Chapter Text
The mission has become a larger and larger ordeal.
It was meant to be simple, a break from war for his crew, a chance to get his favorite people to bond.
They were meant to get Shockwave back, all vital organs intact.
Tarn was not meant to be captured.
The Autobots were not meant to drag him back onto their awful planet.
Nothing has changed, Optimus thinks boredly as he watches the surface of Cybertron. Bot’s argue, some die, some beg. Their screams are noisy, harsh on his audials. He’s too used to the sound to find it anything other than annoying, even if others simply find it sad.
The Prime wants to go back to earth. He wants to rest, to train Soundwave slowly as the child grows. To listen to the symphonies of earth as birds chirp and the flora bristles in the soft winds. He wants to have amica again, officially.
He wants and he wants and he wants.
Watching Cybertron’s surface, Optimus knows none of that will happen if something drastic is not done.
He was created to do something drastic. Only now he has a choice in what.
He is no blind, obedient dog.
But he is vicious.
Something drastic will be done.
It has been a long time since he has set a world ablaze, and if any world deserves burning, it is Cybertron.
This, he is sure of.
—————
The Prime feels like a dead mech as cycles pass. He tries to stay present, to help preparations, but his processor slips every moment there is no warm servo at his back to keep him present.
One moment, the world is calm. Megatron is at his side, Soundwave’s voice is his in audial, Ratchet keeps his brittle form together-
Then he blinks. There are soldiers, Decepticons. More of them, Blackarachnia is here. She looks at him and he knows she’s aware something is wrong.
But Optimus will fix it. His resolve hardens.
Something will be done. His family won’t be torn from him again, by no Magnus, and by no god.
His ped trambles the ground beneath him. Cybertron, a dormant deity. A Prime has no use for gods and their false mercy, for he was made to be strong.
Another set of ped steps distracts him, and Optimus looks up and away from the injured ground beneath him.
Jazz walks up to him with a tired gait and twitchy smile on his face.
“Heya speedster, fancy seeing you up here.”
‘Up here’ being the surface. Or at least, the entrance to the caverns where the ‘Cons lay in hiding. Only the more ‘Autobot’ of their group is allowed to scout up here, anyone larger than himself would get…odd looks, if he’s being polite.
“Would’ve thought you’d be working your aft off around this time of the cycle, what’s got you away from a desk?”
The Prime sighs.
“I’ve done about all I can. I have pushed battle plans ahead to be reviewed, I have established parameter checks for the base, and I have encouraged a swift mission pace. There is nothing else of substance I can offer, not until I’m on the field.”
For now, before his servos are allowed to rip and tear, he is useless.
Jazz frowns. It’s nothing of major note, the cyber ninja seems to have taken to relaxing his mask when surrounded by just crew.
Optimus glances sideways as Jazz lazily sits down besides him, overlooking this wretched world.
For as ugly as its inhabitants are, its sky is beautiful.
Just not something he will ever associate with home.
“Ain’t exactly a whole lot we can do to hurry the process along. At least these fancy optics of mine allow me to mess around with the ship signals easier, if I was still blind- I don’t think the ‘Cons would like me when I’m bored is all.”
No, most certainly not. Whilst it does amuse the Prime when the more hyperactive of his crew act up, the poor Decepticon soldiers who came here as backup and aren’t used to them are not fond of their behaviour.
“Your visor is working well then?” He asks, for it may be the only thing he can truly assist with.
“Yep.” Jazz grins, popping the P. “It’s funky, like I said. It’s more like…I’m sorting through data than actually looking at something, if data was yappy mechs who I can run into. Strange, most certainly works.”
Optimus would hope so, thinking of all the mechs who likely died for the experimental visor to come into creation. Perhaps it makes him a bad person for thinking their deaths were worth it for his friend, if nothing else.
He hums thoughtfully, trying to imagine what the visor’s original purpose would have been for. Perhaps for spy work? Or simply another tool for scientists?
“You wanna see?” Jazz nudges his arm, grinning widely.
What.
“What.”
Jazz laughs in his face.
“Come on now Prime, let’s not get all shy now. If there was any mech I’d allow in my helm, it’d be you. Don’t get your wires in a twist, ya ain’t my type.”
“I…” he falters, trying to focus. “We’re not amica, Jazz.” He states finally. It’s not a no, more plain and simple confusion.
“Yet. You ain’t ‘amica’ with the rest of the team yet and I know for a fact nothing will change when that happens.” Optimus flounders, trying to find words. “Please, you're acting like I wanna conjunx you.”
Jazz leans forward, a devilish smile on his lips.
“Don’t worry, I know I ain’t your type either. You’d rather a certain silver stud have that title wouldn’t you?”
Optimus stutters. He, a Prime, one of the most deadly soldiers on this godforsaken planet, stutters. Out of embarrassment or confusion at the pure gall of his friend he’s unsure.
He is not daft. He knows Jazz speaks of Megatron. He’s just… confused. Where would the cyber ninja get that impression from? Because his Knight is the only mech outside of their crew he would consider family? Everyone is friendly with Megatron! Megatron would make friends with a rock if he thought it sentient. Optimus wasn’t built for…that.
But now that such a ridiculous idea has been brought to his attention, it can’t seem to leave his mind.
Jazz laughs at the open mouthed look on his face plate, and he wishes he’d not have gotten so used to these glitches called his crew that he’d stop putting his battle mask up when around them.
Not really, but it’s the sentiment that matters.
“What I’m trying to say is that I trust you.”
Jazz trusts him. It’s not that the fact is surprising, logically he knows he’s a respected ally to the ‘Cons and even more respected by his own crew. That’s not a small thing either. Trust and respect go together- it’s just that only one of those was spoken of in the society they were raised in.
The Prime has never trusted Ultra Magnus, and that wasn’t expected of him. He was built to obey, not ask questions. What was expected of him was respect, so he learned to be a good liar.
The only really surprising thing is how much Optimus trusts Jazz, and how much he respects the cyber ninja as well.
So in the end it really wasn’t that hard of a decision.
“Alright.“
Let me see the world through your view, he does not say.
Jazz smiles, and the Prime knows that he’s aware anyways.
Wordlessly, which is strange for a mech who likes the sound of his own voice far too much, Jazz extends an invitation through the data into his own systems.
Optimus accepts it-
And the world is bright.
It’s blazing unnaturally, the world itself is alive and seems angry about that. Everywhere he looks, everything he sees, it almost seems like more than it was. This world is a technological marvel, and every speck of data imbued in everything proves that fact.
As he adjusts, he recalls seeing an organic merchant stand, just some rich bot selling animal pelts from whatever world was last conquered- but now all that remains is a blank spot.
This visor wasn’t meant to be a vision aid, it only shows its user the world’s unique data signature. Anything organic would have no signature, and therefore not exist to its user. He sees why the visor was made now, it’s a personal tracker. No one can hide their very spark’s signature from a mech who only sees their signature.
Briefly, he pities whoever’s vision was likely to have been completely replaced with this visor for no real reason. The thing was likely a tool made for a Prime, a hunter. He wonders if the visor would have been added to a newly crafted frame, so that the young mech would have never seen someone’s real face before, or if a Prime would have been picked at random. It could have been him, if he had stayed. It could have been Sentinel.
It is a good feeling to know that he may have spared someone that fate, even if one of those scientists manage to whip up something worse. It is good to know that he has done at least a bit of good.
And then, an idea hits him. Typically his processor works fine in his own helm, but the rebound effect as he looks at so much data sends him out of Jazz’s visor connection.
But that doesn’t matter. He knows a way to speed up mission progress.
“Jazz.” The Prime asks, a hint of urgency in his voice.
The cyber ninja had been idly looking around, waiting for Optimus to say something, but snaps to attention when he speaks up.
“If you had a medical file of a spark signature, do you think you could track it.”
A beat passes.
“I’m not sure OP, I ain’t exactly a Prime myself.” Jazz leans back thoughtfully as he considers. It's a common mindset that if you weren’t built for it you can’t do it, and its hard mindset to get out of.
Optimus takes a breath.
“I could teach you.”
He was brave enough to teach Soundwave, he can teach one more. For the mission, at very least.
The face plates around where Jazz’s optics would be rise with surprise, but the mech looks happy.
The Prime laughs, joy racking through his frame as he slumps with relief.
This mission’s time table just got a whole lot shorter, and he’s glad for it.
He drags Jazz back down into the caverns and teaches him about tracking the entire way. He needs to find Megatron, to tell his Knight of his greatest idea yet.
He’s getting off this planet again, he’s getting off and he’ll screw over the Autobots as much as he can as he leaves.
They won’t ruin his version of a perfect world, they won’t drag him back into war to keep the people he loves.
He’ll destroy them first.
—————
“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.” Megatron tilts his helm, but sky blue optics stay locked on the Prime with concern present in them.
Optimus goes still for a moment, before chuckling darkly. He had managed to find his Knight helping a new batch of soldiers adjust, and stole his attention away to air out his new plans.
”Now’s not the time for jokes, we must hurry now that a means to directly find Tarn has been acquired.” He finishes laughing, gesturing to one of the incoming ships that they should be getting on now.
He knows he doesn’t need Megatron to finalize his plans, for it’d be a lie to say any Prime isn’t used to working solo, but Optimus was under the impression they were a team.
A partnership.
A bullet of hurt pierces his spark, thinking he’s being doubted now.
Megatron places a servo on him, he does his best to keep his expression smooth.
“There never goes a day I am not grateful for meeting you, for your companionship, your advice, your faith.” His Knight stresses his last words, as though begging him to listen. Perhaps he had seen the pained look in his optics, but most likely he is simply kind. “Your strength. But I don’t believe everyone else is ready yet. Many of these mechs have never even faced battle before, they are relief soldiers and peacekeepers, and they are frightened.”
He preens slightly at the praise, he always does, but frustration is quick to catch up.
“So you would let their fear kill Tarn?” He snaps, quick as a whip as always.
Optimus is not kind nor is he soft. He simply loves, he loves his crew, he loves his people, and he loves freedom. If he must be harsh to protect those he loves, even from themselves, he will be a right and ‘proper’ Prime.
If his Knight is too soft to kick and bite and live, then he will do the work for them. He will drag them to victory, kicking and screaming and bloody as all warfare is.
“This isn’t about them, Megatron. This isn’t even about Tarn, this is about the future generations of your rebellion. Of your own dream!”
The silver mech seems to pale unnaturally, movements turning stiff even as he doesn't move to pull away from the harsh words.
Optimus doesn’t pull away either. Love, harsh and hot as all his feelings are swirls in his gut. It angers him how much he cares, he should not be so quick to rage.
But he is. Because he cares.
His engines growls in frustration, and he shuts his optics tightly to try and calm himself.
A servo cups his cheek. It’s soft, clawless and warm, but not harmless. It would never be so comforting if it were harmless. A thumb gently smooths the soft metal of his face, unscarred compared to the rest of him because of his battle mask.
His final twitches, recording each and every movement and the world stills and calms.
“We all have to work through this together. There is no dream at all if the mechs I want in it are grey.”
Optimus opens his optics once more, a different sort of pain in them now. An old, old pain that had plagued him and will never leave.
“There is nothing more to do. You have seen the Autobots army, there is no working through that. If we don’t act now they’ll only go stronger, only more will die, only-“ He cuts himself off, he can’t, won’t, go down that train of thought. He can’t render himself useless just when control is back in sight.
Megatron just. Looks at him, waiting once more, before finally smiling weakly.
“Have you so little faith in us?”
Us. Them. Together, a partnership. He isn’t alone.
He shakes his helm in a quiet negative.
“We need to trust that this will work, to trust each other. I know you value me as someone who’s on your side, as someone who will keep you alive, so why do you keep pushing to kill yourself?” His Knight looks ill as he asks, desperate for an answer that will make the Prime seem less pathetic then he is.
Optimus has nothing for him.
“Trust.” He repeats back. “I trust you. I need you to trust me. At the very least, trust what I have endured and know there is nothing in war you can truly prepare for.”
It feels sacrilegious to admit, to come out and say he cannot always be at the ready. That at any time, control could slip further. But he can say it here, for there is no one who will judge him for own fear here.
Megatron squeezes his shoulder, just tight enough for him to notice. For his tired optics to look up.
“…Then we will act. If swiftness is what is needed, then we will set out tomorrow. But remember Optimus Prime, I will be with you every step of the way.”
He doesn’t bother nodding, and instead simply slumps against Megatron’s chest. His Knight holds him gently, as though he is a sparkling instead of a sword.
It feels good to be trusted. He hopes he can keep a hold of the feeling. He doubts it.
Guilt racks his frame. How many will die? Even if he pushes and pushes that they must hurry, how many won’t be quick enough?
He tells himself he never cared before, he shouldn’t start now.
It’s hard to listen.
His processor wasn’t made to account fear into logical calculations, but he is a broken mech with a glitched processor.
And his fearful mind tells him to do something drastic.
He won’t let Megatron down.
—————
Iacon looks more rotten than he remembered.
The glistening city still sparkles, sure, but it’s become all the more apparent that it’s hiding its horrors away.
It’s nothing like earth, there is no sun that shines on him here today. A coldness seeps into his frame, and it is uncomfortably familiar.
Well, that’s partly a lie. On earth, he always had his crew with him. On earth, he knew the Decepticons were always a mere klick away. That remains true even now as he stalks further into the city.
Every step of the way is what he was promised. The words hold a weight in him now.
His own promise lays heavy on his chassis.
‘I will make your dream come true.’
Optimus will not go back on his word.
He continues, trudging ahead into the cruel city of Iacon and its beautiful rotten towers.
He follows Bumblebee blindly, knocking into random mechs as he stumbles along and glaring them down before they can escalate. He’s too deep in the data, specifically Prowl’s visual data, that he can’t risk properly focusing on his surroundings.
But that’s not an issue, Bee is a scout, if he was going in blind anywhere he’d like to follow after his small friend.
The Prime focuses on Tarn’s signal once more. It’s weak, as all signals that come from that facility are. That's worrying, but not necessarily a problem. He won’t write it off, nothing can afford to be taken easy in the heart of Cybertron’s madness.
This is it. This is the rescue. His crew is split up into groups of two, not counting Bulkhead who is planting a distraction in the building next to Tarn’s location. His space bridge technician can both fix, and glitch a portal well enough to cause panic.
(Optimus had originally wanted a bomb, a guaranteed distraction, but Megatron was opposed. That’s fine, he will leave something on this planet broken.
Someone.)
The goal is not to directly set the prison’s security off, not when they do not wish to be noticed. But if a space bridge is causing panic, it stands to reason a Prime can get in to check on security. All the better the facility can’t contact anyone else because of the lockdown.
Typically, this plan would never have worked. But typically, one wouldn’t have an entire sleeper armada waiting for the sign they need evac.
When his crew needs evac.
He’ll take care of the rest, he always does.
Silently, he lifts his servo up to Bumblebee’s helm. His scout does not bluster and bite as he typically would at the soft affection, instead, quietly leaning into the feeling.
Then, the alarms sound off.
Bumblebee reluctantly backs away, beginning to blend into the shadowed alleyway they are waiting in. For a moment, the scout looks like he wishes to say something, before turning away.
Optimus sends a positive ping, the first step has been done. Mechs panic and scream in the streets, foolishly running about like animals thinking they are being invaded. It’s pathetic, and the Prime feels sick.
He waits alone now for the signs of lockdown to begin.
Not…truely alone. When Jazz trusted Optimus to use his sight, shock and confusion and love had fought in his processor. It was an honor, but strange and alien.
But when he asked Megatron if he was willing to see as he, a Prime, does. Well, he understood Jazz’s bravery much better. It wasn’t scary, or anything big, it was natural. Optimus trusts his knight, of course it was one of the easiest things in his long and tedious life he has done.
He can’t risk comm communication, but an extra weight of optics sits in his mind, and he is not alone.
Then, lockdown begins. He’s not in the facility yet, but as a dead zone sets in around the building, he loses the ability to comm his crew.
Megatron is still right with him.
He takes a vent, straightens even further, and embodies a cold Prime as he walks forward into the prison.
Bots, medics and scientists alike, glance up in their frazzled states, recognizing not only his authority, but he himself as well.
No one dares to whisper, nor step out of line, in the presence of a Prime. Especially Optimus Prime, Ultra Magnus’s old favorite.
Mechs go M.I.A all the time, even Primes. It doesn’t matter if these mechs think he was undercover or simply blown half to shreds for so long before he could come back, as long as he can scare them into not asking questions.
He uses the bleed through of his Knight’s confusion to distract himself from the stare of every bot in the reception. What he has isn’t a true bond, Megatron isn’t his conjunx, but the connection they have is enough to have more primal feelings bleed through.
He tries to push through their fake bond as much comfort as he can even as his outer frame hisses at any bot who looks too comfortable in his presence.
(and he pushes out any thoughts of how nice an actual bond would be with his Knight, how nice it would to always be connected like this. He doesn’t want to lose this. He won’t, he can’t.
He doesn’t deserve it.)
“You.” He snaps, voice cold bordering on fury. A small scientist straightens to attention and tries his best to hide the nervous tremors of his frame.
“Yes my Prime?” The trembling excuse of a mech spits out, blue’s of his frame blurry with motion.
Optimus waits a moment, letting the bot stew in his nerves and fear as he himself looks around the room.
No one meets his optics.
Let it be known no one has ever called him a bad performer, not at this song and dance at the very least.
“You work in this facility, yes? Then lead me. I have an examination to make.” He grunts, already moving towards the back and mechs start running wildly around him once more fortifying the doors.
“I- indeed, I am Ambulon-“
“Silence. You think a bot who hasn’t even become a proper medic yet should be wasting my time? Assisting me shall be the single greatest thing you’ll do before rusting.”
He doesn’t say it particularly harshly, just, disinterested. A Prime is meant to be above simple mechs, a Prime is meant to be an uncaring weapon.
He is a Prime. He is.
“Of course!” Ambulon smiles, wobbly with strain. “I don’t mean to presume, but a Prime such as yourself should be with the guard in emergencies…?”
Optimus stops in his tracks, the nurse bot scrambling to stop behind him in his long stride.
“Ambulon.” Time seems to freeze, not for him, but a deathly sort of fear appears in Ambulon’s optics.
Primes are meant to be weapons. Seen, not heard. To have one directly address you typically means you won’t live to see tomorrow.
And he wouldn’t mind having an excuse to have one less witness. The other mechs around him wouldn’t even blink, no one would come to help a bot of lower status.
Ambulon is all too aware of his place in this system.
“The guard is hand picked by the Magnus himself. You would question their ability to perform without myself?”
You would question the Magnus?
“Of course not my Prime.” Not a single stutter, just cold. Just resigned.
He is led silently into the back with the ’patients,’ the only feeling in the air being Megatron’s concern bleeding into his frame.
Optimus takes a look at the long hallway, each and every single room holding a victim.
“Dismissed.”
Ambulon does not respond other than turning back, and running when he believed the Prime couldn’t hear him.
Then, he takes a deep breath, and begins running as well.
Checking every room, only just glancing at whatever poor fragger is stuck on each table.
Many of them are dead, he hardly acknowledges that, only Megatron’s disgust truly registering. It doesn't matter. None of them are Tarn.
All of the victims vary greatly, in size, in faction, doesn't matter.
All of them seem to be outliers. All of them have their sparks torn out.
But some. Some of them don’t seem dead. Their optics aren’t extinguished, even as their frame lays grey and unmoving. It’s the first thing that has unnerved him.
He feels sick.
He keeps looking.
And looking. And looking.
(There are so many, so many dead, so many not quite.)
He keeps looking until he finds another grey mech.
This one, this zombie, has its vocalizer torn out. A vocalizer which was famous for singing words of comfort to Decepticons all around. A vocalizer which was never utilized as a weapon by its owner. A vocalizer who used to speak of love and peace to his conjunx.
This vocalizer belonged to Tarn.
And Tarn is dead.
He feels Megatron’s data spike inside of his helm, an overwhelming sense of loss, fear, sorrow, guilt guiltguiltguilt-
Then Megatron is gone. Withdraw from his mind.
And Optimus is alone.
A singular Prime surrounded by the dead, once more.
He feels his shoulders shake, violently scratching his own paint at the uncontrollable tremors. Then, his audials clear back up.
He hadn’t noticed them malfunctioning in the first place.
And he hears laughter, it’s his own. He hasn’t laughed like this in vorns! He laughs and laughs, and his knees would buckle if he wasn't built to endure it. Endure everything.
He laughs, and the dead mech with only half dead optics does not laugh with him.
It doesn’t cry with him either.
This is what the Autobots are planning, an army of the soulless undead, an army full of dead loved ones and unrecognizable victims.
He wonders if Nickel would be able to fight back, if her conjunx was the one killing her people? And then he laughs some more, because he knows she would not.
She would die. Many Decepticons, would die.
His Knight is absent still.
Optimus wonders if he died too.
His battle mask tightens further into his skin, energon mixing with tears. He forcibly rips the mask down, forcing the stinging metal away whilst he still has the mind to do so.
He’s not really thinking when he extends his axe, hacking further away at the grey corpse. He just knows that the optics finally go dark, and they look thankful when they do.
…Why would he do that? Everyone will know it was him, they’ll know he’s gone rouge, they’ll know-
The Prime finally falls to the floor.
Why would he do that? His frame couldn’t have given out, it’s not built to give out.
Why is he so tired.
He wasn’t fast enough to stop this. How is he meant to stop this?
An undead army. One he can’t stop.
The only way to cut their strings would be to silence the puppet master.
Ah.
Something drastic must be done.
—————
He doesn’t know how long he sits there after.
His frame went numb at some point, but his processor did the same much earlier. He clutches his axe to his chassis as though a prized toy, as though it can protect him from what waits in all the other doors in this evil, wretched building.
This is all out of his control, and the only thing he feels is his mind slipping further and further away.
He doesn’t feel the vibrations on the floor as a vent rolls over and clangs noisily against metal. He doesn’t hear the call of his name, his actual name, not a title.
That shouldn’t be real, he’s on Cybertron. He’s not allowed to be Optimus here, just.
Just Prime.
But it is real, this is his reality and he cannot escape it.
“Optimus! My dear…” The voice cries, falling to the floor against him. It holds him tight, its tears mixing with his own.
He isn’t alone. Megatron wouldn’t leave him.
A tiny giggle builds in his throat.
“This is all my fault, I’m so-“ The voice chokes, pulling him tighter. He’s now an axe, acting as the prized toy. An item of comfort. “I’m sorry…! I was foolish, I-“
Megatron continues to prattle on and on.
He’s just thankful all the medics of this facility are up front still tightening defenses, and that they're all too scared of him to come back here to hear his Knight’s cries.
Then, panic sets in. Since it’s the first real feeling he’s felt in what seems like forever, he holds onto it tightly.
Megatron should not be here. The only mechs on the surface should be his crew, who can evacuate quickly and go unseen.
If Megatron is caught he will be killed. He will be killed and their dream will not come true.
“What.” Optimus slowly begins to rise, using his Knight’s shoulder as a stand. “Are you doing here.”
Megatron doesn’t answer. Only the silence rises to meet his audials.
He feels fury, and that too, he fumbles to hold and not let go.
“What were you thinking? Coming here for a dead mech? You're too important, do you understand what you have risked!” The Prime growls, claws ripping into the pale mech’s frame as he holds on.
That’s the only thing he can do right now, hold and hold and hold on.
“You're not dead yet.” Megatron whispers, a stark contrast to his own voice. The difference, and his Knight’s own words, force him to focus.
“Tarn’s dead.” Optimus bleats tiredly back, confusion and terror threatening to overtake him.
“And you're not. So I came to get you, I had to. Something went wrong on the surface, your crew got out fine, but the base went dark. It was discovered.“
What.
“…I did everything to hide our signals, no one could have, no one could have known.” The Prime says desperately, optics wide with emotions he can’t quite focus enough to put a name on.
Megatron just looks at him. Keeps him centered.
“You were right.” He whispers once more. “We weren’t fast enough, not quick enough to outwit the Autobots. You were right.”
This isn’t how things were meant to go.
“How many were captured.” His voice changes, if it’s more commanding, fit for a Prime, or more reminiscent of a broken mech he isn’t sure.
“I’m not sure. Jazz had managed to intercept the message of the one who found us, they had time to begin evacuations.” Megatron takes a vent. “I have faith Starscream would have gotten them out safely, but the only mech I couldn’t save was you.”
“So now you're here.”
“So now I’m here.”
“Who traced our signal?”
“…Sentinel Prime.”
He stands. That does it.
“You ARE foolish. You come down here, for one singular weapon! People like you are meant to be leading, taking charge! People like Sentinel will rip your soft flock apart, Knight!”
Anger, boiling and hot rages through him.
How is Optimus meant to do what he must if Megatron would risk everything for him?
He can salvage this. He can, he just needs-
He just needs Megatron to leave him.
To abandon him.
“People like me?” His Knight finally speaks up, voice still soft but with a note of disbelief in it.
“People like you!” The Prime snaps back, it comes out more like a growl as his engines heat and heat with red hot fury.
“Tell me, what is it that you mean, Optimus? What did you possibly want me to do, leave you to die?”
Righteous anger. Good, The Prime hopes it rusts in his Knight, hopes it sharpens him enough to keep them alive.
“That’s not meant to be of your concern.” The Prime snaps back coolly. “You, you are like a Knight from a story book. You don’t feel real to me, your softness, your warmth, it is an illusion I can only protect for so long, and you're ruining it! A Knight is meant to protect his people, not throw it all away for a weapon!” He cries, for how else is he meant to convey this to a mech who refuses to understand.
“I am no Knight, I am only a mech trying his best. My perfect word does not EXIST without you.”
His Knight’s voice is perhaps the most pained he’s ever heard it, desperately trying to make him understand something which makes no sense.
“Your perfect world is one without a violence, a dream of no war. I was created for war, an axe in hand to fight for all that which is evil, I’m choosing to be a sword. An honorable weapon for an honorable warrior. You saw yourself how I acted on this planet, that’s normal! Nothing about that will change if you get yourself killed!”
“There is no honor in war, Optimus. None.“ His Knight smiles crookedly, beginning to laugh. “You're not a weapon, that’s just what they want you to be. I want you to be my friend, I want you to be more than that.”
More.
That’s all the Prime has always wanted, to be something more.
But he was built as a Prime.
“You don’t think I want that too? You don’t think I know how selfish I am, trying to retain this stupid delusion? I’m aware! And I’m not going to stop, I won’t lay down and wait to die, not anymore. I refuse.” He finishes, a panting and furious mess.
His Knight laughs, not in his face, more akin to the delirious laughter he himself made when faced with Tarn’s bloodied corpse he’s been ignoring since.
“Good!” Megatron laughs, still holding on to the Prime. “We’re both so glitched, how ever did we make it this far.”
Optimus sags against him, letting out a small deranged giggle. Almost a perfect mirror of all the times in the past they’ve held each other like this.
He finds, foolishly enough, he still doesn’t want to let go of this feeling.
“I don’t want to die. All I’ve ever wanted is to live, you just have to trust me.”
Megatron nods, optics alight with a soft sort of hope.
“I’ll never stop trusting you, as long as you keep coming back to me.”
“That’s the goal.”
He curls tighter into Megatron’s chassis, so tight that he hardly notices when the air shifts.
The lockdown has ended, comm’s are up and working and anyone could come in at any time. He clings to his Knight’s arms, as though he could protect the pale mech with just his frame.
Painfully, he takes a step back.
“Come on. We have to both live, alright?”
“It’s a deal, my dear.”
They don’t have enough time to escape to the main ship, he knows they don’t.
His plan can still be put into motion.
He just won’t be alone for it.
Stiffly, he turns to his side, facing Tarn’s cold frame. Surprisingly enough, there is a body bag off to the side. Maybe this facility is quite wealthy to be able to afford such ‘frivolous’ things like that, but it works in his favor.
“I.” His voice catches in his throat, but Megatron gently kneads his back, and he finds his voice. “I put Tarn out of his misery, but shall we give him a proper burial?”
“We shall.” He does not turn to face his Knight’s face, but the note of solemnity makes him want to be brave.
They work in silence, quietly moving the dead mech into the same vent Megatron had utilized. He doesn’t say a prayer, but wishes Tarn luck nonetheless in the well of sparks.
Then, Optimus holds up the body bag. A tarp, large enough to hide his Knight.
Voices are getting louder outside, they do not have time to hesitate. Nevertheless, he stills.
Megatron gently takes the tarp from him.
“I won’t leave you, and I won’t be stuck here. Do whatever you need to, as I’ll be right behind you.”
“Like straight out of a story book.” He mutters, humorless.
His Knight holds his face, moving their helms together in an act of commitment and love all in one move. He requests access to Optimus’s visual data once more, and he readily accepts the ping.
The Prime helps the pale mech onto the table. He tries to imagine this as just another checkup, one with Ratchet, one that doesn’t end with his love torn and spit up in his face.
He covers Megatron in the tarp, as one would with the dead, and tries to ignore the wave of sickness he feels staring at the still frame. His Knight pulses a wave of comfort at him, but his peds remain planted where they were.
He doesn’t have to move yet, he can rest here, as morbid as the thought is. He only must act when he must be a Prime again.
So, he sorts through his data. Megatron is right there with him as he looks at the status updates from his crew, as he answers the small positive ping from Soundwave with one of his own. He can’t quite bring himself to tell his crew what he’s up to, so his Knight begins answering them for him. He watches them interact with a small smile on his face.
Then, he raises his crooked battle mask right as the door swishes open.
And he twists to attention as Sentinel Prime walks through.
His old amica looks alike in some ways to how he did when they were young officers. Frame still black and gold, as is his own, as was Elita’s. The red notes across his chassis and helm have increased, a showcase of power, of favor, to be allowed to thoroughly customize oneself.
But Sentinel looks more tired than Optimus remembered.
(He probably looks much the same. It’s funny how the ‘dead’ one of their group looks the most alive.)
The Prime remembers his friend as an angry mech, and an angrier Prime. All of his memories of Sentinel being egotistic, but still naive and sweet, twisted with what the Magnus considers perfection.
Looks like Ultra Magnus moved on from himself perfectly fine, seeing all of Sentinel’s new upgrades.
He wonders how much those hurt, until he remembers the phantom pain himself.
A lot, is the answer.
The Primes watch each other for just a klick, a full examination that would take any mech less familiar with the other much longer. Sentinel lips twitch, into a grin or frown, he isn’t sure. Then, the red bot starts to look over the rest of the room.
Optimus steps forward, and Sentinel pauses to sneer at him.
“Long time no see, coward. Done running away?” The anger seems almost performative, a practiced speech that has long since run its course.
“…Yes. I found what I was looking for. Did you?”
A pause. It appears he’s gone off their little predetermined script, and Sentinel isn’t sure of how to deal with that.
“Of course I didn’t. You of all idiots should know there’s nothing here.” Bitterness seems to be all the hate Sentinel can muster up.
He nods. Sentinel’s right, of course. But there’s things out there he hasn’t seen yet, and he thinks the Red mech before him can see that in his optics.
“So why did you come back?”
“You don’t seem surprised I’m here, why don’t you answer that yourself.”
Sentinel’s brow plate twitches, an innocent sort of annoyance he would show when they were just children.
“Believe it or not, I don’t spend all cycle thinking of you. There was just some amateur hacker whose signature was familiar, that’s all…”
Optimus does not believe that, this bastard knew he was here since the beginning. But he didn’t tell anyone. Did Sentinel believe him a ghost, as he himself did Elita, or simply not care? Whatever the reasoning, it gave him a chance.
He hums. “Well, I didn’t come back for a reunion if that’s what you're thinking. I just have a bit of intel that may interest, sadly nothing important for the Magnus.”
“…He’s a busy mech.” Sentinel nods in agreement “If Ultra Magnus doesn’t set his favorite Prime up for more work, come find me when you're done licking his peds.”
Optimus nods back, sending a positive ping, and then the two soldiers move outside in silence. There’s nothing else to be said between them now, two amica more akin to strangers.
What a world they live in.
But maybe there’s hope yet. Sentinel has always been better than him, no matter what the Magnus believed. The red Prime came after him instead of a hot spot of ‘Cons, and whether he believed Optimus to be working with them or hunting them, it means something.
They can heal, they can speak, they can be themselves, in a world without Ultra Magnus.
But there is only silence when the mech in question lands before them.
They both salute in sync, not a beat too late, like perfect little soldiers.
He takes the last free breath he can as the Magnus walks up to them, skull-like mask painted the same red as Sentinel’s.
Just one cycle of playing pretend, just one more cycle of being a weapon.
One more cycle till he can do something drastic.
He will grit his teeth and bear it, as he always has.