! Do you expect me to show up on your doorstep holding a bouquet with the news of an attempt on your life?” He let himself play up the sentiment by feigning a hold on a bouquet and flailing a servo flippantly.

“I would rather that than you implying we were in love!” Optimus bites.

“Look at me and tell me you would have believed that instead of my attempt at a subtle build-up.” Megatron falls into a habitual growl.

Optimus plating flares to distract from the reality that he would have probably banned the duke from his residence if he did. “That’s besides the point! You were going to manipulate me! Dare I say you almost succeeded!”

“To protect you!” Megatron interjects, his servos splay over his chest in an imperative move to ethos. “I was doing it for you!”

Optimus sneers. “I sincerely doubt that!”

Megatron throws out the secondary attempt to garner some sympathy, he closes in on Optimus again as their voices bridge a louder volume. “Okay, fine, not entirely for you, but you must understand that it was for the greater good!”

Optimus doesn’t appreciate the sudden attempt closeness, his mind is still frayed with reeling. So, in a bout of lacking sanity, he takes to grabbing random things from the ground—namely, trash—and throwing it at Megatron. “Get away from me!”

The trash bounced off of Megatron’s armor. “Stop! St–op! Ow! Stop throwing things at me, you hysteric!”

“Oh that’s rich coming from you, gaslighter!”

Megatron ducks as a rusty can flies over his helm. “I don’t know what that word means, but I will take it as an offense!”

“Correct you are! It means you're a lying piece of slag!” Optimus growls, he goes to throw down a garbage bin for better access at his chosen arsenal and throws another handful of junk. “I’ve changed my mind! Once more I have grown sick of you! Get—go! Scram!”

Megatron catches one of small projectiles from Optimus and tosses it to his side, in a frenzy, he falls to his knees and crawls towards Optimus. “I am not risking you endangering yourself and others just because you think my methods are unorthodox, come here!”

“Unorthodox?! You were going to make me a side piece!”

“What are these phrases you keep using?!”

The sound of yelling other then their own stops the two for a moment long enough for them to poke their helms from outside the alleyway to find a crowd of elite guards calling for Optimus.

The prince in question’s optics flash opportunistically, he twists away from Megatron. “Guards!” Optimus yells, making the fatal mistake of turning away from Megatron. “Guards! Help!”

Megatron scrambles, he yanks Optimus’ leg to pull him closer and under him, hoisting himself up in the process to pin Optimus in place with his frame. He holds himself up with his knees and an arm at the side of Optimus’ helm—using his free servo to hold over Optimus’ intake, silencing him. “Would you be quiet! I’m trying to stop the collapse of Cybertron here!” He hisses.

Optimus shouts a muffled collection of most-probably profanities and tries to wriggle his way out, Megatron doesn’t let him, pressing his weight down onto Optimus and loudly shushing him. After some wiggling, and the failure of said wiggling, Optimus falls limp to stare at Megatron. The two glare at one another for half a breem.

Megatron’s composure fractures by the end of the breem, he sighs with a servo still over Optimus’ intake. “Yes, you are right in accusing me of lying, and you are correct to distrust me for it. But under no circumstances must you presume that I would not do this senselessly. I am not going to hurt you, your highness.” Megatron’s optics twinkle with a light of guilt, forcing Optimus to sympathize a little.

“I have grown disillusioned with the lie that I lack any real power, that I will forever be a nameless nobody clinging to favoritism. What happened to you…I want to make sure it doesn’t happen again. At some point in my life I have forgotten the purpose of accepting this role, and I cannot bring myself to live in a world where I stand by and let these injustices happen, regardless of who they effect,” he huffs an air of desperation. “I will not let you falter at the hand of greed. Not again.”

Megatron’s optics dim in contemplation, a soft glow paints his faceplate a deep purple—the mixing of Optimus’ blue with his red, mingling in their proximity. “I may have lied about the basis of our past relationship, but the rest is true.”

Optimus’ optics flicker in surprise, the purple turns into a soft lilac.

“You sent me letters, not often, but enough.” Megatron, for all his pretentious swagger, appears soft by the admission. “They were indeed small and insignificant, but we made a promise once to stay out of each other’s ways. We kept it up—well, I did, you always managed to slip in through those letters, an excuse to talk, even it if was one-sided.”

You, Optimus can’t help but pity the duke who thinks he is the same as the other Optimus; yet he cannot correct him, so he lays and waits.

“I didn’t realize they were your way of keeping watch of me, protective in a sense.” Megatron’s face darkens at a small realization, “it made me…” when Optimus’ expression dips into a detached one, he dismisses the thought with a slight turn of his helm to clear his mind of the fog. “The point is, you sent letters, and one of them—one I failed to read in time—tried to warn me about a growing mess in the South, it is the one that brings me here, to you, now.”

Optimus’ helm tilts, still silenced behind a servo.

“I’ll let you read it when I get the chance, perhaps it can job some memory prior to your fall.” Megatron offers with a soft smile.

Optimus shakes his helm. “Souf?” He murmurs behind his 5-digit gag.

Megatron nearly moves his servo away if Optimus showed anymore desire to have it removed, it did not help that there were still calls for him echoing from outside the alleyway. So he keeps it in place, as he welcomes the delve in topic if it were not secondary to setting things straight. “I’m not fully aware of it, I think it’ll come up again in a later meeting. You can catch up then. Either way, you never spoke to me like that, with such hurry.” His helm ducks down. “When I originally read the letter, it worried me, so I looked into your fall—a few things here and there, I’ll spare you the unnecessary details—but I came to realize your fall was an attempted murder.”

Optimus nods along, then catches himself. “Leeta?”

Megatron nods. “That’s right.”

Despite the strength to keep him in place, Optimus doesn’t actually feel his life being in eminent danger. He focuses on Megatron’ glowing optics, as if they were held all the answers with their deep hue. They didn’t, and even if they did, Optimus was unable to read whatever they were trying to say. Nevertheless, with their frames so close to touching, the prince could feel Megatron’s honesty and when paired with the admission—a final puzzle piece slides into place.

Megatron should have killed him. Not now, but, eventually. Probably.

It didn’t matter in why or how. Only when, because it was still too early.

Optimus’ finials eased back that they tapped the ground, it would be seen as a defensive tactic if his optics were not cycled so wide with the dawning of realization.

The issue with the novel was not the plot, or the characters, it was the perspective it was told in. Megatron never centered the plot beyond antagonizing it, thus, his motives and justifications were watered down and presumed by the main cast.

Megatron resented Optimus for his failures, citing his paranoia as his greatest downfall; the voice, whoever it was, mirrored the notion.

Me, Optimus’ servos stilled, hovering from the ground as he brought them up to set them over the servo Megatron had planted over his intake.

Unfortunately, Optimus had to abandon most if not all of his previous thought work when he came to the eventual conclusion that Megatron was the one who bore the responsibility of killing Optimus. Somehow the thought was more comforting, the idea of knowing seemed to ease away the fear of the unknown.

Because, Megatron was telling the truth; he would not let such a critical pawn die over something so needless as greed, he was beyond that. Megatron was a tactician just as much as he was a soldier and a duke, he acted within reason and betterment, regardless of what transpired. The novel never told this truth, but it did allude to it, given the specification of Megatron’s phrasing and reactions; even if character profiles were useless in application, the plot bled into the world he lived in, all that Optimus needed to realize this was a third party on the matter. Fortunately for him, Bumblebee had done just that. Only, Bumblebee did not know as much as Optimus now did, thus the conclusion he brought about himself was completely wrong. The conclusion that The Voice needed Optimus Prime to share—and they had succeeded.

To a point.

“Dead.” Optimus whispers, muffled by Megatron’s servo. The words prompt Megatron to move the hand away with the help of Optimus clinging to it. “I should be dead. Not him.”

The duke blinks. “What?”

“Me,” Orion Pax goes unsaid. Contrastingly, not the original Optimus Prime.

Everything was going as the plot demanded until it reached a convergence point. Which has now proven not to be what Orion originally thought.

Optimus squeezes his optics shut, sending a command to analyze every single encounter he had with Megatron, studying them to an extent he never considered possible in search of some evidence for his theory. “I was wrong. It was the other way around.”

The novel, for what it presented, was right; it was right in presenting a possibility, an alternative. It was one root of a tree.

Optimus was always going to fall, regardless of whether it meant Orion would wake up in his frame or not; the presence of a third party prior to Megatron meant that his downfall had been planned for longer than a whim—this is bolstered by the fact that he was only made aware of it no sooner than after the fall. Not only that, but Optimus was always going to survive the fall. Orion waking up as Optimus was not the convergence point because Optimus had to go on and be used by Megatron to gain power over the rest of Iacon as the novel said; a point rendered moot when Megatron came to him for T.E.A and caused a scene, thus creating a complication in the testimonials of his character, the plot, and making their current intermingling a direct consequence of the convergence point.

Whatever was at work, Megatron was not at the center of it regardless of what the narrative insisted. It was The Voice who pulled the strings, who made attempts to gain favor with Megatron for his volatile and powerful protection. Optimus, the real one, must have realized this and too made a move for the duke; they were both fully expecting war and needed Megatron to win it. And war they would get, but only if The Voice won in Megatron's favor.

However, in the reality they now find themselves in, they don’t. Not yet, or at all, because Megatron sought Optimus out. The duke had made his choice.

Optimus’ grip tightened on Megatron’s servos, going through the video Bumblebee shared to him a second time. “Why are they so sure? Why are you now coming to me?”

As a cold breeze dipped between his transformation seams, Optimus came to a final conclusion. A single quote stands out amidst the analysis of his memory files.

“No, your expression. You…appeared frightened.”

Optimus lets out a soft gasp and locked onto Megatron. The first consequence.

His fear had been the convergence point, reacting with fear had ultimately altered the course of fate and the story. The Voice knew Megatron and Optimus were never close, they aimed to exploit that rift to carry favor in recruiting Megatron. The spark swap wasn’t the issue, it was the fact that Orion’s spark reacted with Optimus’ face. Optimus Prime never knew fear, not open to display it at the very most. Orion Pax, however, was scared of many things; heights and clowns, for one. But Orion Pax is dead, not Optimus Prime; the sparks didn’t matter, only where they resided.

“Letter,” Optimus blinks. “You read the letter.”

Megatron offers a simple answer. “Yes, I did.”

The second consequence. Megatron never should have read the letter, not if Orion hadn’t reacted in Optimus’ place. If the letter remained forgotten, then The Voice would have that over Optimus.

The feeling of betrayal that lingered was at the cost of losing Megatron, not The Voice. The certainty The Voice carried came from knowing Megatron would rely on logic over emotions, and logically, the ability to manipulate an already liberal noble into lashing out against the ‘evil monarchy’ when he had no close ties to them would be exceedingly easy—merely offer him their place. Yet now, by the looks of it, the duke had just established that first tie.

In terms of the original plot, there was no knowing if Optimus worked with Megatron in a naive attempt to win him over again or if Megatron had feigned a calling of The Voice’s bluff and in turn manipulating the prince with it. The point was that, now, The Voice was bluffing and now Optimus knew. The original Optimus had been successfully convinced by The Voice, were he to wake up, he would be paranoid—in accordance to Megatron’s telling, and the story.

Thus, the allusion of Megatron’s betrayal that was no longer grounded when Megatron comes to him claiming all-important intel in divergence to the intended plot, Bumblebee aside. Optimus was to die at Megatron’s hand after he made his little deal with The Voice, serving as their defense with the power of the military at his disposal.

The grounds to this theory were beyond Optimus, but he knows one thing for certain; Megatron’s understanding of Optimus, and unknowingly applying it to Orion, had forced his hand.A little shock from Optimus’ behalf had the poor duke switching teams before he knew there were any.

Optimus lunged forward and cradled the duke’s helm, who let out a soft gasp. With piercing blue optics, Optimus made a relieved sound as he almost hugged the duke in realization. Megatron seems aware of this intention, though somehow not willing to fight against it, almost willing in his own right.

In making the attempt, Optimus accidentally kicks his leg up in a renewed attempt to free himself, and incidentally hits Megatron’s codpiece with excessive force. The duke’s vocalizer spits static as he falls away from Optimus.

Optimus scrambles up into a half-seated position, starting to pick himself up. “Primus! Are you okay?!”

Megatron lets out a gush of steam in a long-held ventilation cycle. “Yes—I’m—ugh—fine.” He groans as he holds his codpiece and curls in on himself.

Optimus hovers over Megatron, looking around in case anyone could help (assuming he did more damage) when he sees a line of coolant lining Megatron’s shut optics, he stops. “Are you okay?”

Despite Optimus’ innocence on the matter, the duke cannot help but spat, “do I—look okay to you?”

“No.” Optimus hesitantly sits back down and shuffles closer to Megatron. “Did I really hit you that hard?”

“Yes. No—yes? Not that hard—” Megatron chokes. “It's not about how hard you hit!”

Optimus figures that Megatron is far too compromised to attack him over the mistake, so he scurries closer, intrigued. He finds himself closer to Megatron’s legs, where his servos are tucked between them. Optimus leans in close, to point at the hidden area. “Are you sensitive there?”

Megatron stammers and throws himself back, rolling over to his other side in an attempt to hide his embarrassment. “Of course I am! Everyone is!”

Optimus reverts to full curiosity. “Why?”

Megatron throws a look over his shoulder to gawk at Optimus. “What do you mean why? It’s my—what! How—what do you mean why?” He was incredulous, sputtering over his words.

Optimus looked at him with the same level of pity as he would a lost animal, he sits on his legs and tilts his helm.

“Did I really hit you so hard?”

“Ye—no.”

A hum. “You’re kind of weird.”

“Weird! Weird?! I am not weird! You’re the one that doesn’t know—” At Optimus’ increasing helm tilt angle, Megatron stops with a gruff sigh. “Forget it.”

Optimus raised his servo, deadpanning with a euphoric glint in his optics at a scientific prospect. “If I hit you there again, will something happen?”

Megatron’s helm hit the ground with a defeated aura. “I will hit you back. Harder.”

“You can’t do that, I’m a prince.” Optimus teases.

“You resemble your brother.”

“Which one?”

“Both.”

“Thank you.”

Megatron tried to give Optimus some stink-eye, but his exhausted frame won the custody battle over his pride for the energy left within his body. He expects Optimus to leave him, pathetically clutching his codpiece like it were diamonds and gold, but there is no sound of a moving frame and steps to signal his departure. Another cool breeze passes. Megatron looks at a rusty can.

“Do you want a medic?” Optimus asks.

“No.”

“A cool-pack?”

“No.”

Megatron hears rustling from behind him, he doesn’t move his focus from that particularly uninteresting rusted can. Suddenly, his view is obscured by a long, thin treat.

“Ah’ rust stick?” Optimus sounds like he has one in his mouth already, by the slurring of his request.

Megatron, actually, does want a rust stick, in a childish need-to-be-coddled after receiving a boo-boo kind of way. His pride somehow wins that battle.

“No…” Well, he should at least show some manners, “thank you.”

Optimus wiggles the rust stick over him. “I’m sorry for hitting you, I would like to extend a show of amnesty.”

Megatron watches the stick move here and there. “Noted.”

“Oh, and I am sorry for running out on you.”

Megatron considers the extent of that apology. “That’s not really your fault.”

“I still feel bad.”

Megatron half shrugged, resulting in his pauldron scratching against the ground. “Don't be, I deceived you and then held you down against your will. I should be the one apologizing.”

The wiggling rust stick stops. “Well when you say it like that…I feel less sorry. And I would like to feel sorry for you.”

“Spare me your sympathies, your highness. I have no use for it.”

The rust stick dangling before him falls when Optimus lets go with a snort, that grows to a muffled laughter. Megatron watches it hit the floor without a sound, he has to wait until Optimus’ laughter grows to the point of an unbearable volume to turn back with a scowl. “Don’t mock me.”

“I’m sorry—I’m not, I swear, it’s just,” Optimus snorts and covers his face. “You’re surprisingly childish.”

Megatron rises faster than lightning strikes. “Excuse me?! I am not!” He announces, turning to face Optimus clearly. When he does, Optimus offers him another rust stick.

Optimus, despite being no better, is surprised by how well Megatron took to his real personality. He knew, in that moment, Megatron had allied himself to Optimus. It was a relief, at least, to find that his greatest fear had come to aid him at the cost of an embarrassing show of character on both their parts.

“We need to get along,” Optimus says matter-of-factly.

Megatron looks at the stick, suspiciously, he makes a go for it. “So you agree that—”

Optimus pulls the rust stick out from Megatron’s attempted grasp to tease the mech. “Because Windy likes you.” He finishes with a new shine in his optics.

“Your orange attendant?” Megatron scoffs. “You hold her far too close for your own good.”

Optimus hummed in a mix of consideration and agreement. “Don’t you do the same with Soundwave?”

Megatron grumbles in a not-quite agreement. “That’s different.”

“Perhaps.” The prince shrugs.

The duke catches a sudden thought, making an appalled face at the realization. “Are you saying that—”

Optimus throws the rust stick at Megatron, another lost attempt at amiability. “My love for her is familial, not romantic, you dolt. I owe a lot of my sanity to her, and I want her to be happy. She insists on being my mecha-in-waiting, but I cannot stand the idea of thrusting her into the world of politics. So having you around as eye-candy will have to do.”

The rust stick bounces off of Megatron's helm with a soft dink, the same sound as the light bulb flickering on in his processor. “Are you allowing me to stay close to you?”

Optimus shrugs and continues to try a ease their conversation with a lighthearted air. “I’m humoring the idea that you can overstay your welcome as you see fit…for Windy’s sake, of course.”

Megatron lets out a soft chuckle. “Maybe you haven’t changed that much.”

Optimus purses his lipplates in the same fashion as Windy would. “I don’t know what you mean by that.”

Megatron reaches out a servo. “I’ll accept your terms, your highness. Thank you.”

Optimus pulls another rust stick out and gives it to Megatron. “We have a lot to work on, you and I.”

“That’s fine, I’m grateful either way.” Megatron takes the rust stick, bringing it close to his intake. He pauses only to point the stick like a lecturer. “And I’ll have you know that others would kill to be pinned down by me.”

Optimus’ optics flatten. “I would like to add a ‘no talking’ segment to our agreement.”

Megatron bites into the rust stick with a grin. “Too late for that, your highness.”

Optimus chuffs and chews on another rust stick.

Megatron watches him do so. “You’re exceedingly calm about this.”

“About what? My death?” Optimus dismisses the thought easily. “Meh.”

Megatron stops chewing at the indifference. “‘Meh?’”

Optimus coughs up an excuse. “I’ve had all day to think about it, I mean, and it’s not as though I’ve stayed dead. And even if I had, what would I do? I’d be dead.”

“I don’t think that’s a normal reaction.” Megatron says flatly. “I was fully expecting you to be hysterical, apparently you reserved that for my little white lie.”

“What good would that do?” Optimus commented nonchalantly. “And it was hardly little.” He adds with bite.

“Make you normal, for one.” Megatron answers, throwing the rest of his rust stick into his intake. “But, now, I am remiss to admit that such is inapplicable to you.”

Optimus dangles a rust stuck in Megatron’s direction for him to take it, and he does. “I’m going to ignore the implications of that.”

A new crunch fills the air before Megatron continues. “How gracious of you.”

“You will come to find that as a good trait of mine, but you will see little of it if you keep this up.” Optimus scolds.

“Duly noted, your highness.” Megatron coos. “Although, you seemed excitable prior to…assaulting me.”

“It was an accident.” Optimus offers with a grimace.

“Perspective is prone to subjectivity.” Megatron comments.

Optimus plays it off by talking to himself. “Well, it’s not as if I have much of a choice now. I suppose I have no choice but to trust you for now.”

“For now?”

“Trust is prone to subjectivity.” Optimus answers, mockingly.

Megatron feels a tinge of annoyance. “Just get to it.”

Taking apart the tone Megatron used, Optimus weighs the extent of trust a little harder. To some degree, Optimus’ showing displays of arrogance were under the pretense of knowing Megatron sided with him; in that moment, at least. There was a secondary level of trust that was considerably less stable. For one, Megatron could easily betray Optimus at any point if his contractor made themselves known soon before they made it beyond whatever disillusioned attempt at amicability they would attempt.

Optimus carefully peers up to Megatron, scrutinizing him. “You have to promise,”

Megatron seems equally out of it, nodding as he leans in. “What am I promising?”

“Loyalty.” Optimus answers in kind. “You are not allowed loyalty to another royal except for…me.” He finishes with a serious look, albeit somewhat doubtful as another fact tries to wriggle up his priority list.

Megatron blinks at him. “Alright.” He agrees somewhat liberally.

Optimus deflates when he finally remembers, and a sudden uptake in his internal temperatures made itself apparent through his face. “Ah, no, wait—you’re engaged.” His servo flies up to stop Megatron. “Ignore that.”

Another blink. “Alright.”

Optimus fusses to himself for a moment. “I—well—” He lets out a garbled sound, turning to face Megatron with a frayed expression. “Just promise you won’t betray me.”

Megatron agrees just as quickly as before. “I promise.”

Optimus gives an distrusting look. “That was easy.”

Megatron sits back. “You’ve had my loyalty long before this. I’m merely renewing the vow.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Optimus huffs.

“But you do.” Megatron contends.

Optimus recalls their previous talks of lost-love. “Well—”

Megatron interrupts the thought. “Answer the question.”

“That’s suspicious.” Optimus takes an accusatory tone. “So quick to swear loyalty, for what? Details?”

“Yes, that’s—” he gives Optimus a weary look. “Why else would I make such a silly promise?”

“It isn’t silly!”

Megatron rolls his optics, yet somehow manages to refer to Optimus respectfully. “Your highness, I have been searching for you the moment I had the chance to. If I wished for your passing or endangerment, I assure you I would not be here.”

“I know that!” Optimus bristles. “But some decorum would be nice.”

Megatron gestures to their surroundings. “We are seated in filth, in an alleyway, within the red-light district. We are beyond the throws of decorum.”

Optimus follows Megatron’s servo over their world around them, he agrees wordlessly.

Megatron adjusts himself to press some weight onto knees through his arms as he leans forward. “Fine, if you won’t start, I will. How do you know about this?”

Optimus glances out to the closing in of the elite guards as they bob in and out of the other alleyways and shops. He hops back into their strange hiding place, with a whisper. “Bumblebee told me.”

That seems to force Megatron back to some means of seriousness. “The maid?”

“That’s right.”

“The one that kidnapped you?”

“Do you honestly think he could?”

“No.” Megatron answers, disappointed in himself for falling to the trap that Chromia set. “Is that why you fled?”

“I didn’t flee, I followed.” Optimus corrects. “But, yes.”

Megatron is unconvinced. “That explains nothing.”

“You are so impatient.” Optimus scoffs. “He suspected you of being the assailant.” He finally says.

Megatron’s optics flash at the admission. “He thought I did it?”

“Well, he still does, I had to send him away before I had the chance to set him straight.” Optimus answers.

Megatron leans back, testing the water. “And you…”

“I know you didn’t do it.” Optimus answers with a shake of his helm. “That, however, is the extent of my knowledge on your innocence.”

“That’s limiting,” Megatron notes with a tsk.

Optimus decides to use the still air that settled between them totake Megatron by surprise. Straddling the mech suddenly, the duke lets out a yap at the prince’s sudden movement over him. Their frames intertwined as Megatron is forced to straighten and fall back onto his aft, arms coming back to catch himself while Optimus holds him in place with either leg stationed over Megatron’s own—nearly swapping their previous position.

Silver servos grasp Megatron’s helm. Optimus wears a serious expression despite their position. “Has anyone contacted you?” The question held hardly any grounds.

Dark clouds hung overhead, Optimus’ ventilation was shallow and excitable. He tried to consider how Optimus would have reacted that day had Orion not replaced him—calmly, perhaps nonchalant or distant. Curious how a reaction can alter history.

“Contacted...me?”

“Someone, anyone that wasn’t me. Have they contacted you or requested your aid?” Optimus voice is urging and laced with anticipation.

Megatron thinks for a moment, then shakes his helm. “No...no, no one.”

Optimus optics widen with a bright flash of white at the denial and lets out a deep sigh of relief and rests his servos on Megatron’s shoulder. “Oh, thank Primus.” His face twitches, and he zeros in on the mech again. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“You’re not lying to me, right?”

“Under the context I think you’re applying, that would be treason.”

“If I find out you are, I will have you executed.”

The threat is lost to Megatron—it is one that Starscream has used more than once. Instead, one of Megatron’s servos comes to hover over Optimus’ chest, hesitant to touch him as carelessly as before. “Are you alright, your highness?”

“No!” Optimus glares at Megatron, though it doesn’t seem directed at him. “Not even a little! You really threw me for a curve ball there!”

Megatron basks in the strange intimacy that Optimus turned to, more so akin to the repeatedly alien phrases he uses—schadenfreude seemed to be dropping lower and lower on the list of idiosyncrasies.

“Jeez, this isn’t fair at all.” Optimus’ tuts when optics widen, a flash of bright blue reflects upon Megatron’s armor. He leans into the duke. “Your loyalty, where is it?”

“With you.” Megatron answers. “You know, this is the third time you’ve had me promise myself to you like this, I expect to see the fruits of this admission soon.”

Optimus holds a calculating expression on his face, uncaring of how they were so long as the distance between their frames closes in emphasis of the request. “I need you to understand that this isn’t just about me. I have the luxury of armies at my request, and wealth at my disposal. I know that I am safe. I’m not asking for a battalion, I’m asking for your rapport.”

Megatron parts a mulling gaze at Optimus, slowly nodding in agreement. “Consider it yours.”

“Swear it.”

Megatron let out a somewhat gruff sigh. “I swear it on my life.”

Optimus face fails to hide the splitting of his spark as he pulls away from Megatron, as he comes to rest on the duke’s lap. Repeating the same act that Bumblebee had, he sends the same file to Megatron. He shakily hold the wrist of the arm he used to impart the file onto the duke

Megatron looks at his HUD as it pings with the shared file, Optimus nudges at him to play it, and he does.

The video plays in a blur; the collection of voices, barred from their attached images with only the shaky attempts that Bumblebee made to highlight the issue at hand. Megatron cannot help but pick apart every word, voice, fluctuations in tone, attempting to parse together a profile for the assailant. From the open world, his optics flicker back and forth as he takes in the final front to the reality of what was largely hidden to him the night his precious letter was sent. Megatron twitches at every nuanced assumption of his servo at play, he relegates it to utter nonsense, but cannot bring himself to deny the possibility of truth tucked between the lines of the wicked mech’s tones. He hears Optimus, the one he now treasured, strong and living. Pausing for a klik to look at the remainder of his existence in the bot he faced now with a bruised look as the memory comes to a final close.

Megatron’s optics bordered white with the shock coursing through his frame. He quickly turns to the other with a choked voice. “Your highness—”

“Disregard it.” He answers with a sudden bite, making Megatron straighten at the ferocity. “I don’t care about what happened to me, I only care about what this memory offers. Just about every tone and phrase is ingrained within Bumblebee’s mind, lurking endlessly with the promise of destruction.” Coolant threatens to line Optimus’ optics as he prepares a particularly cruel series of statements. “And he cannot say a thing about it. Which is the luckiest we are ever going to get, I cannot have anyone else know of this outside the three of us.”

Megatron’s intake is open, but nothing comes from it. He thinks to try and calm Optimus, reaching out hesitantly to offer a reassuring touch, Optimus pulls away instead. Pressing his servos together in a strained hold on his lap, Optimus stares directly at Megatron to insist upon himself.

“The letter you received is the letter I sent that night, right?”

Megatron remains as still as the wind, his helm creaks down in a single nod.

Optimus’ voice ducks into a whisper. “If what I said about the south in that letter is true, and whoever that was that tried to kill me lied about your involvement means that the assailant is of noble origin.” He shoots a looks back before getting closer. “And it means they already have influence in the north and south.”

Megatron’s silver complexion pales, “how did you come to learn this?”

“It’s simple deduction,” Optimus rolls his shoulders to straighten out an tension growing along his back. “I know you’re not lying from your reaction alone, so that voice has a few more ties in the north that will probably do just fine without your involvement, though it might makes things harder for them. Whatever they’re planning, it isn’t good. If you are keen to help, I would like to abuse that aid now.”

Megatron tries to shake off the shock. “What do you have in mind?”

“Bumblebee is from Ployhex.” Optimus flashes Megatron a look, hoping he catches the intention.

He does.

“Witness protection.” Megatron realizes, carefully.

Optimus nods. “He isn’t safe here.”

“And he is over there?” Megatron tries. “You just said that the assailant has ties around the globe, the south isn’t exactly a sanctuary. If anything, he is safest in Vos.”

“I cannot get Vos involved.” Optimus shakes his helm. “Politically or not, they have nothing to do with this. And Bumblebee will stick out far too easily, in the south he can blend in.”

“I suppose so.” Megatron chews the inside of his cheek. “If he stays here he will be convicted of kidnapping.”

Optimus concurs with a follow up, “at least if he flees the territory investigators cannot follow without a mess of paperwork first.” He articulates with a click of his glossa. “The sooner the statute of limitations pass, or I acquire enough power to get away with a pardoning—he’s better off far from either of us until whatever is going on can be dealt with,”

Another bellow for Optimus, and now even Megatron, cuts the prince short. Offering a renewed urge for the two to quicken their conversation.

“I need you to help me get him out of harm's way for the time being. I’m not so ignorant as to send him empty handed, I would like to use your family villa in Polyhex under a different name with enough credits to keep him afloat,”

“How do you know about that?” Megatron asks suddenly.

Optimus’ optic flash with a mischievous glow. “I’ve done my research on you, your grace. But you didn’t let me finish.” He raises a digit to point it softly towards Megatron. “I need someone to guard him and a way to falsify papers to ensure his safe travel that isn’t under the pede of my family’s council.”

The realization dawns upon Megatron. “Which is why you need me…”

“And why I made myself known.” Optimus flashes a glance at the outside world beyond the alleyway, specifically, at a streetlight.

Megatron follow the gaze. “So you did want to be found.”

“I was so close to making it out too.” Optimus hums.

“Not if I had any say in it.” Megatron returns the hum in a similar, yet mocking tone. “I locked all the ports, you wouldn’t make it farther than the docks.”

Optimus’ face borders a pout, but given his face’s natural inclination to a glare, it appears as a scowl.

Megatron smirks, and points at himself. “Duke of Iacon, your highness, it would do you some good to remember that.”

“Of course.” Optimus says dully. Suddenly, with a second cursory glace outside the entrapping walls of they alleyway his intake opens, then closes, hesitant on the answer. “In all seriousness, I need to know why you chose to help me.”

Megatron’s gaze softens, it isn’t yet tender, but it holds a protective warmth. “I already did.” He raises a servo to lightly drag his knuckles across Optimus’ cheek. “I can’t let this world fall further into ruin, starting with you.”

Optimus’ intake slams shut with a slight flush to his face. He chooses to disregard it. “Can you do this?”

“I can.” Megatron affirms. “It will take some time to have the documents made, however.”

Optimus lets out a profound sigh of relief, he act has his accidentally lean into the touch from before. “Thank you.”

“Think little of it.” Megatron assures, pulling his servo away lest it make the warmth blooming in his frame obvious. He brings in a different question. “I do have to ask, though. If he is innocent, in your optics—where is he?”

Optimus’ optics flicker and a wicked smile spreads across his face. “You’ll see.”

Not offering a chance to speak, Optimus pulls himself and Megatron up from the floors, particularly keen to make sure to brush Megatron off slightly.

Letting himself be handled, Megatron’s arm goes up as Optimus lifts them and places himself into the duke’s chest. Megatron has to suppress a shiver when Optimus’ chest presses into his own, the touch is exceedingly intimate with the social protocols Optimus was breaching. The prince uses his pede to push them forward, and out of the alleyway, Megatron lets out a startling sound as the light of the streets hit them.

Optimus grieves out a bountiful sob.

Megatron can feel the world come to stare at him, he stiffens accordingly.

“Megatron!” Ironhide yells, almost sounding relieved. “Ya found him!”

“I–wha–well–” Megatron looks down to Optimus nuzzling into his chest, only then peeking up to wink at him.

“At least pretend to be a hero.” The prince whispers.

Megatron makes a discomforted face, the servo planted on Optimus’ back cradles him with a level of stiff detachment that can loosely defined as nervous, only to hover it when the focus is not on the placement of his servo. “Yes!” He answers stiffly. “I have him here.”

Optimus fake-sobs a little louder.

“At least try to sound convincing,” Megatron mumbles through a grit smile.

“Oh! Oh! How terrible! How vile! How wicked!” Optimus throws dignity to the wind, arching into Megatron and falling back into his chest with an even more dramatic howl. “I’m so relieved to be found at last,” He makes a demure face, tucking his helm into his shoulder and bringing a delicate placement of his servo to hide his face at the guards closing in on them. “I feared the worst when the sun had begun to set.”

“Your highness!” Ironhide pushed aside the guards to inspect Optimus himself. “You look–!”

Everyone, despite their best efforts, flushes at how Optimus might as well lay armor-less in front of them. Megatron’s servo, still floating over Optimus in a tense form, pressed back into its hold while the other too came to cover him in a bid to preserve some of Optimus’ dignity—not that he seemed to care. With intermingling fields, Megatron is forced to feel Optimus’ amusement as turns his helm away from everyone to let out a snuffed chuckle.

“You’re enjoying this.” Megatron says through a pathetic attempt to mimic a ventriloquist. “Are you a masochist?”

“This frame is well due to being humbled,” Optimus whispers as he turns back, pushing away from Megatron in the process. “And thus, it is beneath it for shame to be felt.”

“Are you so detached that you refer to yourself in the third person?”

“Oh, yes.” Optimus laughs mutely.

Facing the group, and focusing on Ironhide, Optimus successfully removes himself from Megatron to speak to the masses, much to the duke’s attempts to avoid such. “The duke tells me of your part in searching for me,” Optimus bends down to hold Ironhide’s servo’s. “I cannot thank you enough for upholding your oath to my family.”

Ironhide and the other’s forget themselves for a moment, collectively slack-jawed.

“Of course.” Ironhide manages, somehow.

“I must extend gratitude to all of you, as well.” Optimus imparts to the others, setting his servos gently to his front. “You will be rewarded handsomely.”

Megatron steps to Optimus’ back, bending down the short distance between their heights to whisper. “What are you doing? They didn’t do much of anything.” He covers Optimus with his frame when he catches a few more wayward glances towards the less-than-regal areas of the prince’s frame.

Optimus turns his helm slightly to whisper back to Megatron. “No thanks to you.” He retorts. “I’m gaining favor.”

“Through alms-giving?”

“Wealth is the root of all evil.” Optimus answers out loud. “It is only natural that I distribute it to the people whom I find most precious to me, my saviors are no exception, your grace.”

A small murmur of agreement and self-gratifying comments surround Optimus and Megatron, Ironhide too turns at the neck to postulate the extent of Optimus’ words on his mechs and concludes it would be best if their merrymaking would find itself back on palace grounds.

“Let’s get ya home, your highness.” Ironhide says, resting his servos on his hips. “I’ll get a groundbridge prepped.”

“You are most kind,” Optimus smiles. “Thank you.”

With that, Ironhide and his makeshift army prepare space for the incoming groundbridge, pushing outdoor tableware, crates, and other things aside to allow ease of passage for the innumerable number of mechs that would pass through the coming bridge.

It comes, of course, no more than five breems after Ironhide makes the request, who now finds himself to Optimus’ left as Megatron adorns the prince’s right. To ensure the safety of such precious cargo, a small handful of the guards pass first, sending only one back to give the okay.

Megatron, Optimus, and Ironhide all begin to step towards the groundbridge at the other end of the street.

“Tell me,” Optimus prompts Ironhide, never once looking away from the swirling light from the groundbrige—a scant similarity to his old homeworld, say for the variations in color from green-blue to a purple-yellow. “Does my sire know of this?”

“Oh, yeah.” Ironhide drawls. “The whole palace has been up and at it since the news of your kidnapping came to be.

“I do not doubt it,” Optimus slows his pace just barely. “But I inquired of my sire.”

“Last I saw as I passed through the Onyx House, he was not happy.” Megatron answers, earning him a glare from Ironhide.

“Unhappy, or upset?” Optimus asks.

“Livid.”

A small quirk akin to a smirk finds itself on Optimus. “Perfect.”

Ironhide and Megatron alike appear confused by these reactions, although Megatron is quicker to react to it.

“Is this a good thing?” He asks. “Last I checked your sire is not an easy target.”

Optimus snorts, a minor slip in his princely deception. “Please, if I can deal with you he might as well be a petrorabbit.”

Megatron doesn’t answer, sensing more to come with their closing steps to the ground bridge, yet he can’t help but feel a small token of appreciation for Optimus’ veiled appraisal of his stubbornness.

The three finally step into the bright light, feeling the familiar lightheaded sensation that comes and goes the moment they step into the pristine floor of the Onyx House’s main floor. Knowingly, Ultra Magnus, A-3, Rung, Soundwave, and a few nameless others are there waiting for them. They greet him with a spectrum of relief to poorly-veiled disgust at his condition. Optimus swells in pride.

“And anyways,” He whispers to Megatron. “I’m done hiding from everything.”

Megatron, not expecting such an admission, looks down at Optimus who beams with supercilious delight.

“I alone weave this fate.” Optimus whispers, bringing a servo to tug at Megatron and bring him along to what may as well be their last moments of this plane of existence. “Unfortunately, I must bear you with it.”

Sullying the freshly waxed floor with a mix of rain, paint chippings, and residue from the alleyway, Optimus and the brought-upon Megatron make their way to Ultra Magnus’ front.

“Sire!” Optimus calls out. “I pray I did not worry you.”

“Your prayers fell deaf upon Primus’ audials.” A-3 answers, not betraying his steeled appearance. “You look ruined, yet you appear reinvigorated? Were you not in danger?”

Rung refrains from greeting the others, passively situated the farthest from the rest, studying Optimus with a piqued expression.

Magnus is visibly shaken from the ordeal, which Optimus finds utterly amusing, to see his bright paint stand in contrast to the darkness that has come to consume the outside—now truly the night—and his face, pinched like he was smelling sulfur. Optimus watches him specifically, waiting for his mind to catch up while offering a response to A-3.

“Do I know you?”

“You do now, your highness.”

Optimus blinked in A-3’s direction. “Then I hope you hold a name and reason for which you chose to regard me so freely.”

The room quietly balks at Optimus’ egotism, especially A-3.

“I am Lord Ultra Magnus’ advisor, and the current head of civilian matters in the North.” A-3 responds with little indication of his discomfort for needing to say so.

“Oh, I see.” Optimus muses. “You have come to replace my carrier.”

A-3’s armor flares. “I have not.” He offers in contrast.

“What impression have I given you to take offense of this?” Optimus asks, bemused at the reaction. “I was going to thank you for your hard work.”

The bearded mech’s intake snaps open. “Even so—”

“And yet,” Optimus interjects with a small turn to face A-3 directly. “I am not so callous as to cling to crisis.” Optimus sees Megatron shift awkwardly at the comment in the corner of his vision, he continues. “I have the duke and the elite guard to thank for my safety. His grace, the duke himself, valiantly protected me as I found myself in a fit of hysteria, guiding me back to a sane mind. And the elite guard has returned me to you all, safely.” He spares only a moment to truly look into A-3’s optics, with a slight shift in his own that impart a glare despite the soft smile on his lipplates, his voice is unwavering and sharp. “I am not invigorated, I am relieved to find myself home. It would do you well to learn the difference.”

A-3 steps back, slightly, having to ignore Rung’s muffled hum over his shoulder.

The servos that clutch themselves in a terrifying fold over Ultra Magnus’ chest, shake, despite the darkened expression on his face. He lets out a deep vent that silences the room in its entirety, only stepping forward once to Optimus cranking his helm up, setting his servos to clutch carefully at Optimus’ shoulders.

“Are you alright?”

Optimus softens at the poorly-concealed worry. “Of course.” He leans into the touch, removing Ultra Magnus’ servos from his shoulders to wrap them in his own, bringing them to rest his helm on top with a serene expression. “I am both fortunate and blessed to find myself returned to your care, sire. Your worry is a kindness I do not deserve.”

Ultra Magnus shoots Megatron and Ironhide a narrowed glare, a wave of uncertainty crosses him. “And of the guilty party.”

“Gone.” Optimus answers in their stead, lifting his helm with passing a quick glance over who was in the room, fortunately concluding none of them were present during the T.E.A meeting save for Megatron. “When the capias was made known, he fled the scene after pushing me into an alleyway.”

“Do you know which direction he went?” Ironhide asked, suddenly.

Optimus shifts slightly in his sire’s presence to try and face Ironhide. “No,” He answers, crestfallen. “I was in such a state of shock I couldn’t possibly tell.”

A-3 also steps forward. “How about landmarks? Do you remember seeing anything when you were running?”

Optimus refrains from glaring at A-3, instead opting to fake a choked sob as he covers his face, letting go of Ultra Magnus. “No. I-I’m so sorry, I was in such a state of shock that—I’m sorry.” He cries into his servos. “I’m trying to be strong about this...forgive me, sire. I must bring our family shame with these tears.”

Ultra Magnus, reacting more on instinct than anything else, stops any more questions with a raised arm. “Enough. Do none of you know anything about timeliness?” He comes to rest the same arm on Optimus’ shoulder again, only to encourage the prince to depart. “Return to your residence and rest.”

Optimus nods slightly. “Yes, thank you.” He steps away from Magnus to prepare to leave for his residence, but Magnus barks out orders before he can make his own.

“Ironhide, take three mechs and escort the prince, let—”

“No!” Optimus cuts in with a yelp that was a little too panicked, he adjusts it properly when the focus is on him. “Need.” he adds. “There is no need, sire, truly. The palace must be a fortress with the efforts you put in since my disappearance. Please, let the guards rest or send them on patrol to the town in search of the assailant than assign them to such a short walk. The duke shall accompany me instead.” He finishes by looking at Megatron.

The rest of the room turns from Optimus to Megatron, his optics recyle a few times rather than make his discomfort known. He looks to Optimus for justification, only to find the serene look from before has converted to a visible panic and mouthing ‘please’ repeatedly.

Megatron adjusts his vocalizer. “Yes, of course. I am not only a duke, but a general.” He looks at Ultra Magnus with a bow at his waist. “I will tend to the prince as his knight for the...night.”

Optimus lets out a relieved sigh that is a touch too loud, Ultra Magnus turns to him. “Are you sure?”

“Most certainly.” Optimus reassures with a forced smile. “May we leave now? I’m beginning to feel lightheaded.”

Another flash of worry from Magnus.

“From exhaustion.” The prince adds with a flutter of his optics.

“Very well,” Magnus concedes, nodding to Megatron as he tensely waddles over to Optimus’ side. “I expect you to return soon, Megatron.”

“I will come sooner than daybreak.” The duke assures, ushering along Optimus as the two make their way out of the Onyx House with a quickened step.

As they pass Soundwave, Megatron bends away from Optimus to whisper a command to Soundwave. “Go home.”

Soundwave follows Megatron’s passing figure with a darkened visor.

Megatron is shooing him away from an angle with a whisper-hiss. “I’ll explain later! Go!”

Grace and highness alike, pass through the doors of the Onyx House with an even step. They maintain a quiet pace for the short amount of time it takes for them to make away from the Onyx House to the first edges of the garden. Megatron refrains from interrogating Optimus on what had happened, seeing the tight expression Optimus holds. Even so, the moment they reach the front of the garden, Optimus starts sprinting to the right. Megatron makes a choked sound and tries to reach him.

“Where are you going!” He yells, flashing a look back to make sure they couldn’t be seen.

“Just follow me!” Optimus returns, quickly outpacing Megatron.

The duke reverts to a real run as he tries to keep up, matching Optimus’ pace as they are neck-and-neck. “What was that all about?” Megatron asks. “Why did you need me to come? What happened to not being alone together?”

“Would you shut up!” Optimus snaps. “We are not going to my residence—” He answers, now running towards the non-residential palace’s. “You said you are loyal to me, so just follow like a good bot!”

The duke is met with an impending sense of doom in the form of a filthy prince that should be blue and red as they caravan towards the Emerald Palace—and then behind it.

Chapter Text

Quiet, confined, limited, but not unspoken, whispers began from the moment the fanfare had come to an end.

“Have you heard about the prince?” A teasing whisper.

“Oh please, old news.” A scoff from a figure at the center, reclined comfortably on a large sofa.

“Most certainly not!” Zephera gasps from the right.

A passive flick of the wrist answered before spoken words. “We all know he’s unwell.”

“I beg to differ.” Era cuts in from the back. “He’s terribly clever.”

“I concur.” Purred Crest, leaning into the arms of the nights wealthiest client.

“And how have you come to know the prince so intimately? Surely he is not in search of your services.” The client mused.

“Goodness no, he fancied our conversation. How charming he was, as bright as a new recruit.” Crest giggled. “We nearly offered him the position.”

“The Lord High Protector will have your helm for that.” Era comments without a bitter tone.

“He is not here to listen, if he were.” Zephera laughs.

The client in question offers the same expression to the three consorts. “You all must take me for a lustful fool. How have you have met such an esteemed guest that I have not?”

“We would never lie to you!” Zephera pushes Crest away, coming to embrace the client along their back, pushing their weight over the edge of the sofa.“Surely someone of your class would know the prince had ran away.”

The client focused on Zephera. “Ran away? Nonsense, I heard that—”

“You heard wrong!” Zephera interrupts, thrusting a small projection of a picture for the client to see; it contained Zephera, Era, Crest, and Optimus Prime posing for a picture at the establishment they had met in earlier that night, smiling and laughing in the blurry picture. “He told us that he had ran away to try for a new life—apparently life under the crown is terribly cruel. And yet the Lord High Protector was so upset by this he had framed the maid in charge of his meeting with the duke! To extort his return!”

“A conspiracy?” The client asked.

“If it were, I would not have the memory files to prove it.” Zephera insisted. “He gave us his word.”

“You bore him with you prattle, Zephera.” Crest rolls their optics.

The client waves off Crest. “No, as a matter of fact, I am thoroughly intrigued. Continue.”

Zephera obliged. “The duke was in search of him.”

“The duke?”

“The duke!”

“The duke that is to be wed?”

“Oh, yes.” Zephera cooed. “They get along terribly.”

“That carries multiple connotations, Zephera.” Crest reprimands. “Be upfront.”

“He knows what I am referring to,” the slim figure snaps. “Don’t you, Sir Jazz?”

Jazz’s visor flashed a bright, knowing blue as he slips into a manner of speak reserved for his closer companions. “Matter a’ fact, I do. Tell me, Zeph, can I see that memory file of yours?”

“Huzzah!” Optimus announces breathlessly, gesturing at the front of the building with his whole frame. “The residential quarters of the Emerald Palace.”

Even in darkness, Megatron knew he was face-to-face with the decrepit appearance of a building not quite up-to-snuff. “I see.” He answers with lackluster enthusiasm.

Optimus is quick to disregard the duke, leaning over to pull him along by the wrist. “Come, we have much to do tonight.”

“I should have known better than to anticipate a quiet departure after your return.” Megatron comments dully.

“You should.” Optimus agrees. “I doubt you will be leaving anytime soon if I have any say in it.”

“I would rather you not have any say in it.” Megatron admits. “Your sire will be expecting me soon.”

“He does not have the foresight to stay up and wait.” Optimus matches. “If I didn’t know him—which I hardly do—he has all but let for his own residence the moment he saw us depart.”

“You believe your sire to trust me as so?”

“No.” Optimus admits, “but he knows better than to try and keep up with me.”

Megatron rolls his shoulders back to a straighter position, still being dragged. “I don’t like how you insist upon yourself.”

“It is all but disingenuous for me to be arrogant, is it not?” Optimus points out. “Humor me, your grace, as much as the others do and I will prove to be more than what you think is a wasted endeavor.”

“I do not think of you as such.” Megatron is quick to correct.

“Then you ought to try harder to make it known.” Optimus quips as he hauls them both to the doors, releasing Megatron to pull open the door.

There is an eerie creak that comes from the door as soon as Optimus manages to push it out of the way, with just enough strength for the door to continue on its hinges to the desired state of openness. Luckily, the door is heavy enough that it does not slam against the wall. Rather, it comes to a creaky stop the moment its about halfway open. Given the late hour, Optimus isn’t all that surprised to find that the entry empty and devoid of light, save for the occasional glimmer of moonlight that peeks between the windows of the residence. He enters with a look in either direction.

The interior of the building is surprisingly well-kept in comparison to the exterior, the floors are neat and tidy, a cheaper grade of tile in comparison to the marble of the Sapphire Palace, but it’s a obvious deviation; if servants quarters were tiled with marble then it is likely that Optimus nor Megatron would be in their current predicament if chaos theory had much to do with anything. Even so, the walls were primarily empty and plain, although their exact color isn’t figured given the insufficient light offered. A small, likely second-hand chandelier twinkled against the moonlight that entered through the small selection of windows that decorated the building sparingly. The front, nevertheless, is small, and a staircase is set near the front of the door, attached to wall where a hall passes under to what only can be assumed to be a living area or a kitchen.

“Hm.” Megatron vocalizes as he steps in after Optimus.

“What time is it?” Optimus asks, leaning to the side to find a better look of what lay beyond the hall under the stairs.

“Late.” Megatron answers, doing much the same. “Nearing midnight soon if we continue to dilly dally.”

“And you accuse me of strange phrases.” Optimus laughs.

“I have no knowledge of a ‘side piece’ unless it is apart of a meal.” Megatron harrumphs, looking Optimus up and down. “And you do not fit the description.”

“Uh-huh.” Optimus ignored him, opting focus of the staircase. “We should go up.”

“Are your ‘loose ends’ up there?”

“As a matter of fact,” Optimus makes sure to sound as uptight as Megatron had. “I do not know.”

Megatron sighs loudly. “Then why are we here?”

“I know he’s here!” Optimus bristles. “Only not which room.”

Megatron perks up slightly. “He?”

Optimus in-vents quietly. “Perhaps I do owe you an explanation.”

“I’m surprised you have come to realize this only now.” Megatron deadpans.

“When I say humor me,” Optimus drawls the repeated phrase. “By that I mean, be patient.”

“Get to the point, your highness.”

“I am!” He leans a little closer to Megatron. “Bumblebee’s here.”

Any possibility of going undetected goes out the window when Megatron yells, “what?!”

Optimus scrambles to cover Megatron’s intake with his servos, pulling the duke down at an awkward angle and shushing him incessantly. “Hush! You will wake the others!” He hisses.

Megatron grabs Optimus’ wrists to pull away the servos covering his intake. “You insist upon that poor brat’s safety, and you hide him where he is most wanted?!” He answers in the same hushed hiss.

Their argument delves into a series of silenced retorts.

“It’s clever!” Optimus insists. “They will never check here!”

“Yes they will! This is the first place they will check!”

“Besides the point!” Optimus interjects.

“I beg to differ!” Megaton ripostes.

“Forget it!” Optimus pulls himself from Megatron. “We’ll get there when we do. For now, we have to find him.”

Megatron looks up at the stairs and sets his servos on his hips. “And you said you don’t know where his room is?”

“He’s not in his room, he’s with Ratchet.” Optimus admits.

“The medic?”

Optimus rolls his optics. “Do you know any others by the name?” He says sarcastically.

“Don’t use that tone with me.” Megatron growls.

“You are not so much older as to get away with saying that to me.” Optimus grumbles in response, turning away from Megatron to come to the edge of the stairs.

“Yet still your senior.” The duke says in rebuttal.

Optimus whips around to walk backwards as he waves an accusing digit at the duke’s face, “if we are so keen to be pulling rank over one another, I will have you know that I am your prince and therefore—”

Still treading backwards Optimus ends up hitting the bottom most stair and stumbles back wordlessly.

Megatron reaction is quick as lightning, his faces loses the annoyed glint in favor of a jolt forward to catch Optimus from hitting the stairs, optics widening slightly at the suddenness. Reaching out, he pushes Optimus’ pointed digit out of the way, swooping his arm down to make for Optimus’ waist to pull the prince’s frame into his own as he manages to avoid grazing the stairs. Catching them both from collapsing by grasping for the railing on the narrow stairs with the other arm, Megatron is forced to huddle into Optimus when the strength he enforces brings their frames into one another.

Narrowly missing the crook of Optimus neck, Megatron lets out a sigh of hot air. “Then act like it.” He grits through a clenched jaw, although hardly embittered.

Perfectly encapsulated by Optimus’ audials, his voice traces along his struts in that now-familiar deep tone, Optimus cannot help but shiver a Megatron pulls himself away with a narrowed expression.

Still within his grip—only now loosened when Megatron stands to his full height, pulling them both up—Megatron makes no effort to remove his servo from its station at Optimus’ back in case the mech did decide to slip away, again. Optimus fails at an attempt to suppress a second shiver as he presses himself into Megatron’s chest to hide is optics for a klik long enough to stop them from glowing brighter than the moon. He decides to shut them.

“Thank you.” He mutters.

Megatron smirks. “Oh? What was that?” He lets go of Optimus in favor parading a newfound arrogance. Now realizing for himself that it is Optimus who has remained clung to him by his own volition.

“I said, thank you.” Optimus says, a little louder, pulling away when he hopes his optics aren’t a stark white. Shaking the lingering scent of Megatron’s polish from his frame, he shrugs off the other’s stare. “I shouldn’t have acted so childishly.”

“At least you admit to it.” Megatron mumbles under his breath. “You have that over your people.”

Optimus shoots a glare that is nearing on second nature. “We’re wasting time, come on.” He willingly ignores the taunt, instead making an attempt to test the stairs he is still backed up against. Careful to refrain from touching Megatron as he did before, he shimmies the duke away long enough to turn fully to try and step up the stairs. At his pede coming to touch the first step, a chill zaps his frame of his purport. He stiffens and brings the leg back down, stepping back in weary realization he accidentally hits Megatron’s chest again with his back but says nothing.

First looking at Optimus, and then the stairs, Megatron is quick to note the discomfort that has come to cling on Optimus’ field. He steps back to give Optimus some space, leaning down slightly to catch the other’s future voice in better focus. “Are you alright?”

Only then tearing his focus away from the staircase, Optimus finds Megatron’s face twitching into something akin to concern—a terrible emotion on such a sturdy face. “Fine.” He answers. “It’s just…”

Megatron hovers over Optimus patiently.

“Strange,” Optimus admits as he makes another attempt to gaze at the steps, darkness obscured most of them. “How I was able to step up and down along these so easily until now.”

Megatron doesn’t offer a response.

“You are not to blame, before the thought can cross your processor.” Optimus adds. “Even so,” He shudders. “I don’t think I can bring myself to go up them. It feels…wrong.”

Megatron gauges the stairs in the same regard. “How so?”

Optimus tilts his helm into his shoulder in thought, hoping to hide himself from the growing sense of humiliation. “Cold, like breaking a promise. I feel like I’m betraying myself.” He looks at Megatron sympathetically. “I’m sorry, I know it’s illogical. As it turns out I’m the one keeping us from making progress.”

“Not at all.” Megatron is quick to dismiss the thought. “I should have figured as much. I can’t imagine you’d be comfortable doing this after seeing the recording, or even coming to know of this.”

Optimus makes a quiet sound. “But I didn’t see myself fall.” He shakes his helm and rolls his shoulder in an attempt to calm himself. “I shouldn’t feel discomforted, or anything! I don’t remember!” He pleads to himself. “And I was fine going down the steps this afternoon, why should such a trivial problem arise now?” His servos clench at his side.

“It isn’t trivial.” Megatron snaps with a sharp tone. “Don’t delude yourself into thinking any of this is trivial.”

Optimus sighs with his knuckles pressed to his crest. “I shouldn’t have brought you along, I’m sure you have your own things to tend to.”

“You know I intended to tell you this,” Megatron offers in a softer voice, coming away from Optimus’ back to overstep him to the first of the stairs and look back. “You know I’ve read your letter, and you know I’ve pledged loyalty to you. I’ve been making an effort to investigate this the moment I’ve learned of the truth. It’s a responsibility I’ve taken for myself, this is my fight now too.” He reaches a servo to Optimus. “I’ll walk you up.”

Optimus focuses on Megatron’s servo. “You forget yourself.”

Megatron pulls it away stiffly. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No.” Optimus interrupts. “Not like that…it’s just,”

“Just…?” Megatron leans a fraction closer to hear what Optimus has to say.

Optimus covers his intake with a servo, shamefully suppressing his mask from snapping into place. “I do not wish to impose on you, more than I already have.”

“I’ve already said that you are not, is my word not enough?” A clawed servo reaches back out, anticipatory. “I will walk with you.”

Optimus looks back at Megatron with a hesitant gleam in his optics. “Now?”

“Of course.” Megatron nods. “Let me help you.”

A bitter thoight crosses through Optimus’ processor as his focus swaps between Megatron and the stairs. “But what if you’re not there?” Optimus whispers.

Megatron’s optics refocus. “Pardon?”

“What if you’re not there to walk me up.” Optimus says a little louder, the servo from before coming to his chest in a plea. “You have your responsibilities to tend to, outside of your vow. This,” Optimus gestures to the stairs, “is inevitable. Something so common, a daily habit that I have taken for granted, what am I going to do if you’re not there with me? How am I supposed to go to my room, up several flights of stairs? It’s not as though I can explain my sudden phobia to my staff.”

Optimus’ voice trails for a klik, a silent thought passes over him, contorting his features into a tight grimace as he continues to whisper. “How will I live as I had? I can’t condition myself to have you there. Here. Always. It’s cruel, to the both of us.” His servos come to rest at his front. “I will impose on you if I take your servo.”

Megatron’s face flushes red from the excess light coming from his optics. “I—” He clears his vocalizer, “it’s fine, I’ll be there.”

“You mustn't,” Optimus reprimands lightly. “This is the first to a problem I will struggle with dearly, I can’t make the mistake of finding comfort in you. Much less when are promised to another, your grace.” Optimus continues. “I cannot entrust myself to you so carelessly,”

Megatron clicks his glossa. “That again,”

Optimus’ hesitation becomes confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You worry too much for Starscream’s sake,” Megatron laments. “Even when he could not care less if you let me escort you or not.”

“You are courting him, your grace.” Optimus steps back. “I will not make a fool out of any of us, I will not let myself find sanctuary in you.”

“What if I want you to.” Megatron says, jaw clenching after the fact in silent upset.

Royal blue flickers a flash of white. “What?”

“I’m not good for very much anymore,” Megatron admits through gritted dente. “All I have left to me is my strength. If I can use it to help you, I will.”

“Don’t say that,” Optimus shakes his helm. “You are more than what you let yourself be.”

Megatron sighs, his optics hood in a rare show of vulnerability. “I am tactlessly what your sire’s court lets me be.” His servo clenches at his side. “I trust you will let me be more,”

“Of course—”

“Then let me help you, in more than one way.” Megatron pleads with an interjection, bending at the waist to look into Optimus’ optics. “I have just as much on the line as you. It is not enough to swear loyalty, I must prove it as well.”

Optimus jolts, pushing a servo onto Megatron’s chest to ease him back. “I—well—you go on your own,” his vocalizer glitches. “I will wait for you here.”

Megatron blinks, catching himself on the rail again and doing away with the previous atmosphere. “You wish for me to go look for Bumblebee, alone.”

“Yes.”

The duke turns to give Optimus a deadpan. “An mute maid, who has no way of trusting me without you there, and thinks that I tried to kill you. Again, may I reiterate, alone. In the middle of the night.”

Optimus makes a loud sigh. “He’ll be with Ratchet, if you give them my testimonial, odds are they’ll give you a chance.”

“Your highness, with all due respect,” Megatron has the audacity to look amused now. “That is a terrible idea, and this is coming from me.” He points at himself.

Optimus' face tightens into a look of disdain. “Don’t be ridiculous, either I accidentally imprint on you going up, or you take the fall. You relegated responsibility for this now, didn’t you? I would rather play incognizant to this.”

“You are surprisingly selfish, how unlike you.” Megatron laughs. “What happened to strengthening political ties?”

“You do not know me, don’t be pompous when you are at fault.” Optimus bites back. “Don’t parse my paranoia for selfishness, I will have a kingdom to lead one day. I am at a critical point in gaining favor with the other houses, and my mental health! It is one thing to be politically advantageous with you, in public—another is holding your servo while you coo sweet nothings into my audial so I don’t have a panic attack going up stairs in the middle of the night!”

“That’s a little more like you.” Megatron hums in consideration. “But I never said I would ‘coo sweet nothings’ into your audial.” He smirks.

“Your grace!” Optimus is visibly bristling. “Do not undermine me!”

Megatron could not look any more smug. “In what manner am I undergoing such an offense?”

“I cannot go up the stairs alone, and I will not go with you! This is a lose-lose!”

“And why is that?”

Optimus took in a sharp vent, but he was careless in his tone and volume, it comes out sharp and agonized. “Because I’m scared.”

Megatron’s optics widen suddenly, inching back away. “I—”

Optimus cuts him off, “even if you were to guide me up, walk me up, or anything of the sort it does nothing to change the fact that I am scared.” His servos tighten at his sides, yet it is his whole frame the shakes. “I’m scared of going up. I’m scared of what will happen when I reach the top. I see this stupid staircase and I can feel myself viscerally reject the idea of just looking at them. I can’t go up.” Optimus grits his dente, balling his fists and looking away.

Megatron watches the prince shiver, optics shut as coolant lines his optics.

Optimus vents in sharply, yet fails to hide his weakness, his voice cracks.

“I am terrified of falling again.”

Megatron optics flicker, and he hesitates, his field closes into his polished armor in search for a reason to encourage the other.

The air is listless as it is stripped of warmth in every passing klik.

Megatron sighs, and extends his servo one more time. “I can’t do this without you.”

“You’ve done just fine so far.” Optimus snaps as the coolant dribbles down his cheek, tracing a pathetic route to the floor.

“I’m not leaving you here.” Megatron insists. “Come.”

Optimus’ gaze remains pointed away. “No.”

The duke knew better than to take offense at the sharpness of Optimus’ voice, but his temper is a short one and the night had transpired enough to be worthy of a flare. He steps away from the steps, arms reached out once again. “You’re coming with me.” Megatron mumbles. “One way or another.”

“Enough. I am not entertaining this idea.” Optimus bites. “I will not go up the stairs.”

Megatron ignores the growl, and matches with his own, “don’t be ridiculous.” He makes a reach for Optimus who steps back.

“I’m scared.” The anger in Optimus’ voice stumbles to give way to the fear behind it.

Megatron doesn’t relent, he sighs. “I am well aware, come here.”

Optimus tries to swat him away. “No.”

Megatron abandons any traces of his own upset in his field—reverting to old warbuild coding to suppress it. “I’m not letting you out of my sights.”

Optimus catches onto the duke's seriousness and looks away with a mumble. “That is not up to you to decide…”

“Look at me, Optimus.”

The prince hesitates, sure to wait long enough to appear as disobedient, but not irrational, eventually, he does what he is told and gradually shifts his helm to face up the duke.

Locking into Optimus’ blue optics, Megatron starts. “I have failed you beyond repair in the past, it is only by fortune alone that I have the chance to remedy it and fix whatever is amiss. But, in order to do so, I cannot let anything happen to you.” Megatron leans in close. “I cannot break that promise.”

“We have never made such a promise.” Optimus says.

“Yes, we have.” Megatron corrects. “Even if you do not remember it, I do. I have more than my honor at stake here, I will not let anything hurt you. Including the stairs.”

“No,” the truth looms silently over Optimus. “You never made that promise to me. I’m not going to reap the benefits of another.”

Carefully, Megatron lightly brushes over Optimus’ servo, testing the extent of being able to hold it. “There is no other. Just you.”

Optimus lets one servo be taken, damning himself for letting it tremble in the hold of another. “Don’t.” He whispers. “Don’t pretend I’m him.”

Megatron prepares an attempt to convince Optimus otherwise, but the expression he holds is terse as he focuses on the hold Megatron has on him—slight as it is. It’s a pity he couldn’t extend compassion to the prince, to try and explain away the worries with a simple assurance. So, he takes a different route.

Megatron lightly soothes away the shaking from Optimus’ servo by rubbing his thumb over the top. “Alright.”

Focus turns away from their servos, and to Megatron. Optimus’ expression darkens a little while he fails to ask for an explanation on the sudden resignation.

“You are not him.” Megatron says, trying to assure himself and the other.

Optimus notes the details of Megatron’s face—surprisingly serene in the pale light of the moon. The soft thumb that traces over the armor of his servo eases the trembling, and it’s all Optimus can focus on even when he stares at Megatron. He doesn’t feel a flush come over him, or a different tremor to trace up his spine like the edge of a claw. The act is almost comforting.

Pulling away, Optimus steps away from Megatron. The servo that was caressed came to be clutched by the other and pressed against his chest. “You’re terribly romantic, intentionally or not.” He comments as if it was a negation to Megatron’s character, his shoulders shrug uncomfortably as he finds the position to hide behind as he continues. “And conflicted.”

Megatron studies Optimus. “As are you.” His voice and neural net remain tight and neutral.

Optimus responds carefully looking over his shoulder, at anything but Megatron. “I know your intentions, your grace, but if you continue to speak like this I will find myself more than upset with you.”

Red optics recycle. “What do you mean by that?”

Optimus is quick to point at him with a disrespectful tone. “I am pointing out the obvious, not to flatter you—I cannot allow you to have that effect on me. You are my equal in both potential, power, and furthermore a guilty party who I will not be quick to forgive. So please, do not say such things to me. I find them unpleasant. Speak to me with the same distance you’ve always had.”

Megatron feels a small flare in his temper, the constant dismissal had grown bothersome. Yet he does not let it show outwardly. “And why is that?”

“I don’t feel the need to give credence to my maids adoration of you, I would rather it remain their delusions.” Optimus states bluntly, turning back.

The words flick a switch that brightens Megatron’s demeanor. “Oh, I see,” Megatron lets himself simper at Optimus’ attempt to further his point. “Do my words make your spark flutter?”

“Not in a way that should matter to you, harlot.” He treats the last glyph like an insult, even if it’s not technically true.

“It is not my intention to make you swoon,” Megatron starts as he takes the challenge set before him. “But if they do, then perhaps that says more about you than I.”

Stepping forward to closes the space between them with a hum, Megatron bends down to pull Optimus from standing and into his embrace in a bridal-carry.

Optimus sputters static, incidentally letting the duke’s designation slip. “Megatron—”

“We aren’t that close, your highness.” He jokes while adjusting Optimus with a small toss, forcing the mech closer to his chest. “This way you don’t have to walk up.”

“This is worse, this is so much worse.” Optimus keens. “How am I supposed to get back down?”

“The same way up, of course.”

“This presents the same issues—what of my residence? Or any other sets of stairs?”

“I will only be a call away.” Megatron leans down to Optimus’ face with a malevolent gleam in his optics as his intake curls into a teasing grin. “Letters won’t do us any good in this regard.”

Optimus makes another strained sound, ducking away from Megatron’s attention. “The sooner we find Bumblebee the better.”

“As you command.” Megatron laughs, and makes his way to the stairs.

Optimus shifts in Megatron grasp, who tightens it in turn to prevent flailing. “What if they see us?”

Megatron shrugs even with the weight of Optimus in his grasp. “I hate to be crass, but that is besides the point.”

Optimus wriggles against the mech's grip, which is far too strong to break out of, not that it stops him from trying. Megatron lets him while he arrives at the bottom of the staircase, adjusting his hold moreover to takes the first step.

At the sensation and knowledge of Megatron’s going up, Optimus forgets about trying to get away and clutches onto the duke while venting shakily, the hot air condenses against Megatron’s chest, dipping into his seams. Megatron must fight the urge to shudder, losing any possible commentary at hearing the anxious display. So he opts to hold the prince a little tighter and make his steps a little smoother.

Each step comes and goes with a wave of nausea from Optimus, and a silent prayer that it would be the last—more so to spare himself from the embarrassment than his newfound fear.

Halfway up the stairs, Megatron looks down at Optimus, who is stiffer than an iron rod. “It was more fun when you were fighting.” His voice is light in the hopes of distracting Optimus, while his face carries a more somber expression.

Optimus’ optics are shut tight and his face is tucked against Megatron’s chest. “Do. Not. Drop. Me.”

Megatron lets out a deep vent and presses Optimus closer, unintentionally soft. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Even when blinded on his own accord, Optimus lifts an arm to try and smack Megatron. “No flowery phrasing! This is bad enough, just say you won’t!”

“I won’t! I won’t!” Megatron narrowly dodges Optimus’ attempts. “We are both going to fall if you keep trying to hit me!”

Optimus’ arm tucks back into place with a yelp.

The staircase, despite being shrouded in darkness, is surprisingly short. By the time Optimus had relented on his assault on Megatron, they were only a handful of steps from the top. A significant difference to any other of the palace’s. Which, presumably, gives way to the knowledge that the floors are short, and the walls, thin. Just as Megatron brings the two to the top of the staircase with a profound sigh, looking around for any sign of life, life beats him to the catch.

“What the frag are you doing!” An older voice yells from across the hall, only to be followed by a small flash of light to follow, illuminating Ratchet’s figure poking out of his room.

“Ratchet!” Megatron says, relieved.

“Megatron?” Ratchet squints in response, “what are you holding?”

The duke looks down to the cargo in his grip has taken to shooting his optics open and struggling to be released.

“A prince,” Megatron says as he sets Optimus down, who grumbles as he adjusts some of his hip fairings.

“Ratchet!” Optimus says in turn, jogging down the hall with Megatron at his heels.

Skittering to a halt at the medics door, Optimus catches himself on the frame. “Where is he?” He whispers to the medic.

“I…” Ratchet looks at Optimus, but eyes Megatron suspiciously as he nears the door. “Have no idea who you’re talking about.”

“It’s fine, he knows.” Optimus waves off Megatron like a forgettable extra. “Is here here?” He forces his helm through the door and peers left and right.

Before the medic can reprimand Optimus for anything, the prince pushes himself through the doorway. He looks left, right, up, down, under a desk, in a closet, and behind the curtains. “Bee?” He whispers.

Nothing.

Megatron leans down to mutter in Ratchet’s audial. “Is he even here?”

Ratchet swats at Megatron, forcing him back into the darkened hallway. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” And slams the door in his face.

Optimus’ finials flutter anxiously, ignorant of Megatron’s kicking out, he kneels on the floor and looks under the berth. “Bee?”

A soft chirp, questioning, inquisitive, and imperatively the voice of a darling yellow bot. Optimus’ face fills with joy, falling to the floor extending his arms to pull the other our. “Bee!” He coos with hushed enthusiasm.

Bumblebee scrambles out from under the berth, with equally joyous and muted chirps of delight, and into an embrace with Optimus on the floor.

“You’re okay.” Optimus whispers, his voice cracks with relief as he cradles the smaller bot with his frame. “Oh...you’re okay.”

Bumblebee beeps in assurance, nuzzling into Optimus’ shoulder.

Still in their hug, Optimus pulls them both from the floor to offer a look of gratitude to Ratchet. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” Ratchet shrugs. “It’s the least I could do.”

Pulling Bumblebee away, Optimus cups his cheek. “Did you have a hard time?”

Bumblebee shakes his helm with a sharp buzz.

Optimus can’t help himself, and lets out another coo of joy. He nuzzles their olfactory ridges together. “I’m so proud of you, Bumblebee.”

An equally pleasant hum escapes Bumblebee, just as they break away from their embrace.

They take to standing, Optimus quietly survey's the room for a pause, focus hovering over the small of the berth’s underbelly. “Under the berth.” He chirps in realization. “At this hour?”

“I shoved him down there when I heard yelling on the first floor.” Ratchet answers, and quite coldly at that.

Optimus makes a shaky hum, as guilt-free as he could manage. “Oh-hoh? Is that so?”

The attempt does not land on Ratchet—if anything, it is a clearer indication of Optimus’ guilt. “It is.” He points at the door. “Which is why Iacon’s darling duke is locked out.”

“He isn’t guilty,” Optimus starts, then deflects, “of much.”

“I don’t like the way you said that.” Ratchet huffs with a raised optical ridge. “Let me grab my wrench.”

“No!” Optimus jumps to grab Ratchet’s arm, stopping him in his tracks. “That won’t be necessary.”

Ratchet makes a pout with his derma to point at an unspecified location behind Optimus. “Well, I also have a rifle—”

“We are not going to shoot the duke—!” Optimus interrupts with a half-hiss half-plea, casting a hesitant glance towards the door.

A humble knock is lightly set against the door. “You do know I can hear you.” Megatron offers without the flare of anger most would expect.

“Then you better start running. You’re spookin’ my brats anf causing a scene.” Ratchet throws in response. “You got til the count of ten to get the frag out of here.”

The walls are thinner than expected, given that they can all hear Megatron sigh. “That won’t be necessary—”

“Ten.”

Bumblebee stiffens and shuffles over to Optimus, gripping onto the prince’s arm with a silent plea as Ratchet begins to count down.

“Nine.”

Optimus almost pulls away given the pressure Bumblebee grips him with. “He won’t hurt you.” He offers with a whisper.

“Eight.”

Bumblebee merely tugs a little harder, swapping attention between Optimus and the door that stood in place of Megatron.

“Seven.”

“Truly, medic,” Megatron’s voice is muffled by the walls, yet not enough to drown him out amidst the counting. “You need not do this.”

“Six.”

Optimus gives a small glance over his shoulder to the door, where a pathetic sigh wriggles its way in through the space beneath the door, and tries to even himself with greater assurance. “He won’t hurt me either.” He continues by placing his free servo over Bumblebee’s. “If he had any desire to do so, I would not be here with you now.”

“Five.”

The loosely applied logic gave Bumblebee a small chance to mull over the situation, the time—the lateness of the hour, really—and the fact that Megatron had not ripped the door off clean off its hinges in a typical show of temperament despite Ratchet’s chiding. So, begrudgingly, he loosens his grip enough, slowly, so that his servos eventually fall to his sides.

“Four.”

Megatron’s light knock comes again, only now more urgent. “Watch your volume, medic.”

“I could say the same about you.” Ratchet responds curtly, only to look at Optimus while saying so.

Optimus ignores the shiver he gets from the glare, opting to focus on Bumblebee instead. “Can you trust me on this?”

A short pause for hesitation’s sake passes with a small fluttering of Bumblebee’s armor as he thinks.

“Three.”

The limiting time enables a small sense of urgency through Optimus, given that he’d rather not have Ratchet do good his threats. “Please, Bumblebee, I swear to you there will be no harm done to anyone.”

The hesitation continues, nevertheless, it’s an understandable reaction—one that Optimus could see himself exhibiting were he dealing with the current circumstances at any point before. So, despite himself, he waits patiently, although constrained, for Bumblebee’s answer.

“Two.”

Bumblebee shuts his optics as the thoughts cross rip through him, dozens at a time, all fighting to be the winner of a race to action. He desperately wished to be right, to cling to that fear that lived so strongly inside him and rely on it the same way he always had to see him through the worst, but somehow, that young, blind-sighted part of him greatly wished to that Optimus was right.

“Please” Optimus pleaded. “Trust me.”

And Bumblebee did.

The green flag came in the form of tense cabling at the neck as Bumblebee nodded tersely, optics still shut as if he was awaiting the boogiebot at the opening of the door.

A life returned to Optimus when he saw Bumblebee give the OK, he bent slightly down to press their helms together in a quiet show of gratitude. “Thank you,” he whispered, picking himself as quickly as he lowered himself to make a short trip to the door.

Ratchet seemed content to finally end his countdown, he rolled his shoulders into a commander’s position and proudly began to utter the word he had been building to.

“On—”

Unfortunately, the door slamming open had jostled the medic from making the final enunciation.

“Come in!” Optimus offered almost breathlessly, arms outstretched in the direction he had flung the door open while he pushed his upper body forward to make sure his frame had safely overtaken that of Ratchet’s.

Megatron leaned back at the sudden act of having the door pulled away from him, only to be replaced with a frazzled prince. He takes a moment to look down at Optimus, then to the other’s in the room who harbor the similarly blanched expression he did.

“May I?” The duke tries.

“Oh, yes.” Optimus nods.

“Very well,” Megatron says. “Move.”

Ratchet’s glare fires like a cannonball in Megatron’s side.

“Please.” He adds.

Optimus, still facing Megatron directly, squints and makes a strange attempt to look back without actually moving his helm in the direction—so he ends up looking to the side, then back to Megatron.

“Okay.”

Standing stiffly, Optimus moves away from the door frame and saunters over to the center of the room, shielding Ratchet and Bumblebee from most of Megatron’s view.

Megatron makes no real effort to get closer than a few steps beyond the doorway, if he did, he might be able to feel the discomforting concoction of Bumblebee’s fear and Ratchet’s anger intermingling with his field.

Optimus recycles his optics a few times in a subtle attempt to tell Megatron to relax a little, although the duke is not psychic (nor socially inclined enough) to catch the attempt so he is left assuming the prince is equally uncomfortable.

Megatron cuts through the awkward silence with a push to speed up the process. “Your sire is expecting me.”

Optimus’ slouches. “I already told you—”

“And I heard you the first time.” Megatron interrupts. “Except now Soundwave has been pinging me about it since your medic started counting.”

“So, he’s actually waiting?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not good.”

Megatron’s optics flatten in annoyance. “No, it isn’t.”

The rooms goes quiet for a stretch of time that Megatron can count to approximately 15.6783 kilks, he sighs. “Your highness—”

“Alright!” Optimus claps. “New plan!”

“You had an original plan?” Megatron asks, clearly rhetorically.

“I did until we wasted time downstairs—which isn’t my fault, by the way.” Optimus turns to surmount his innocence to the two audience members behind him.

“Right.” Ratchet says with so much sarcasm that it is a few degrees off from genuine agreement.

Bumblebee continues to stand, petrified.

Optimus makes muffled sound at the sight of Bumblebee. “Right, well, I’ll keep this short, then.” He turns to face neither group, steps back, and gestures at Megatron. “Your grace, this is Bumblebee.” He then gestures at Bumblebee. “Bumblebee, this is Duke Megatron of Iacon. No, he did not try to kill me—”

Ratchet suddenly sputters static. “He tried to kill you?”

“I just said he did not.” Optimus is quick to emphasize. “Anyways,”

“Now hold on! I’m a bit out of the loop here,” Ratchet waves a servo to try and reel Optimus back. “What do you mean he didn’t try to kill you.”

“I mean exactly that,” Optimus answers, somewhat confused by the obviousness. “He did not try to kill me.”

“Yes—no, what? I mean.” Ratchet tries to shoo away the fog of confusion that seems to overtake only him, “but what are the circumstances where this would have to be assumed, let alone assured?”

“None at all, for he did not try to kill me.”

Ratchet bristles. “This shouldn’t have to be stated!”

“Obviously.” Optimus shrugs.

Ratchet paused. “So you agree.”

“I do.” Optimus gives a singular nod.

Ratchet’s optics dim, pensively. “Then why are you saying it?”

“I must.” The prince blinks.

Ratchet cocks his helm in confusion. “Why?”

Optimus makes a looks towards Bumblebee. “Because he didn’t try to kill me.”

“But someone did?”

“Of course.”

Ratchet carefully points at Megatron. “And it was not him?”

Megatron and Optimus give the same look of disinterest. “No.”

“Then who!”

Optimus makes a so-so movement with his servo. “It’s a work in progress.”

Megaton’s servo comes up to shield his upturned face, which is followed by a sigh. “Your highness, I believe we are to be acting with urgency.”

“I am!” Optimus insists, “but I would sooner refrain from mulling over the details of this so long as—”

A silent chime rings softly in Optimus’ audials, making his tense up. His shoulders push up, arms coming in closer as his optics sway to his left in a unnecessary display of reading his HUD. The small, usually unused, function of Optimus’ comm systems blinks with a unmarred sense of immediacy.

Optimus’ optics return to the rest of the room. “I’m receiving a call,” he announces needlessly.

Megatron’s face shifts, the servo holding his face comes down to usher Optimus along with the call, his helm shaking in the process of wordlessly urging Optimus.

Optimus doesn’t take the gesture well, he rather watch it blink, once, twice, even a third time before finally answering it. He doesn’t bother trying to read the contact name, given he didn’t know how to maximize the window of the notification.

-:Hello?:- He says upon answering the open-voice comm line.

-:Have you returned to your residence?:- The other line answers.

Optimus’ face drops, and begins to look directly at Megatron. -:Sire.:-

Megatron makes the same face, and begins to move his servos—palms facing the roof—upwards at the wrist.

All Optimus does it look at him with increased confusion and strain, shaking his helm in a poor excuse for a “what?” In turn, Megatron deflates dramatically, and makes more thinking movements with his servos, as if interior retrospection was now impossible.

Ultra Magnus answers within the short pause where Optimus and Megatron are making a series of strange, nearly artful, movements at one one another.

-:Yes, it is I. Are you at your residence?:-

Optimus pauses from his crazed gesticulation, optics darting to the small window at the end of Ratchet’s room.

-:Yes.:- He lies, with some difficulty. -:Why do you ask?:-

Megatron decides that Optimus is not apt or able to fend for himself, let alone lie about anything in a panic and quietly stumbles over to Optimus and begins to make terse, rigid movements as he bends down at the waist to try and explain something with his servos.

-:The duke is taking too long in his return.:- Ultra Magnus explains, if Optimus were paying attention, he might have been able to hear his sire moving, and the sound of stirring from other bodies present with him.

While Optimus listens to his sire, he stares at Megatron’s charades with an open mouth, straight optical ridges—slightly pinched—and somewhat squinted optics in a prime picture of bewilderment.

Megatron takes this as his cue to give up. So, he covers both sides of his face with his servos, and whispers.

“I’m going to touch you.”

Somehow, this only makes the situation worse, and Optimus does not have enough time to process how loud he voices an inquire.

“What.” He says flatly.

Megatron catches the thought as quickly as Optimus and wildly moves his servos to shoo away the cloud of confusion. “Not like that!” He whisper-hisses.

Optimus makes an even more contained variation of his previous expression. “‘Like that?’”

Ultra Magnus sounds confused over the line. -:Like what?:-

Optimus loosely returns the question. -:Huh?:-

Megatron covers his face and a quiet, high-pitched screech—like a boiling kettle—escapes him.

-:Optimus.:- Ultra Magnus’ voice sharpens. -:Are you alright?:-

“Turn your speaker on.” Megatron whispers, a little more urgently.

Anther thousand yard stare from Optimus has Megatron giving up trying to explain himself, and yanks Optimus by the servo to him. Mumbling a series of Tarnish nonsense, he twists Optimus’ audial to the side and prods at the audial lapse function in a faux pas of a speaker function.

-:Optimus?:- Ultra Magnus asks again. This time Optimus hears it, then the delay echos out of his speakers and Megatron’s shoulder slack in relief, before making a hurried gesture for Optimus to answer.

Optimus jolts, and answers. -:Yes? Me? Yes. I’m fine.:-

-:Are you sure?:- Magnus answers, unconvinced.

-:Never better!:- Optimus coughs. -:But, um, what was it you were saying?:-

-:The duke.:- Ultra Magnus deadpans. -:He’s taking too long, is he still with you?:-

Optimus looks at Megatron for help, he nods his helm.

-:Yes, he’s with me.:-

-:Still?:- Ultra Magnus asks, a bit scandalized. -:...what are you doing?:-

Megatron and Optimus lock optics, panic paints them identically.

-:He is just leaving.:- Optimus answers, Megatron encourages the though with another nod. Then Optimus manages to make it worse with over-explanation. -:I had to keep him...in order to...show my gratitude?:-

The color—or whatever existed in Megatron’s competition prior to the utterance—is drained. Somewhere behind the duke, Optimus can hear Ratchet slap his forehelm.

Ultra Magnus’ end of the line goes quiet. Optimus seems a bit off-put by the series of reactions, but feels proud of his ability to play off the situation nevertheless.

Shakily, Megatron’s servos come to cradle his helm with some restraint of a sob. Somehow, amidst the confusion, Ratchet had made his way to Megatron’s side to rest a few, mournful pats on his upper back instead of any real reassurance.

-:Is that so?:- Ultra Magnus’ voice echoes. -:And how, pray tell, did you go about that?:-

Optimus blinks, looking around the room for something to bolster his lie. His attention falls upon a small tin of goodies. -:I gave him something sweet for his troubles.:-

Another crackle of tension pierces the atmosphere of the room and Megatron fully collapses onto the floor on his knees. Ratchet is snickering and patting Megatron’s shoulder with greater strength—more so as an outlet for his humor rather than the same pity as before.

-:And what would that be?:- There was no hiding the white-hot rage that Ultra Magnus carried himself with.

Optimus made a confused look at the audial that Magnus’ voice echoed from—that is, a hard-veered glare at himself—and leaned over to prop open the same tin he stole the idea from. He looked at the contents intently.

-:Cookies.:-

Megatron sat on his knees, optics glazed over and a fist pressed against his derma. He appeared as if he had regretted being born, which Optimus found queer given he was lying quite well.

At this point Ratchet was cackling so hard he had to hide his laughter by falling into his berth, barely managing to stifle the sound.

-:Cookies.:- Ultra Magnus parrots without the same lighthearted air of Optimus.

Optimus decides to indulge himself and selects one, biting down on the crunchy outer later of a quartz coating. -:Yes, they’re quite good. Shall I bring some to you tomorrow?:-

The muffled chewing seems to quell Ultra Magnus’ fire like a sudden downpour. -:Ah, cookies.:- He coughs into a fist. -:No need, just—send the duke promptly, the hour is late and visitation hours are over.:-

Optimus nods to himself. -:Of course, I will send him off right now.:-

Ultra Magnus hangs up without a proper goodbye.

Optimus purses his lips and the cold display. “Rude.” He mutters to himself.

“There is something profoundly wrong with you.” Megatron deduces from the floor.

Optimus rolls his optics. “I handled that just fine.”

“No.” Megatron shakes his helm, he doesn’t sound upset, scandalized, or even melancholic...simply, defeated. “You did not.”

“I should thank you,” Ratchet pipes up from his place, now seated, on his berth. “Haven’t laughed that hard in a while.”

Optimus looks vaguely hurt. “What did I do?”

“‘Show your gratitude?’” Megatron starts, beginning to pick himself up. “‘Something sweet?’ ‘Cookies?’”

Optimus is quick to defend himself. “I’m a good host.”

“Do you not know what you implied?!” Megatron stands to his full height. “Were it not for your snack mid-conversation—which is incredibly rude, I should say—you would have impressed that we were intimate!”

Optimus optics widened in realization, and for a klik Megatron thinks he understands.

Blue optics return to a half-lidded disinterest, as if the conversation were beneath him. “I don’t see the issue with that.” Optimus points with his half-eaten treat.

“How?!” Megatron’s vocalizer cracks.

“It’s better to have close ties to each other’s houses, no?” Optimus parses. “This is good for fixing your image!”

Megatron presses further into denial. “Without your chewing I’d be on first-class trip to having my helm cut off!”

“I wouldn’t say it’s not deserved.” Optimus hummed and plopped the rest of the cookie into his mouth.

Megatron glares at Optimus. “Stop talking, forever, preferably.”

“Maybe if you ask nicely.” Optimus tutted. “‘Intimate’” he scoffs, “how uptight are you?”

Megatron’s expression loosens, “me?”

“What? We pretend to engage in an in-depth conversation, maybe get too close, share the bite out of the same cake. Intimacy. So what? It’s hardly enough to be so...appalled over it.” Optimus insists. “Both you and my sire.”

Ratchet and Megatron stare blankly at Optimus. Somewhere hovering in the back is an equally confused Bumblebee far too overwhelmed to make an attempt to run (not that he could, realistically).

“Your highness,” Megatron begins, only turning enough to catch Ratchet’s concerned expression. “Do you know what I mean by ‘intimate?’”

Optimus waves his servo back and forth. “All of the above?”

A fists presses against Megatron’s intake and his optics blare a deep orange. “Oh…”

“Your highness…” Ratchet signs.

“I feel guilty now.” Megatron confesses to Ratchet.

“Me too.” Ratchet coughs.

“I mean, I’m not sure what I expected, but this is the second time this has happened today.” Megatron admits. “So, maybe I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Ratchet decidedly does not press the issue of the first occurrence. “He is amnesic.”

Using the fist that pressed against his intake, Megatron points at Optimus. “Is he that amnesic?”

Ratchet gives Optimus a cursory glance, and something darker flashes behind his optics. “I’m afraid so.”

Megatron seems to notice this sternness and looks back to Optimus. “Well,” he shakes off some shock, “I now realize you should not be faulted for what happened.”

Optimus deflates and his voice turns shy, “what?”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.” Megatron tries wave off the concern. “We do not have time for this.”

“Time for what?” Optimus tries.

“For me to...explain.” Megatron answers nervously and makes a move to look at Ratchet.

“I’m not telling him.”

“You’re the doctor.”

Ratchet points at a largely put-out Bumblebee to deflect from the topic. “I think we have bigger things to deal with, at the moment.”

“Right.” Megatron grimaces.

Optimus feels a small shiver crawl along his back. “We should go.”

Megatron hovers a comfortable distance from Optimus. “Correct.”

They stand still for a klik, but Megatron doesn’t try to look directly Optimus, likely in embarrassment.

It irritates Optimus enough that he shakes off the hold of ignorance, huffs, and storms past Megatron to Bumblebee.

Carefully leaning down to hold Bumblebee at the shoulders, Optimus tries to offer some consolation. “I’m sorry, Bumblebee but it appears that everything is not going to plan tonight. I need you to stay with Ratchet for a short while, okay?”

Bumblebee listens carefully.

“And, of course,” his helm gestures at Megatron. “The duke is not your enemy, either.”

Bumblebee’s optics try to find Megatron, but catching only a glimpse of the mech is enough for him, his optics close and he nods.

Optimus servos move up and down on Bumblebee’s shoulder in reassurance, then looks to Ratchet. “By morning, Bumblebee will be wanted across the North. Hide him well.”

Ratchet takes a similar, serious tone. “And then what?”

Optimus stops moving his servos and clings to Bumblebee. “The duke will falsify papers so that he may return to the South,”

Bumblebee’s optics widen and his servos come up to grab Optimus’.

“I know.” Optimus lulls. “I know you’re scared, but none of this is your fault, okay? You’ll be moved to a family villa that belongs to his grace, alright? You will be safe there, away from this place and hidden.”

Bumblebee pulls at one of Optimus’ servos to speak.

[How long?] He asks.

Optimus uses his free servo to cup Bumblebee’s cheek. “Until I can fix this.” He laments. “I‘m sorry I cannot give you a real answer but I will not let anything happen to you, I swear it on my spark.”

Bumblebee nods, slowly. There is a hesitation that lives at the back of his actions, constantly clouding his thoughts before the manifest, but he makes decision to trust Optimus. The nodding grows to a much steadier, confidant rhythm.

Optimus smiles. “Everything will be okay.”

Bumblebee continues to nod, a small line of coolant lines his optics and he ducks into Optimus’ chest to try and hide the tears. Optimus simply holds onto Bumblebee and strokes his helm gently. Optimus feel strangely light at the act, with every wave of his servo up and away from Bumblebee’s helm he hopes he tosses away the fear that buried itself so deeply in Bumblebee’s processor.

“You will be okay.” He whispers the soft assurance until he knows that Bumblebee’s tears subside when exhaustion finally waves against his systems.

Their embrace breaks so that Ratchet can stand to guide Bumblebee to berth so he may rest. Situating into the berth, recharge encapsulates Bumblebee quickly. Optimus pays close attention to the slow shuttering of blue optics, flicking now and again in a bid to stay awake, fighting a losing battle against recharge. Until, finally, he nods into a realm of fluxes and a better future.

With Bumblebee’s slumber, all the grown mechs in the room huddle at the door in steady departure for the night. Megatron tugs open the door to look for any case of spying. Optimus watches him do so, if not until Ratchet begs for his attention.

“I expect an explanation soon.” Ratchet demands with a whisper.

“And you will get it.” Optimus assures with a single nod. “Are you comm lines secure?”

“More than all of the elite guard.” Ratchet insists.

“I shall call you when I return to my residence, then.” Optimus nods. “And I will arrange for extra fuel to be allocated to the Emerald House, as well as anything else needed to maintain Bumblebee hidden.”

“Very well,” Ratchet answers absentmindedly. “And what about you?”

“Me?” Optimus asks. “I have been cared for especially. I am the least of my worries.”

“Don’t be a martyr, your highness. I’ve seen what it can do to a mech.” Ratchet warns.

Optimus brushes off the concern. “The same fate awaits us all, maybe mine will come sooner rather than later. I fear I don’t have that choice anymore.” A darkness flashes behind Optimus’ blue optics before he continues, “I have little left to regard with my current status.”

Ratchet tries to scold Optimus, but he departs with a shy half-bow and exits the doorway, pushing Megatron out before him.

“Be well, Ratchet.” Optimus whispers with a small tug of a smile. “I will call you.”

Ratchet sighs, but says nothing, keenly watching Megatron bid adieu from the edge of the doorway with a curt nod and guiding Optimus back to the stairs.

The door of Ratchet’s room closes with a quit click, leaving the two mechs to guide their way back in darkness.

Optimus urges Megatron to walk faster.

“No good,” he mumbles. “Nothing is ever any good.”

Megatron twists away from Optimus pushing him along to match their pace evenly, hurried as it may be.

“You’re thinking,” he notes between the flashes of moonlight that cross Optimus’ face with their quick steps back to the stairs.

The return to the staircase is faster than a response. Optimus tenses once more upon seeing such a dreadful thing, only now he manages to disguise better. Still, he remains a proper distance from the descending steps, glaring at them as if they were unworthy of his attention.

“No,” Optimus finally corrects as the staircase sits in his view, “I’m worried.”

Megatron stops just far enough to stray from Optimus’ side and gently pull at his arm, pulling him back from the stairs. “A terrible symptom of overthinking.”

Optimus is almost expectant of the pull, letting himself collide into Megatron’s chest. Not once, however, does he pull from the entrapping hold of a dark staircase.

“As if you would—”

“I do.” Megatron interrupts without any flare or temper. A simple answer, spared of misdirected anger. He maintains a loose hold on Optimus’ arm—any more pressure would be dangerous, painful even—and yet, Optimus remains still.

“You haunted me,” Megatron says, perhaps recklessly. “The worry you drove me to it...it brings us here, now.”

“I have to be strong, for him.” Optimus chews the inside of his cheek. “For all of them.”

For a moment, Megatron doesn’t answer, far too focused on watching the unpainted areas of Optimus’ helm shimmer with depleted glory. Pulling his attention away, one step forward from Megatron translates to an equal act by Optimus—quietly, he walks them closer to the stairs, maintaining a steady hold on Optimus in a near-constant assurance while ignoring the locking of Optimus’ back and the suppressed gasp that catches in the back of Optimus’ intake as they stop before the first descend. Gently taking Optimus’ servo with his liberated grasp, Megatron guides Optimus’ servo onto the railing of the staircase.

“And I, for you.” Megatron answers a touch too wistful.

Once set upon the furnishing, the servo that guided Optimus traces barely-there touches along the prince’s wrist, up the length of his arm, hovering over his helm until his digits settle over the other’s optics. “But everyone has their limits, your highness.”

Optimus tightens his derma before asking for clarity. “Your grace, what are you doing?”

Megatron settles a little closer behind Optimus prior to his answer. The servo that blinds Optimus remains in place, the other, however, treaches for Optimus’ unoccupied servo, lifting it up, out, and evenly matching it’s height with Optimus’ helm.

Adjusting their final posture, they stand at the top of the stairs in a passable start for a waltz.

“Guiding you.” Megatron says. “If anything happens, I will simply catch you.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to carry me again?” Optimus asks.

“Despite my words, I truly cannot carry you forever,” Megatron responds calmly. “You will have to learn. And I will have to teach you.”

"Liar..." Optimus whispers with ire.

"Is that your given nickname to me now?"

Megatron’s voice is deep and reassuring in its purr. There isn’t much to an answer on Optimus’ part, no formulation of deviated facades to play when he held so delicately. An inkling of shame flickers behind it all, he wishes he could cry and be done with it. But there is no victory in grief. So little to say, so much to do. Optimus makes no choice when he shifts his servo to hold Megatron’s own. Nothing waits for him when more weight presses against him in a silent guide. There is no shame in leaning into the crook of the arm the covers him, only burning in the immovable course of time.

“Let this be your first lesson.” Megatron hums.

Optimus spares them of an apology, and extends gratitude instead. “Thank you.” He whispers.

Megatron chooses to ignore such tender.

“Take one step forward,”

Together, they take one step down. Optimus ventilation hitches as he enters a nonexistent free fall. His grip tightens on the length of the railing, more and more until his pede lands on the next step and the world stops. Megatron hovers a little closer, waiting for an inevitable collapse.

It never comes. In the most anticlimactic ease of swift movement, Optimus remembers to exhale, pushing forward into Megatron palm. Megatron’s digit curl to comfort Optimus wordlessly, a silent assurance of the catch. Stress ripples in both their field, unworthy of seeking out comfort in the other.

“Now your other,” Megatron whispers, unsure of what volume to take. Silence is the only mercy he can show when the world is loud in Optimus’ mind.

“We will be late—” Optimus stutters in an attempt to stop the progress, optics shooting open in terror, hoping to catch a glimpse of his falter behind the prison of a clawed servo. “You will be reprimanded and I—”

“Hush.” Megatron croons, watching the light of cerulean blue trace the lining of his digits, painting it a cool color that he begins to regard warmly. “I will deal with that when the time comes, for now, I simply want you to focus.”

Optimus’ lipplates straighten into a thin line and his optics close slowly, wordlessly.

Megatron loses the bleeding blue from the space between his digits, almost ruefully. Optimus’ other pede comes down to meet its twin on the same step.

Uncomplicated in the movement, easy in the familiarity, impossible with the walls that hide Optimus from the realty of knowing how little he has truly done. For a short indulgence, he chooses to stand uncomplicated on the step, waiting for a light draft to assure him of reality. Still, above him and a little to his right, he hears Megatron suppress a sigh of relief.

The duke makes a simple request.

“One more time.”

And Optimus does. Another step down is another moment stolen from peace, then it’s only a matter of when he must climb down again. Optimus never stops shaking or revisiting panic with the common movement, no matter how much Megatron assures him or how hard he holds onto the railing—or Megatron. Still, progress is made, though it is praised wordlessly with hums of approval and a slight tightening of clutched servos.

By the fifth step, Optimus controlled his movements enough to know the space between the steps; how far to extend his leg, the speed of their descend, and the amount of weight to distribute. Even so, he needed the constant of Megatron’s soft-spoken “one more,” “again,” and “keep going.”

The weight of Megatron’s servo forcing him blind became comforting, a denial of his own anatomy that made it easier to play along with the idea of detachment. He felt his way floating down the stairs, another hurdle taken and thrown onto his rapport for collections sake.

Until one more step, and Megatron pulls his servo away from Optimus’ optics, encouraging them open. “All done.”

Optimus’ optics flutters open, facing the even ground of the first floor. He turned a little ways left and right, inspecting the room; finding it exactly as how he left it. A little farther to the right and he manages a glimpse of Megatron daringly looking at him with a simple smile.

“Well done, your highness.”

Optimus’ focuses on Megatron a moment, the two look at each other but Optimus cannot shake the feeling that Megatron looks through him—at something beyond, or nothing at all.

The duke slipped away from Optimus, carefully tearing their interacting figures apart to make them each a singularity once more.

“Half the battle is done,” he says, beginning a march for the door. “All there is left to do is wait.”

“For whom?” Optimus asks, not yet following.

“For me,” Megatron says, pulling the door open to reveal a still-dark world waiting for them. The lights of the outside world hover carefully over the thoughtless shine of Megatron’s armor. He reaches out to beckon Optimus with an open servo. “You are to return to your palace, and I will begin planning for Bumblebee’s escape. Among other things.”

Optimus looks at the servo that had just guided him down the stairs, he pays the staircase a goodbye glance as he steps away from it.

“Neither of us is alone in this,” Optimus adds, not quite touching the servo that reaches for him—rather, his digits tap Megatron’s palm in preparation to take it before pulling back and walking past him to the open expanse of the royal grounds.

Megatron watches Optimus depart awkwardly, seeking his attention only after closing the door to their previous escapades.

The return to the paved walkway is silent save for hurried steps. Optimus maintains his distance from Megatron, determined to reach the walkway quickly. When the muffled steps on grass give way to cobblestone, Megatron stops, watching Optimus make a few more step in the direction of his residence.

Standing still, Megatron waits for some order, humiliating as the act may be. Optimus steps retreat further and further into the dark, a real fear that ought to consume Optimus, but it goes undermined.

A proper 12 steps from Megatron, and Optimus stops suddenly to face the duke with a fierce look, an even tone, and elevated volume.

“Return to me tomorrow, I will be in the archives.”

Megatron straightens at the request. “There will be a meeting tomorrow.”

“Then visit me after,” Optimus insists. “As soon as the clock strikes an end.”

Megatron takes a simple look up to the stars, somewhat visible in the pollution of light. He ganders that there will be no more than four joors until the meeting itself. At the rate he was going, returning to his manor was a fruitless endeavor. Yet he denies the bubble of jubilation in his chest.

“Why?” He asks.

“So I may thank you,” Optimus’ voice breaks a little, he nods away the shyness. “Properly.”

“Hearing you is enough.” Megatron offers. “Seeing you, more so.”

“Foolish.” Optimus flusters. “There is no good in words or vision, much less in the reliability not in one’s own.”

Megatron wants to say something else—there is nothing he can say—so, he reluctantly agrees with a closing of his intake, clenching his jaw and tearing away from Optimus with a subtle shift of his helm.

“Think of a suitable gift and consider it yours. I am more than indebted to you now.” Optimus promises, silently willing Megatron’s denied attention back.

Megatron shifts the topic to deflect. “Will you attend the meeting?”

“Doubtful.” Optimus shakes hes helm. “My sire will seek to lock me away once more.”

“For you pain?” Megatron asks, a flash of anger courses through him. “For all you have endured, that will be your grace?”

“No,” Optimus laughs lightly. “You are.”

Megatron’s face flushes with color spilling from his optics. “Graciousness.” He corrects expeditiously.

“That too,” Optimus hums and turns his back, leaning into a slight bow as he makes his way back. “Good night, morrow, or whatever hour it may be. I will see you sooner than I have any right to.”

The prince disappears from view, taking with him a piece of Megatron that will never be returned.

Optimus returns to his residence breathless, flushed in ways he certainly has no right to be. The arrival back to his palace is met with a new issue—or, more so, a constant one.

Stairs lead up to the beautiful, elaborate doors of his designated home. Mockingly short steps, yet steps nevertheless, enough that Optimus knows he will not be able to climb them without aid; moral or literal.

Optimus’ derma twitch in upset, but his pride refuses to call for Megatron, not when he had already used up all his damsel-dom in prior excursions.

So, he does the next best thing; he calls Windy.

The line does not bother with even a quarter or a ring.

-:Your highness!:- Windy practically screams from her end of the line.

Optimus loudly shushes her and hold holds audial, as if it could help. -:Hello, Windy.:-

Windy pays no mind to her volume, it would prove to be an Optimus problem. -:How are you!? I heard that you’ve returned! Are you okay? Oh! And how was the duke! I saw him go after you...:-

-:Yes, yes, I’m back on palace grounds. I’m okay.:- He grimaces. -:And he was...fine. We are amicable now.:-

-:Really?:- Optimus can practically hear Windy’s optics blinking in curiosity. -:You have to tell me details! Are you in your room? I’ll be right there!:- She stumbles out of her berth, the clatter of her certainly messy room follows around her careless steps.

Then, the sound of slamming and a yelp that echos awkwardly through the open-voice comm line, reverberating into the outside world. Optimus jolts at the sound of both. -:Windy?:-

-:I’m okay!:- Windy proudly assures, and again, it echos through their line. -:Just doin’ somethin’ real quick.:-

Optimus loses some of his tensed temperament and leans a little to his right and curiously seeking the reason for their overlapping lines.

This curiosity leads Optimus to walk away from the evil steps at the front of the Sapphire Palace. There, he sees the peeking outline of what he assumes is the Sapphire House. Optimus looks back to the sprawling gardens and immaculate continuance of royal affinity, then to the second building that is technically his. He takes a couple of steps forward.

-:Windy?:- He whispers into the line.

-:Yah!—I mean, yes, your highness?:-

Another overlap, only now, Optimus heard Windy much clearer outside of the comm link.

Optimus waddled closer to the Sapphire House—a much nicer sister to the Emerald House with it’s pristine paint, well kept front, and wide windows. Optimus’ optics narrowed. Windows. Standing away from the center of the designated front of the Sapphire House, Optimus notes a single, open window on the first floor. There is a faint glow that comes from it, tantalizingly out of place, especially at the current hour.

Optimus inhales, curious. -:Windy.:-

Windy simply hums in response.

Optimus steps closer to the open window, as if it were a violent mechanimal capable of biting him. -:Why did you open a window?:-

Windy shuffles with something, the rustling of fabric suggests its her apron. -:So I can sneak out, of course—hey! How did you know I opened a window?:-

Optimus sighs and cups his intake. “Windy!”

Plating clamps shut from inside the room the window is connected to, scrambling follows soon after and Windy scuttles her way to the opening. Just barely making optical contact, Windy brightens.

“Your highne—!” she starts, then slips on something in the process and lands with a thoroughly audial-rupturing CRASH!

Optimus cringes at the sound, and makes his way to the window’s edge, just tall enough to peek in. “Windy?”

Windy lies face-first on the floor. “Henlo, yer hiphnef.”

Overlooking the lacking manners in favor of her good health, Optimus asks a simple question. “Are you okay?”

Orange servos reach out, wildly stretching out for some connect to body and processor. There must have been a calibration that clicks into place as Windy manages to slam her servos back down and thrust her torso up with a gasp.

“Guh!” Windy exclaims. “Yes!”

Optimus promptly closes their line.

Windy scrambles up to her feet to meet Optimus at the Window, narrowly avoiding slipping on her pedes (again) in the process.

Finding her place against the window ledge, Windy leans close to Optimus with an unaffected smile. “What are you doing here, your highness?” She asks with some energon smudging her upper lipplates and scuffed facial protoform.

Watching her hesitantly, Optimus wets a digits with his glossa and tries to wipe her face clean. “Looking for my favorite maid, of course.” He says in hopes of raising her spirits.

“Friend.” Windy corrects, preening with the grooming she receives.

Optimus’ optics cycle at the correction, then pulls Windy a little closer to rub the energon off her face with the side of his servo. “You’re right. My favorite friend.”

Windy hums a delighted song. “Did Chromia lock you out? I’m pretty sure she left it open…” She pouts and tries to focus her attention on the larger building at her front.

“I wouldn’t know,” Optimus laments, “I didn’t get as far as the door.”

Windy makes a face, soured from a cleaning and confused from Optimus’ words. “What happened?”

Optimus sighs dramatically, allowing a still roughed-up Windy pull away, and rests his chin on his side of the window ledge. “If you can believe it, I’m scared of stairs.”

Windy’s disproportionately large (yet terrible cute) optics flicker at Optimus. “Huh?”

They match each other’s blank gazes, Optimus only encourages Windy’s barely-there processing power to work when he tilts his helm to the side and whistles a note that goes from high to low.

“Oh.” Windy’s optics flicker, again, only now in realization. “Oh! Oh...yeah, that makes a little more sense.”

“Atta girl.” Optimus coos. “So, I need your help getting in.”

Windy purses her lips in thought. “Okay, but how?”

Optimus slaps the wall under the window. “Same way you plan on getting out.”

Windy brightens. “Good idea!”

Optimus steps back folding his arms over his chest, nodding along to Windy’s praise to prepare for her to crawl and jump down the window. Somehow, or luckily, really, Windy’s processor manages to make a small epiphany.

Halfway to hopping down, stance prepared and apron on, Windy looks down at Optimus with a blank expression.

“Wait, but,” her optics narrows in realization, “how are you gonna get out in the morning, then?”

Optimus’ arms falls to his side instantly, and he blinks thoughtlessly.

“Well,”

“You don’t know, do you.”

“...no.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be smart, your highness?”

Optimus fights the desire to yank Windy down for that particularly harsh blow. Instead he raises an arm to prepare a particular hard flick to Windy’s shin. “Don’t tease me.”

“Eek!” Windy shrieks and stumbles back into the room before Optimus can. She ducks into the safety of the wall separating them, only peeking up to look at Optimus. “This is mistreatment, I can file a report you know!”

“I didn’t even touch you!”

“A threat is a threat, your highness!”

Optimus uses the same flick-prepared servo to point at Windy. “Don’t make me come in there.”

Instead of continuing to feign dramatics, Windy does another 180 and hoists herself back up to stand. “Good idea!”

Optimus pauses. “What is?”

“Coming in!” Windy offers. “You can stay with me tonight! We can have a sleepover!”

“I think that proposes multiple issues, not to mention ethical dilemmas.” Optimus deadpans, then sets his servos on his hips. “This can get reported you know!”

Windy waves off Optimus. “Either that or you’re sleeping on the rocks, your highness.”

That was about as much convincing as Optimus needed. “Alright, help me up.”

Windy makes a side-glace to the side of the building the front door would be. “But the door—”

Optimus is already making his way into the window before Windy can insist upon a civil method. “Doors, shmoors. That is a morning me decision,” He grunts and is about an upper torso in before his legs lose contact with the outside ground. “For now, shortcut—!”

His servo flails at nothing, hoping to grasp at something that could help him in. Unfortunately the window is set in the middle of the room, so Windy takes the important role of grabbing Optimus’ servo and pulling him in. Or, trying to.

Now, if Windy’s crash was ground-shaking. Optimus’ was world shattering. Results lead to multiple items falling off of walls and a notable seismic shift of the Sapphire House. Other maids scrambling their way into Windy’s room with kitchen knifes, knitting needles, and broken vase as weapons to unleash the fury of workmechs on the poor intruder. The door slams open to an unaware Optimus and Windy who are too busy shaking off the events to pay their guests fastening weapons any mind. When they do rid themselves of the dizziness, it is to the sight of petrified looks of the rest of Optimus’ palace staff gawking at them.

“Uhm.” Optimus cannot help but laugh awkwardly. “Hi?”

Megatron returns to his manor in a daze.

Upon stepping foot through his front door, he is ambushed by a seeker and a living satellite.

“Where the frag have you been?!” Starscream screeches, storming into the entryway from another room, likely a salon.

Soundwave follows closely at Starscream’s back, pointing and nods along. “Lord Megatron: Not made contact. Soundwave: Concerned…”

Starscream finds his place at Megatron’s front, arms folded over his chest and clicking a heel in frustration. “Can you believe they kicked me out but let him stay while you went all white knight for Optimus?”

Megatron doesn’t answer, staring off into the great beyond. Particularly at the unwavering shadows that dim the view of his manor, he almost sees them waltzing in the memory he never had.

“Ultra Magnus: Suspicious of Lord Megatron.” Soundwave snaps at Megatron to garner his attention, and mostly failing. “Favor: Low. Suspicions: High. Decepticon House: In more danger.”

“Yeah,” Starscream pretends to care, “do you have any idea how badly you fragged up during your little date.” He says with upmost disdain. “If you think my little stunt ruined you, you just did way worse!”

“Fragged.” Soundwave replays a clip of Starscream swearing. “Lord Megatron: Fragged.”

“Uh-huh.” Megatron answers noncommittally, holding his servos up to gaze at the lingering idea of Optimus within their seems, hesitantly reaching out for those shadows that invite him to a waltz. He steps between the two, sideways in order to slip between them faster.

Soundwave and Starscream exchange weary looks.

“Um, hello?” Starscream starts waving for Megatron’s attention. “We’re scolding you? Why aren’t you getting mad?”

Soundwave takes a measure to yank Megatron back, successfully stirring him form the daze.

“Inquiry Set: Occurrence? Post-Disaster; Post-search. Detail:..Required. Lord Megatron: Explain.”

“Yeah!” Starscream grumbles loudly. “What happened with our perfect prince of Iacon?”

The twinge of a tension helmache makes Megatron’s face twitch. He pulls away from Soundwave. “The prince is fine. He has returned to his manor.” He lets out a sigh to pinch the ridge of his olfactory sensor. “I need to rest, I have to return to him by the morning.”

As if the utterance was forgettable, Megatron continues his way for the stairs that will take him to the sanctity of his room for the first night (or four joors) of good rest he might get.

Not if Soundwave and Starscream were concerned. The two swapped looks, disgusted and confused, respectively, and began their chase.

“Not hold on a klik!” Starscream announces, tailing after Megatron’s speed walk to the stairs. “That’s not helpful at all!”

“I’ll tell you in the morning.”

“Now: Ideal.” Soundwave interjects from Megatron’s other side.

The two sandwich Megatron between their fields, crazily searching for an answer behind the late arrival and dazed behavior. Megatron doesn’t comply very well—he never does—and lets the two barrage him, far more focused on the sole objective of getting to berth and passing out for recharge to take him swiftly; although he half wishes he may be dreaming at the present moment, it would save him a secondary helmache in the morning.

Megatron realizes the stairs for what they are, stairs, and stops in his tracks at the very front, gaze locked upon the unimpressive sight. A flash of color comes across before they narrow, intrigued. Soundwave and Starscream scuttle to a halt, nearly topping over themselves and crashing into the base of the steps. Quick witted, and quick movements from Megatron yank the two back into an upright position.

“Stairs.” Megatron notes, practically sympathetic.

Strong servos aid Soundwave and Starscream to a steady standing position at the stairs, they exchange curious stares beyond Megatron’s chest—almost telepathically connected in confusion.

Megatron swiftly straightens Soundwave and Starscream; brushing whatever nonexistent dust clung to their backs and returns to his stride up, wearing that same muddled expression of enchantment.

He lets out a simple hum, and continues on, abandoning his friends along the way—the two are far too preoccupied with watching him make his way along the length of the staircase.

Starscream’s optics cycle in consideration before he speaks. “So—”

“Goodnight!” Megatron answers with a light tone, perhaps reminiscent of a childish whimsy he witnessed during the day and departs to his berth at a speed that was too eager.