Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

thank you crypt2niite and A_Non_ymousWriter for beta reading this chapter !!! the two of you , my friends , get one (1) hour to sit in the canoe . 

When Optimus Prime banished D-16 and what used to be the Cybertronian High Guard from Iacon, he had been expecting to fall to his knees in grief. Perhaps even lay on the floor to wallow in sadness and contemplate everything that’s happened while Bee and Elita pat his back in solidarity.

Instead, the moment Dee had fled, the world around him suddenly blurred, colors and shapes bleeding together in a way that felt unnatural and strange. He stepped back, pedes unsteady, and optics dimmed involuntarily—

And then, he was Awake.

Standing in the Archives.

In the exact spot where he had been the day he broke in. What the frag? His processor seized momentarily, queries flashing in his HuD one after another as he struggled to analyze what he was experiencing. This was wrong. This was—

INTERNAL COMMUNICATIONS LINE

status : open

corresponder desg. : D-16

:: Pax. Where are you??? ::

:: The train's arriving soon. I'm not waiting til after it's gone for you to get back, you know. ::

His spark stuttered.

:: ahaha well um see.. about that. just gimme a sec. ::

:: omw ::

:: ??? ::

:: You're being weird. Are you hurt?? ::

:: Orion Pax I swear to Primus- don't get yourself hurt. ::

:: awww you care bout me ::

:: Shut up and get your aft out the Archives. ::

The faint sound of the security drone that had caught him before was scanning just around the corner, snapping him out of his stupor. Ah, frag, frag, frag—if he just moved quickly, then—he stumbled sideways and dove behind the nearest stack of datapads, his processor racing. Glimpsing through the spaces between the datapads, he manually clamped his vents shut as the drone scanned the hallway top to bottom, before it finally left. Orion slumped against the shelf.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, a sliver of hope wormed its way into his spark.

He had another chance. 

He pushed past the thought of himself suddenly time-traveling to the past and vented quietly. Gritting his dentae, Orion stood and swiftly made his exit. This time, he stayed low, cutting through the labyrinth of archives instead of tirelessly trying to find snippets of Cybertron’s history—he would not find the Matrix's location hidden within any of the datapads here. He would not find the Matrix anywhere on the surface of Cybertron. He knows better about the Matrix and how it works, now.

“Slag—!” He hissed, and jolted with slight panic when he nearly rammed into one of the shelves, unused to his suddenly smaller, cogless frame. Thankfully he managed to steady himself and continue onward. His plating trembled nervously as he carefully slipped past the last drone's scanners and through the Archival Vault’s main exit without so much as a warning ping.

Orion allowed himself a grin. He did it. He was out, with no alarms or pursuit. For once, everything had gone perfectly according to his usually half-baked plans. Score one for Orion Pax! 

Orion didn’t stop moving until he was well outside the area. His processor buzzed with energy, thoughts racing in a chaotic jumble, and he laughed, slightly breathless at the hope blooming in his chassis. What should he do? Where should he go? He could save Iacon and his Amica Endura!

It didn’t take long for his steps to find their way to a familiar, unassuming corner of Iacon’s Industrial Sector, right next to the train station.

“Dee?” Orion called out, his voice cautious and a little wobbly. 

The mech in question was pushing a hover-dolly full of mining gear toward the station before he turned around to face Orion, face already deadpan.

The moment their optics met, Orion’s world exploded in gold.

Externally, he grinned awkwardly in greeting. Internally, his spark felt like it was going to combust. He didn't know why. Maybe it was because he was seeing his Amica again—untainted and happy.

While Orion had been busy having his minor crisis, D-16 regarded him silently. “Pax. You’re early,” D-16 said dryly, leaning casually on the hover-dolly. “What, no guards chasing you this time? I didn’t hear any alarms blaring. I’m surprised, you’re not even falling from the sky.” 

Orion blinked, caught off guard and shoving his exploding spark to the side. “Uh, wait—you were expecting me to show up like that?”

D-16 snorted, like he was an idiot (which he was NOT). “You’re predictable, Pax." He hummed, expression unreadable. "Always has to be you breaking the rules to, oh, I dunno, help Sentinel 'find the Matrix’. And,” his expression turned deadpan, “you've crash landed onto me. Twice.”

Orion’s venting stuttered, and he forcefully ex-vented. There was something reassuring about D-16’s blunt, sardonic humor. It reminded him of when, just a few subcycles ago, everything was okay.

A grin tugged at the corners of Orion’s mouth. “So, hypothetically,” he began, tilting his helm, “if you had a transformation-cog, what would you scan?”

D-16 squinted. “What kinda question's that?”

“I’m serious!” Orion pressed and moved closer, ignoring the bubbling euphoria that he felt at the proximity, optics alight with a mixture of genuine curiosity and the happiness that came with the realization that the time traveling was real. That he did have a chance to fix everything. “What would you turn into?”

D-16 answered way too fast, a horrible (handsome) smirk spread across his face. “A shovel.”

Orion frowned at him. He'd genuinely forgotten his answer. “…A shovel?”

“To beat you with,” D-16 clarified flatly.

A laugh burst out of Orion's vocalizer, startling the both of them. He would've apologized, but currently he was doubled over, clutching helplessly at his mirthful frame and feeling coolant squeeze out of his shut optics. The absurdity of the situation finally got to him, including the overwhelming relief of seeing his friend, his best friend, as he had been before things went terribly wrong. Distantly, his audials picked up the klaxons blaring to mark the arrival of the train, but his processor was too busy spinning everything in happy circles for him to be alarmed.

This was his Amica. His D-16. And he had a chance to keep him that way.

He glanced up through blurry optics at his friend, D-16 stared at him, unimpressed, though the slight furrow in his ridge exposed his concern. “What’s so funny?”

Orion waved a servo dismissively, wiping at the corners of his optics. “Nothing, nothing,” he managed, though his vents hitched as another laugh threatened to escape from his vocalizer. “It’s just—never mind. Don’t worry about it, dude.”

D-16 snorted and began to move toward the train. “You’re acting weird, Pax.”

“Yeah, well,” Orion said, his tone suddenly light as he clasped a servo on D-16’s shoulder pauldron, the both of them moving inside the miner's cabin and settling against the window. “Get used to it.”

"Hn." Orion could see Dee’s perturbed expression at the idea of getting used to whatever-the-slag-is-currently-going-on with the shorter mech, and Orion couldn't stifle a strangled giggle.

The train hissed, and they began to move, the Miner's Cabin rumbling quietly beneath their pedes. There was the faint glow of the passing cityscape streaming through the windows. Orion stared out at the golden lights of Iacon, watching it slowly turned to darkness as they headed toward the miner’s barracks.

He was currently running through various scenarios, crafting a plan—or at least trying to. It felt strange, thinking so many steps ahead than usual, but he couldn’t afford to mess his chance up. This time, he would do things differently. And, most importantly, without involving unwilling mechs—Elita, Bee—D-16.

Orion swallowed. It was painfully clear to him now, how his actions had slowly led to everything going wrong. Multiple occasions, he had roped Dee into helping him with his escapades, their adventures always getting the both of them berated by Elita. Time and time again, Orion pushed him into reckless scenarios where he had to choose between himself and Orion, always choosing Orion, and always risking everything he had worked hard for. Mindlessly, he held his left servo above his empty cog-hole, his spark buzzing painfully.

‘You’re never thinking about anything else, JUST YOURSELF!' Dee had snapped at him, the words echoing loud in that chamber of dead Primes. 'Fantastic, ANOTHER Orion Pax Master Plan, I can't wait to hear this—!’ Orion winced at the recollection. Yeah. He'd be mad, too, if he was constantly forced to go along with something all the time.

And then he paused, something foreign creeping into his processor. Dee doesn't really stand his ground, though, he thought, frowning. Does he?

He shook his helm immediately. No, no. Of course he does. Why else would he have been so mad at Orion, then, when they had that argument in front of Alpha Trion? Orion would've been mad, too, if he was constantly forced to go along with something stupid on the daily.

Orion wracked his processor and flicked through various memory files. There was that time he was running from the guards, too distracted to look directly ahead of himself before he ran directly into Dee and dented his gauntlet. When he tried to apologize and turn toward an alleyway to hide, Dee just grabbed Orion and ran until they were out of sight. Once they were safe, his friend laughed unsteadily, and asked Orion to please comm him when he's on the run so he can help get him out of slag easier. 

Didn’t he just complain, letting Orion drag him away from watching the Iacon 5000 instead of standing his ground and saying no?

Orion flicked through the memory files faster, a little more helplessly. With the way Dee had phrased it, it was like Orion had been forcing him into trouble any chance he could, so why couldn't he find any—there had to be something.

Hadn’t Dee been inconsistent with his convictions, praising Orion’s ideas only when they clearly benefited him as well?

No, he interrupted his slowly spiraling train of thought, no, nope, nope bad, BAD Orion. Bad. Stop trying to pin the blame on your poor friend.

He sighed, shifting his stance. Besides. D-16 probably assumed he HAD to go along with Orion's ideas. Orion pestered him constantly, after all, even when Dee was obviously hesitant.

Tsk, the horrible selfish musing in his processor scrutinized, you have poor taste in mechs.

Shut up, Orion told his dwindling sanity, petulantly. 

No matter how much it stung, Orion resolved to handle this—read: Sentinel’s betrayal, the Quintessons, and finding the Matrix—alone. Dee deserved that much, at least.

“You’re quiet,” D-16 said suddenly, breaking through Orion’s thoughts. His tone was casual, but Orion still caught the faint edge of worry beneath it. Dee leaned back, arms folded across his chassis as he gave Orion a sidelong glance. “..’s not like you.”

Orion startled, realizing too late how long he’d been lost in his own helm. He forced a chuckle, waving a servo dismissively. “I was just thinking,” he said, plastering on a smile. “You know how I get.”

Dee narrowed his optics, unconvinced. “Yeah, but usually you can’t stop talking about whatever it is you’re thinking about. This must be a really stupid plan you’re planning, Pax.”

Oh, you have no idea, Orion thought, biting back a laugh at the unexpected jab, his smile turning more genuine. “You think all my plans are stupid anyway,” he countered, hoping the humor in his tone would put Dee at ease.

Dee huffed, leaning his helm back against the wall. “Whatever you say, Pax. Just don’t go brooding on me when it doesn't work out."

The teasing remark landed exactly how Orion hoped it would, but he couldn’t shake the guilt gnawing at his spark. Orion didn’t deserve this—the casual trust between them and the way Dee had always backed him up without hesitation. But it's going to be okay, because Orion would make up for it all and fix his mistakes.

He shushed his horrible-selfish-musing before it could comment on Dee backing him up.

Orion leaned against the hover-dolly, adopting the usual easy posture. If he could act like his old self and be the Orion Pax that Dee knew, then no one would suspect a thing.

“You’re worrying too much, dude,” Orion said with an easy grin, tilting his helm toward Dee. “I’m good, 'kay?”

Dee studied him for a long moment, and for a nanoklik, Orion thought the mech might press further. But then Dee just shrugged, relaxing against the cabin side. “If you say so,” he muttered. “Still think you’re acting weird, though.”

Orion laughed, ignoring the pain throbbing in his spark—D-16 didn't continue pressing, like Orion would've. He knew when to quit and let things be. Dee was a better mech than Orion could ever—before pulling out the Megatronus Prime decal from the energon compartment in his gauntlet, and gently placing it onto Dee’s shoulder. “What about now? Think I’m still weird?”

Dee’s optics widened at the decal, his face lightened in a rare and open delighted shock, gaping, “D’aww, what!? Orion, where’d you—? This is so cool!” He took a few moments trying to crane his helm to the  side and take a good look at it, and then, he looked at Orion again—try as hard as he might, he couldn't keep his expression neutral at the spark-warming gift. “Thanks, Pax.”

Orion smiled back, “Always got your back.”

Fist bump.

Enter, immediate internal wailing and strange spark-throbbing in response at the contact.

Orion turned his gaze back to the window, his smile fading as he watched the lights blur past. 

He would make sure this time was different.

For Dee’s sake.

"Approaching sublevel station, stand clear of doors. Mining teams, prepare to unload."

The train slowed to a stop with another hiss, and the miners departed quickly. Orion helped D-16 push the hover-dolly into a corner, Dee grabbing both of their drills, before going about the usual path. They attached their jetpacks, and, heeding Elita’s commanding barks, immediately took to their stations.

The energon caverns shimmered with faint, ethereal light, the raw energon veins casting everything in hues of blue and violet. Orion found himself standing in the familiar tunnels, his movements automatic as Elita barked out order after order, her voice sharp and steady above the faint hum of the machinery.

“Here we go! This one won't be open long, brace it up—lower channel's open, drill it out!” Elita’s tone brokered no argument, but her words carried the faintest edge of urgency. Orion frowned. Had Elita known about the cave instability...?

"Yes, ma'am, Elita-One!"

"That's captain, to you!"

The other miners in their crew stabbed their drills into the rock, the enclosed area around them trembling from the relentless hammering.

Orion shot a glance at Jazz, who was already moving toward the unstable area that Wheeljack was attempting to drill out. He hadn’t thought about it in the moment last time (to be fair there was no way he could've known), but now it stood out like a glaring warning, his processor repeating the memory:

The cave spires quickly collapsing inward. The three of them, Dee, Orion, and Jazz, at dead-last. His spark sinking as the debris came crashing down, Jazz’s pede getting crushed within the landslide, and the both of them just barely managing to pull Jazz free, severing his pede in the process.

Orion’s optics flicked toward D-16, who was busy pulling his own drill out. Dee glanced at him briefly and did a little double-take before he snorted.

“Everything good, Pax?” Dee asked, raising an optic ridge as he handed Orion a drill.

Orion blinked and forced a smile, gripping the tool firmly. “Yeah, just—thinking about how long this’ll take.”

D-16 smirked faintly and shook his helm whilst Orion silently struggled not to combust at the expression the other made. “Don’t overthink it man, you'll probably break your processor from the stress. Just focus on keeping those servos steady.”

Orion laughed, and shifted his attention away from his memories. He kept one optic on Jazz, his servos tightening on his own drill as he worked. A few kliks later, Orion glanced around, optic ridges furrowing. The energon veins around them were pulsating, as if flashing in warning.

And then—

CRRK.

“I got a vein!”

A low rumble reverberated through the cavern and everyone tensed, the noise growing louder with each passing nanoklik. 

Everyone activated their jetpacks and flew out rapidly, some of them sending a comm to Elita. Orion’s spark seized as he looked up, a cavern spire shrinking into itself and closing in from the inside, right next to Jazz’s position in the air.

“Jazz!” Orion yelled frantically, his frame already tilting sideways in a dive.

Jazz’s optics snapped to the other, confusion flashing across his face as Orion flew toward him. “Pax!?”

The ground shuddered violently, chunks of spire collapsing, bearing down into themselves. Orion grabbed Jazz by the servo and yanked him away from the collapsing section, just narrowly avoiding getting crushed by the enclosing movement. Dee made a strangled noise and grabbed the two of them, and the three quickly made their way out. The three tumbled to the ground in a heap, and for a moment, the only sound was the settling of debris and the faint hum of energon veins.

They all stared at each other for a few short moments. Dee opened his mouth but whatever he was going to say was interrupted by a final blast, the cave fully congesting into itself and returning back to the same smooth slate it was before. All three silently gaped and then burst out into laughter, exhausted and relieved.

“D-16, Jazz, Pax!” Elita’s voice cut through the exhilarated haze, sharp and commanding. “Report!”

Orion sat up quickly, knocking D-16 down by accident and pulling Jazz up with him. “Elita-One! We’re fine!” he reassured, his voice ragged and coolant flooding his systems. “Everyone’s out.”

Jazz laughed nervously, brushing dust off his plating. “That was a little too close for comfort. Thanks, man.”

Orion managed a smile, though his vents were still running high. “Just lucky I was close enough to see it coming.”

Elita approached, her uneasy expression morphing into something scrutinizing as she surveyed the damage. “Good work, Pax. We’ll have to reassess the dig site—this area’s too volatile.” She turned to the rest of the group and vented in slight annoyance. “Tsk. Okay. This is fine. Just a few more loads of energon to fill the quota and I’ll get my promotion. Shift’s over, maggots, pack up!”

"Yes, ma'am, Elita-One!"

“That’s CAPTAIN Elita-One!”

Orion’s audials picked up the sound of D-16 grunting from below and then his world fell sideways as the mech in question kicked at his pedes, making him fall on his aft. Orion groaned, rubbing his aching helm before turning to look at his friend. Dee was scowling. “That’s what you get for making me fall.”

Orion pushed back the hurt in his spark that immediately flared at the harsh tone and groaned, batting blindly at the bigger mech, “I didn’t mean to—I was gonna help you up, you slagger!” At Elita’s sharp glare the two quickly silenced themselves and helped each other up.

As the group began to move back to the barracks, D-16 fell into step beside Orion, his gaze sharp. “That was… quick thinking,” he said, his tone almost suspicious. “How’d you know that the spire was gonna shoot up at Jazz?”

Orion hesitated, forcing a casual shrug. “Lucky guess?”

Dee didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press the issue, his attention shifting back to the group ahead.

Orion ex-vented quietly, his spark finally beginning to calm. Jazz was safe, Elita wasn’t demoted because of him, and neither Dee or himself got punched by Darkwing. Score two for Orion Pax!

He barely noticed the shift in the atmosphere as they entered the miner’s barracks, but the intercom pulled his and everyone else’s focus.

“Attention, all sectors: stand by for a live transmission from Sentinel Prime.”

The large, holographic screens blinked to life, their bright lights pulling everyone at attention. 

And, directly gazing down at them with that authoritative smile: Sentinel Prime.

Eugh. He smoothed out his expression and glanced at the mechs surrounding him with his peripheral vision. Thankfully, all the mechs around him were too entranced at what Sentinel is about to say to pay attention to him, so he zoned out when Sentinel spoke, thinking about his personal mission involving dismantling the false Prime—and was very quickly startled back to reality when Dee crowed, “Humility and presence, now that’s leadership!”

Despite the irony of that, Orion smiled faintly at the genuine excitement his Amica was expressing.

His optic ridges furrowed, distantly noting Sentinel talking about his search for the Matrix of Leadership. The discovery of Sentinel’s falsity was one of the major breaking points for Dee, right? Orion Pax’s processor trailed somewhere far away, into a bitter memory..

'I will NEVER trust another so-called “leader”, ever again.’

“...Iacon 5000!” A burst of cheers again startled him from his thoughts. He barely hid another grimace as he forcefully disassociated from the scene, going back into his processor. Right—the Iacon 5000. His first mistake was dragging Dee into the race, resulting in getting Dee injured, and getting both of their afts dragged down to Sublevel-50 by Darkwing. Well. Simple solution: he wouldn’t do it again.

For now, he mused, he’ll keep his helm low. But it’s not as if he can just sit around waiting for the race and do nothing, he had to act. This time, he couldn’t wait for the race to end before he made his move. Orion frowned, processor coming up with half-baked plans—and then he caught sight of D-16’s optics.

Gold...

Orion Pax stood up straighter, optics glinting. B-127!

The recharge slab creaked faintly under Orion’s weight as he carefully eased himself off of it. Around him, the miners were in quiet recharge, murmuring in their stasis. He glanced at D-16, who was sleeping just in front of him.

This was around the time his past self had gone to Dee, waking him up with an idiotic happy-go-lucky grin and an even more idiotic plan to sneak into the Iacon 5000—another small domino in the long chain that would eventually lead to their doom. Orion winced, reminding himself that as long as he never dragged D-16 into the race, as long as Dee never found out about Sentinel, he wouldn't get angered enough to start turning evil.

Orion huffed. And Dee said I only think for myself, he thought petulantly before quickly shaking his helm. Not the time, he berated himself silently.

He flexed his servos and glanced toward Dee’s recharge slab. Dee shifted slightly and he froze, stilling his frame until he was sure that Dee wouldn't wake from his stasis. The sight tugged at something deep in his spark—he could still see the lines of tension on Dee’s frame, even in rest. Slag he’s hot.

Pause, what.

Orion resisted the urge to calmly deck his helm and forcefully render himself offline. It's completely fine and normal and fine to be appreciative of how your friend looks when he recharges. It's fine.

All fine.

Venting sharply, Orion walked out of the recharge area and turned toward the corner of the room where the trash chute was located. It was an insane idea. Then again, most things Orion did could be categorized as such. And besides, as far as he knew, there was no better way down to Sublevel-50.

After a quick glance to ensure the others were still in recharge, Orion slipped into the chute. It was narrower than he remembered, and he grimaced at the grime clinging to the metal walls.

The descent was fairly quick, controlled only by careful shifts of his weight to avoid plummeting outright. He braced himself and held onto the struts of the chute during the periodic areas of time that trash would just plummet from above and nearly slipped when he sagged in relief as the chute widened near the bottom. Orion landed on the conveyor with a muted clang and grunted quietly, wincing when his back struts groaned from the pressure.

Like before, the air in Sublevel-50 felt stuffier, the area heavy with the roars of the incinerator. Orion quickly got off of the conveyer belt and adjusted his optics to the dim lighting, scanning the area. Bee should be here somewhere—

“You!"

Orion yelped and fell onto the floor elegantly while B-127 hovered over him, shoving his visor up onto his forehelm. "How did you get down here!? There is no access to this level, there is nobody down here but ME—o-oh you’re real?! You’re—REAL! AND not ME!”

“Hey there man,” Orion said warmly, his dermas pulled into a smile. “Hope I didn’t startle you.”

Bee’s optics widened, and then he broke into an enormous grin as he threw his visor into the incinerator. “Startle me? Are you kidding? You’re HERE and you’re not me! This is AMAZING! I mean, no offense, but I haven’t seen anyone down here in, like, forever! It’s just been me and my buddies!”

Orion snorted, relieved and genuine. The first time he met the guy he was admittedly a little scared, but at the moment all he felt was awkward fondness. He watched Bee pace excitedly, his words tumbling over each other in his enthusiasm.

“I mean, you’re not trash , right? You’re an actual mech! What are you doing down here? Oh! Did you accidentally throw yourself down the chute? I remember doing that once. I mean like, before I was assigned here and all.” Bee rambled, turning his helm toward Orion.

"Nah, not trash." Orion said mildly, shifting his stance, crossing his arms and tilting his head toward B-127. “I’m Orion, Orion Pax. Just decided to check in, uh, heard there was a cool mech named Badassatron ‘round here?”

Bee gasped. “Badassatron?! That—that’s me ! Checking in? With who? Me? Oh, wow, no one’s ever checked in on me before! This is kinda great. Really really great!”

Orion smiled, letting Bee’s endless chatter wash over him. He didn’t know how long he’d allow himself to stay here (he had a Bad Future Event Trademark to prevent after all), but for now, it should be okay.

Bee turned to him suddenly, making him flinch in surprise. "Oh right, I’m B-127, but you can call me Bee! And also Badassatron, that's what all the other guys 'round here know me as, but. Y’know. Your choice—nice to meet you by the way, Orion! I mean, this is probably the best cycle I’ve had in—well, ever! Why'd you need to check in on me? Am I getting promoted again? Oh, oh, you gonna stick around, or is this, like, a one-time visit?"

"Uh." The longer Bee had talked, the faster the questions had slipped from Orion's mind, so he smiled faintly and held out a servo to stop him. "Ah, uh, I think I'll stick around here for a little while. Just needed a place to hang out."

Bee grinned and grabbed Orion's servo, tugging him closer to the familiar garage-like entrance. "Hey, guys!" He yelled, haphazardly banging on the door. "Guys—we got company!"

The door slid open, revealing the same small room that was just as much of a chaotic mess as Orion remembered. Every available surface was littered with trash—spare parts, discarded empty cubes, and piles of scrap stacked up to make worryingly unstable-looking towers. In the center of it all stood the aforementioned "guys" sitting around the table.

Bee gestured wildly to his group of friends. "These are my buddies! Well, other than you. If wanna be my buddy. Anyway, that’s Steve! He’s kind of the leader. Well. Aside from me, obviously. EP-508’s the smart one, y’know, always calculating, uh, stuff—super genius type. And A-A-Tron? He’s…um. Well. I think I caught him chewing on trash. Weird guy, A-A-Tron. Bit of a wildcard, but you need one of those, right?"

Orion nodded agreeingly and bit the inside of his cheek, trying to keep his expression carefully neutral. "You said his name was...Steve?" He inquired, gesturing to the camera-helmed scrap statue.

Bee shrugged. "He's foreign."

Even back then, Orion couldn’t quite tell if Bee really thought they were alive or if this was just how the other mech coped with being alone for so long. Briefly, he considered politely (awkwardly) making Bee aware of the fact that they weren't real, but...

He glanced at Bee, who was slightly hovering over EP-508, murmuring excitedly at him.

Orion couldn't say anything.

“They’re all very…impressive,” Orion said diplomatically, trying not to offend Steve, who stared down at him ominously. As his optics swept over Steve's frame, he noticed the tiny blinking light of the little transmission lens inside of the scrap statue's helm. Score! He reached over on instinct, pausing when Bee looked over at him curiously.

'OH—STEVE! NOOOOOO! AAUGHHHGGHHHH, NOOO, M'STEVE...!'

He put his servos down awkwardly. He didn't really want a repeat of that...he cleared his vocalizer. "Bee," Orion started casually, "Does Steve ever, y'know...talk to you?"

Bee grinned good naturedly. "Duh! We're best buds! Again like aside from you cause you know you're really cool and you called me Badassatron so surely we're also best buds—anyway, he's shy. But don't worry, he'll warm up to you eventually. It's Steve, after all!"

"That's fair," Orion hummed, crouching to get a better look at the blinking signal lens. "You think maybe I could try to get to know Steve a little better, then?"

"YES!" Bee exclaimed immediately, "Holy Primus, yes! Absolutely!" The yellow mech quickly scooted over to Orion's side of the room, grinning and nudging Steve. "Told you you'd get game!"

Uhm. "Uhm," Orion said intelligently. 

"You are gonna LOVE Steve." Bee assured, turning the scrap statue around to face Orion properly. "He's funny, and smart, and, and—hey, I have an idea! I'll be Steve's wingmech and chaperone your first date!"

"Date?"

"Yeah!" Bee nodded furiously. "You two'll talk, get to know each other better, maybe even—" he glanced at Steve and leaned in conspirationally, whispering. "—kiss."

Oh. Orion's optics crinkled and he bit back a laugh. "Alright," Orion snickered, smiling despite himself. "Set me up with Steve." If swooning scrap statue was how he had to get the coordinates in its helm, then so be it. 

In a quick few nanokliks, Bee had already managed to rearrange the junk around him, the scene vaguely reminiscent of a romantic setting. A few crates were pushed together to create a makeshift table with a dented oil can as the centerpiece. Steve was dragged to one side of the table, and then painstakenly lifted onto a smaller crate that made it so he towered ominously over Orion.

Orion sat down across from Steve, expression as deadpan as he could make it. Bee hovered nearby, his optics sparkling with excitement. Well. He ex-vented. Here goes nothing...

"So," Orion started, addressing the inanimate pile of junk (there was a brief and mildly horrifying moment where his attention drifted to his processor and he imagined D-16 in Steve's place—he banished the thought immediately. Now was not the time!). "Steve. I'm Orion, nice to, uh, meet you. Nice, uh...chassis? You've got there?"

A servo clamped over his shoulder pauldron and his vocalizer screeched static at Bee's sudden action. "He loves compliments! You're doing great!"

Orion's optic twitched and he smiled, a token to his current pain. Come on, Pax, keep going... "You know, Steve, I feel like there's a lot we could learn from each other. In fact, I've been wondering about—" The coordinate lens was blinking faster now. Orion braced his arms on the table and leaned forward, his own optics zeroing in on the light. "—your...interests ..."

Behind him, Bee made a concerning (excited) strangled laughing noise. "Hehehehehehehehegh holy Primus you're moving fast, Pax!"

Orion caught himself and shifted backward awkwardly. "Sorry, Bee," he said apologetically, smiling sheepishly. "I've never been on a date before, I dunno what to do."

"No worries, my mech!" Bee grinned, "that's what I'm here for! Your local Love Guru Dating Master, at your service!"

Orion snorted. "Alright, Love Guru, what next?"

Bee furrowed his optic ridges contemplatively, and then grinned fiendishly. "KISS HIM! Kiss him right now!"

Pause, what.

Orion stared at Bee, then at Steve, then back at Bee. Surely he wasn't serious.

He was serious.

"You know what?" Orion muttered under his breath, his optics flicking to the blinking light again. "Sure. Okay." Not like anyone else was here to see one of the most embarrassing things he'd do in about three nanokliks! 

Leaning forward again, Orion pressed a quick, awkward kiss to Steve's helm. 

"CONGRATULATIONS!" Bee cheered, throwing shiny shreds of foil around them. "You've passed first base! Or was it second...? Ah it don't matter, now hold his servo!!"

"Really? That seems a little—"

"It's what people in love do, Orion," Bee nodded self-assuredly. "Trust me, I'd know."

Orion vaguely remembered Bee telling both him and Dee that he'd been in Sublevel-50 somewhere between 'a long time and forever'. Ergo, zero time for dating, further ergo, how would he "know'???…Unless. Unless he means dated one of his buddies... "Right..."

Reaching over, he held what he thought was Steve's servo (he really, really hoped that it was a servo, because it looked vaguely like something else—) and glanced at Bee. The mech looked at him supportively. "Doing good, bossbot!"

Orion looked back at Steve, keeping his optic on the lens he needed. If he could just grab it, then this could all be over soon and he could just forget it all ever happened. "Erm. Steve," he said awkwardly. Tough it out, Pax, come on— "You and I. Feels like we're really. Getting somewhere. Uh. Care to improvise with me, homeslice?"

Internally, he shot himself. Homeslice???

The yellow mech suddenly appeared behind Steve, grinning happily, “Steve has an idea! He wants to dance!”

“What???” Orion looked at him strangely. “No.”

“Come on, dude,” Bee whined, gesticulating at Steve. “Look at him!”

Steve’s helm creaked sideways, making the lens of his camera-helm glint sadly.

Internally, Orion shot himself again. Primus, give him strength. He sighed before rising to his pedes and carefully pulling Steve up with him. He gave the scrapheap a haphazard spin, stumbling slightly under the weight. Frag, he was much heavier than he looked—

Bee threw silvery shredded pieces of scrap everywhere again. “This date is going SO. Well! And look!” Bee pointed out, as if Orion wasn't currently being crushed under Steve's weight, “Steve’s totally sweeping you off your pedes!”

“Bee—!”

Before Orion could react, the weight of Steve’s chassis shifted just enough for him to overbalance. Everything went in slow motion, and Orion rapidly went through the seven stages of grief before finally reaching acceptance that this was apparently an active choice he made in his second chance at life as he fell backward, landing flat on his back with the scrap-statue sprawled on top of him.

Orion groaned. Primus, he thought, are my back struts dented? Distantly he heard Bee say something but he was too occupied with trying to push the scrap-statue off of him—

And then Steve’s helm promptly fell off.

Bee blanched. “AUGH!? STEVE! NOOOOOO!”

Orion launched from his position, barely catching Steve’s helm before it hit the ground. “Slag, Bee, I’m so sorry, uh—”

Suddenly, a small holo-projection flickered to life. Oh, he must’ve activated the lens by accident—Orion’s spark flared and he held his vents in anticipation as the static-filled SOS transmission played.

“—Protect the Matrix—sending location coordinates—”

Alpha Trion blurred, and this time the projection showed a map of Cybertron with the coordinates. Orion’s processor locked onto them instantly, and he grabbed the little lens and hid it in his energon-compartment.

“Holy slag,” Bee whispered. “Was that—”

Before he could continue, there was a sudden familiar roaring of engines—and Orion grimaced at the unmistakable sound of Darkwing flying in his alt mode. Orion quickly nudged Bee. “C’mon—” Bee, though obviously not understanding, let himself get pulled up the chute.

They both held their vents as Darkwing came into the Sublevel, seemingly scanning for something, and then leaving. Orion and Bee sagged in relief, but this resulted in their frames and pedes scratching the metal around them and making them freeze again.

The pedesteps paused, and there was a momentary pause that made Orion’s plating crawl.

And then, Darkwing’s helm popped into his vision, and they both yelped in alarm, quickly scrambling up the chute and away from the tall mech.

INTERNAL COMMUNICATIONS LINE

status : open

corresponder desg. : D-16

:: Where are you. ::

:: jusrgrtting something from elita notijg to worry aboujt ::

:: Slaggin liar. ::

:: Are you back in the Archives??? ::

:: Orion? ::

:: ORION. ::

COMM-LINK HAS BEEN SHUT OFF BY :

corresponder desg. : Orion Pax

 :: ORION YOU GLITCH ::

Primus, thought Orion drily, I should’ve just let myself get caught. The journey up the trash chute was as horrible as last time, and Orion barely managed to keep Bee from being grabbed by Darkwing at the last second, his makeshift plan involving five rogue levers thrown at the supervisor's helm.

Internally, he apologized to Darkwing, who was currently unconscious at the bowels of Sublevel-50. He's probably fine.

The trash chute finally began to taper outward, and the light of the miner’s barracks filtering into the chute. Bee laughed hysterically from the thrill, and Orion’s systems flooded with adrenaline and relief. He quickly glanced around at the empty hallway before hauling the both of them up and out.

Their landing was less than graceful. Orion hit the floor first, skidding a few feet before crashing into something. Bee landed on his back with a clang and immediately rolled off, still giggling.

“What the—Orion?!”

D-16’s voice was sharp, his expression laced with worry and confusion. Orion blinked up from where he’d lay, sprawled at D-16’s pedes, still dazed, and—oh , he thought dazedly, this angle does D-16 a LOT of justice.

“Hi, Dee,” he greeted faintly, his processor buzzing.

“‘Hi, Dee’? Hi, Dee?” D-16 grabbed him by the servo and hauled him upright, his optics flashing as he brushed grime off of Orion’s frame. “What in the Allspark is wrong with you?! I’ve been looking everywhere! Where have you been??? And who is this?!”

Bee, who had been happily brushing himself off, perked up at the attention. “Oh, hey there bossbot!” He offered D-16 a cheery wave, entirely unbothered by the tension in the air. “I’m Bee! B-127, officially, but my best pal Orion can just call me Bee. And both of you can call me Badassatron, which is actually pronounced—”

“Best pal?” D-16 interrupted incredulously, finally turning to look at Bee properly. His optics flicked to Orion, narrowed.

“Uh,” Orion started, his vocalizer lagging. His processor was still racing from the encounter with Darkwing, and the last thing he’d expected was this interaction.

Bee helpfully filled the silence with unnecessary context.

“Yeah! We’ve been through so much together already. He even killed his boyfriend! Isn’t that crazy?”

Dead silence.

D-16 stared at Bee, then at Orion, then back to Bee.

“…Killed his what.” D-16 asked slowly.

Orion, who had just managed to reboot his higher functions, looked incredibly befuddled. “What?! No, no, I didn’t kill my boyfriend.”

A brief pause to reflect on his sanity. And then panicked contextualization: “I don’t have a boyfriend?!”

Bee tilted his helm innocently. “Yeah you do. You kissed Steve and held his servo and danced with him and then his helm fell off, and you were super dramatic about it, so even if it wasn’t official I just figured—”

“I was not dramatic—”

“Steve?” D-16 interrupted, his tone climbing in pitch. His servos clenched at his sides, and his expression flickered with a mix of incredulity and something sharp that Orion couldn’t quite place. “You have a boyfriend named Steve ?”

“He’s foreign,” Bee piped up.

"Your type's foreign mechs???"

“I don’t—” Orion started, then stopped, looking increasingly frazzled. “No! Steve’s not my boyfriend! He’s—he’s—”

Bee beamed. “Oh, I have a holovid! Want me to play it?”

“You have a vid!?” Orion stared at Bee, horrified. He quickly shook his helm, "Never mind that." He dragged a servo down his faceplate, trying to gather his scattered thoughts, his voice strained, "Bee,” he said slowly, “Steve is not my boyfriend."

“You asked me to set you guys up though,” Bee added helpfully. “You leaned in and you were all suave, like, ‘Steve, I’d like to know about your interests~,’ and then you kissed him, and—”

“You keep saying he isn't your boyfriend,” D-16 cut in, his optics narrowing further. “But you kissed him?”

“Uh—”

“Yeah! It was super dramatic, too. Orion was like, ‘Steve, I wanna get to know your interests,’ and then he kissed him—oh. I said that already. Anyway, then he danced with Steve—”

“Bee!” Orion groaned, sliding a servo down his face. “Stop. Talking. About Steve.”

D-16 crossed his servos, his frame practically radiating irritation. “No—no, no, no. Keep talking about Steve. Who is he, Orion?”

Orion froze. His processor raced, searching for an explanation that wouldn’t make this entire situation worse—he couldn’t say Steve wasn’t real when dented-helm Bee was right there!

“Steve,” he started carefully, “is…a…friend.”

Bee nodded enthusiastically. “Steve’s helm fell off.”

D-16 stared at Orion, his expression blank. “'His helm fell off.' Is that some kind of fancy euphemism for interfacing??? ”

“NO! It wasn’t—it’s not—” Orion stammered, his vents hitching. “Look, I’ll explain later, it’s not what it sounds like, okay?”

“Oh, really?” D-16 said, his tone oddly petulant. “Because it sounds like you’ve been running around kissing foreign mechs named Steve and getting into Primus knows what kind of trouble.”

“Dude, I didn’t kiss him!” Orion snapped, his face heating. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t like that!”

Bee gasped. “Bossbot, how could you lie about your love for Steve?!”

Orion groaned. At this point, he might actually blow a gasket. Meanwhile, D-16’s glare had reached new levels of intensity, but it softened slightly when Orion firmly grasped Dee’s shoulders.

“Steve,” Orion said desperately, “is not my boyfriend.”

D-16 raised an optic ridge, his arms still crossed. “Then what is he?”

“Uhm,” Orion hesitated, his optics darting to Bee. “It’s complicated?”

Bee nodded sagely. “Love always is.”

Primus, give him strength.

“You did flirt with him, though,” Bee added, as if he was pointing out an obvious, undeniable truth. “You held his servo, Orion! I told you to be romantic, but you didn’t have to—”

Primus decidedly did not give him strength.

“Bro,” Orion said, his voice strained, “you told me to hold his servo! You literally said, ‘it’s what people in love do, Orion, trust me.’ Which, by the way, we weren't!”

Bee raised an optic ridge. “Steve was so in love with you that he fell on top of you.” He sighed. “Young sparks these days, so forward, yet so shy!”

D-16 turned to Orion with a betrayed expression. “He was on top of you???”

“It wasn’t—” Orion groaned, clutching his helm in both servos. “Bee, you’re making it sound way worse than it was.”

“I’m not making it sound like anything!” Bee said, holding up his servos. “I’m just saying what happened. And, like, Orion, if I didn’t know any better…” He paused, his optics narrowing slightly as he tapped his chin.

Orion frowned. Where the slag was B-127 going with this? “Bee.”

Bee gasped dramatically, pointing an accusing digit at D-16. “Are you cheating on Steve with that guy!?”

Huh.

Huh???

Orion belatedly realized he was gaping and staring at Bee like he’d grown a second helm. “Cheating? What in the name of Primus are you talking about?”

“Well, I mean,” Bee said, gesturing wildly, “you’ve been all sneaky lately, and now you’re here with "Dee", and you didn’t even tell Steve.”

“I—” Orion stammered, completely at a loss for words. “Bee, you do realize that—”

“Don’t you dare say it’s not an affair,” Bee interrupted, folding his arms. “You keep denying all the memories you guys have, now that this "Dee" guy's here!”

“You know what?” Orion griped. “Fine. You win. Yes. I’m having an affair.”

Bee gasped.

“With Dee.”

D-16 blinked, his optics wide. “Wait, what?”

“Yes,” Orion continued, feeling himself disintegrate further with each processor-rotting word as he gestured to the mech besides him, “I am having an affair with Dee. Over Steve. Happy now, Bee?!”

D-16 stared at him, mouth hung slightly ajar. His expression shifted between disbelief, confusion, and—was that satisfaction, or was Orion seeing things?

Bee, oblivious to the mounting tension, beamed. “I knew it! Steve—”

Orion turned to him. “Bee.”

Bee paused. “Uh, yes?”

“Stop. Talking. About. Steve.”

Bee blinked. “Okay, but—”

“Bee.”

“Right! Got it. No more Steve talk.”

Orion turned back to D-16, who was now looking at him with a strange expression. “You’re cheating on Steve,” D-16 said slowly, as though testing the words. “With me.” 

Orion choked, slapping a servo over Dee's mouth. “No, I’m not.”

D-16 easily caught his wrist and quirked an optic ridge. “But you just said—”

“Steve isn't real!" Orion hissed at him quietly, struggling against Dee's grip. "Bee thinks Steve is real! He's not!” 

That caught D-16 off guard. “…What?”

But before Orion could explain, Bee suddenly declares, “You owe him an apology,” his tone deadly serious as he gestured to the—

Orion blinked, stared, and kept staring at Steve's helm in Bee’s servos, extremely disbelieving. Bee, for some incomprehensible Primus-forsaken reason, was still clutching Steve’s decapitated camera-helm like a sacred relic. He held it up between them, his optics filled with exaggerated offense.

“Apology,” Bee repeated firmly, thrusting Steve closer to Orion’s face.

Orion looked at the helm, then at Bee, then at the helm again. He turned to D-16, silently pleading for help. D-16, to his utter betrayal, simply crossed his arms, clearly enjoying every second of Orion’s suffering now that he’d deduced that Steve wasn’t real.

“I’m not apologizing,” Orion said flatly.

A pause. B-127 frowned at him.

Orion sighed and gestured for Bee to come closer

Bee beamed and stepped forward, holding Steve’s helm reverently in both servos like some kind of twisted offering.

D-16 snickered and Orion glared at him. “Don’t make this worse, Dee.”

“Worse?” D-16 chuckled. “I think you’re doing that just fine on your own.”

Grinding his dentae, Orion turned back to Steve’s disembodied helm. He could feel D-16’s optics boring into him, which only made the humiliation that much worse. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Uh…sorry, Steve,” he muttered, trying not to die of embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to…decapitate you.”

Bee looked positively delighted. “Now kiss him.”

Orion contemplated shooting himself. “Excuse me?”

“Kiss him,” Bee repeated, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You kissed him earlier. And then he found out you were cheating on him. You have to make it up to him.”

“Bee,” Orion said slowly, his vents hissing. “I am not kissing Steve’s decapitated helm.”

“Kiss him,” Bee interrupted, holding Steve’s helm up higher.

“Bee —”

“Kiss the decapitated helm!”

For a moment, Orion stood there, torn between various waves of despair. He scrunched his face and leaned forward to press a kiss to where Steve’s face would be.

The helm promptly fell off of Bee’s servos and clattered to the ground.

Bee was horrified. “Primus, You killed him again!”

Orion just stared at the helm blankly. “Oh my Primus.”

D-16 shifted his stance. “You know,” he said casually, “it’s honestly impressive. You’d rather kiss a pile of scrap than—” He stopped himself, shaking his helm with a derisive snort.

Orion blinked at him, confused. “Than what?”

“Nothing,” D-16 said quickly, his optics darting away.

Hm. Orion Pax made sure to shelve his Amica's reaction away for later.

Bee crouched down to pick up Steve’s helm, cradling it like a wounded comrade. “I can’t believe you,” he muttered, shaking his helm. “Poor Steve. You don’t deserve him, Orion.”

“I don’t deserve him?” Orion repeated, his voice pitching in disbelief.

“Exactly!” Bee said, pointing an accusatory digit. “Steve loved you, and you just keep breaking him!”

Orion let out a strangled noise while Bee clutched Steve’s helm like a downed martyr.

Chapter Text

thank you crypt2niite and A_Non_ymousWriter for beta reading this chapter !!! the two of you , my friends , get one (1) employee of the month . you have to share . 

Orion couldn’t stop thinking about the coordinate lens tucked inside his gauntlet. He had to act now and get to Alpha Trion as soon as he could, because the sooner he did, the sooner he’d be able to prevent every bad thing that’s happened (read: D-16 shooting him). Excluding the ginormous ship of Quintessons that came for their energon—he was still workshopping that part of his plan.

Unfortunately, he was still standing next to D-16 and Bee—two mechs who were, to his dismay, still talking about Steve, and thus preventing him from being able to sneak away and do his Thing.

“Hey, guys,” Orion interrupted before Bee could imply that he was still in love with Steve (which he is NOT.) He caught sight of the aforementioned mech staring ominously at him, and his voice cracked. “Uh. I gotta—uh—go. To. Do a thing.”

D-16 narrowed his optics immediately, crossing his arms and tilting his helm down at Orion in a way that made him feel strange. “A thing, Pax?”

“Yes. A thing,” Orion repeated helpfully. “Very important. Super important, actually—can’t skip it, mm-mm.” Smooth, Pax, he thought in dismay when Dee’s expression didn’t lighten at the slightest, real smooth.

Bee looked up from Steve’s helm, optics bright with curiosity. “What thing? Can I come?”

“No!” Orion yelped. “I mean—no. Sorry ‘127. It’s private. Very private and important, soooo…” He took a step to the side. “I should be going. Right now.”

D-16 snorted and drew closer, blocking off his path. “You just came back from wherever the slag you were earlier, you ain’t going nowhere, dude.”

“Wh—but we don’t have any shifts today, remember?”

“Yeah, ‘cause of the Iacon 5000 that we BOTH agreed we’d go to EARLY to get good seats today, remember?”

Ah, slag. Orion swallowed thickly, his vents hitching. “Well, uh, see, the thing is—”

To Orion’s despair, D-16 took a step forward, again. “Where exactly are you gonna go anyway?? How long is it gonna take???”

Uhm. “Uh—”

“Again, if you somehow forgot, the Iacon 5000 is later today, in a few joors!” D-16 continued, exasperated, and he kept getting closer and—

SYSTEM QUERY:

FRAME: OVERHEATING.

ALLOW [ COOLING FANS] TO ACTIVATE?

Why did he—Dee was only walking towards him, why did his cooling fans want to activate??? 

“—Listen mech, I don’t care about the stuff you do in your free time, but I swear, Pax, if you make me miss this—” 

“Hey, Dee!” Bee suddenly cut in, waving a datadisk pinched in between his digits. “Look at this holovid I took of Orion and Steve’s date!”

D-16 blinked and turned, momentarily distracted. “Don’t call me Dee—wait, you actually have it?”

“Look!” Bee repeated enthusiastically, clicking the disk.

The hologram began to play, and Orion could already hear his own deadpan voice coming through. ‘Alright. Set me up with Steve.'

D-16 looked extremely baffled. “Orion, you actually—?”

Orion decided, in that moment, that he would not be sticking around to answer that. He turned on the heel of his pedes and bolted, sprinting toward the trash chute he had just climbed out of.

“Wait—what the—ORION?!” He heard D-16 yelp from behind him, his voice cracking at the end. “WHERE ARE YOU—”

Instead of answering, he dove into the chute helmfirst, limbs tucked in like an escape pod ejecting from a ship. The world tilted sharply as he plummeted, the sounds of D-16’s shouting and Bee’s excited chatter fading behind him.

D-16 looked at B-126 in disbelief.

“Did you see that? ” D-16 gestured vaguely in Orion’s direction, flabbergasted. “Did he just—was that—was that real? Am I lagging? Did he actually do that?”

Bee, holding the datadisk still previewing one (1) Orion Pax awkwardly chatting up Steve, tilted his helm thoughtfully. “Huh. I guess he really didn’t want to watch the vid.”

D-16 ran a servo down his face, groaning, “Ugh , I need a new best friend.”

He stormed off before Bee could comment on that.

Orion rapidly approached the chute opening for Sublevel-40 and quickly shot out his limbs to prevent himself from falling further, pushing off the wall to catapult himself out and on top of one of the train cabins with an unceremonious thud.

He groaned, his vents hissing as he picked himself up. “Ugh, my aft —Primus, that was awful.” Orion straightened, shaking off the soreness and sliding down the shell of the carriage, making his way toward one of the open cabins.

INTERNAL COMMUNICATIONS LINE

status : request

corresponder desg. : D-16

-

COMM-LINK REQUEST DENIED

“Sorry, Dee,” Orion muttered under his breath as he ran. “I’ll explain everything later. I promise.”

The tip of his pede caught on the seam of the platform gap and he abruptly stumbled, shooting forward and skidding halfway across the cabin floor. He cursed and scrambled to his knees, quickly scooting behind a crate. “Primus,” he muttered, embarrassed. “That was so…,” a mech came inside to briefly announce the cabin-locking procedure, and he quieted himself.

The doors sealed tight a hiss after a brief moment, and he sat there anxiously, half-expecting to get caught by—

Oh. Elita wasn’t here.

She wasn’t here because this time, Orion was competent enough to save Jazz in time and prevent any casualties. This time, Orion actually listened to protocol and didn’t accidentally get her demoted. This time, he wasn’t stupid and didn’t ruin her life.

“Okay, Pax,” he said to himself halfsparkedly, forcing his racing mind to a stop. “You’re not stupid. You’re not.”

A pause. His processor helpfully weighed his thoughts with a surge of doubt so heavy that it felt like D-16 was in the cabin with him.

“...I mean. I could’ve just told Dee that—no. No! I couldn’t tell him anything, because dragging him along with me was the entire reason he became like—like that !”

There was another beat of silence as the train rattled on.

“… See? Not stupid.” He crossed his arms defiantly. “Perfectly reasonable, logical, smart mech right here.”

Similar to before, the only response was silence. Orion felt kind of stupid now.

Still, the train’s rhythmic hum only made his processor louder. Without any other distraction from his thoughts, a mix of too-familiar guilt suddenly clawed at him, gnawing at the edges of his processor. 

Orion groaned, hiding his face beneath his servos and slumping against the wall. With everything that had happened, and all of it happening within such a cramped timeframe, he hadn’t really had time to compartmentalize his thoughts and feelings into neat little boxes so he could shove them aside properly—it was a miracle he hadn’t just broken down in the middle of nowhere. He had D-16 and Bee to thank for distracting him from that.

Now, however, there was no D-16 or Bee. Now, his processor was taking its unoccupied time to scan over everything. 

—D-16, who had yelled at him with so much more hatred than he had ever seen on the mech’s face. D-16, who had refused to listen to him, pushed him away, and shot him. D-16, who had held his shattered frame on that ledge, just barely preventing him from falling. D-16, who had let him go—

—THUD.

“ACK—” The train tumbled sharply and Orion was abruptly pulled out of the dissociative spell he had been pulled into. His focus was instead pulled into frantically trying to keep himself grounded while the train got knocked around by Cybertron’s shifting plates. 

Orion gripped onto a crate and shuttered his optics. It’s fine. This is fine! He’s alright! He just needs to—

—THUD.

The train had clashed against another plate outside, and at the same time, Orion’s grip slipped off and onto the latch of the crate that kept it stuck to the cabin floor. The bolt unfastened with an audible click, and for a moment, both Orion and the crate hovered mid-air.

In what felt like slow motion, the train tilted upward, and Orion watched as the crate tumbled toward him.

Slag.

—THUD!

The crate abruptly slammed onto his face and stars exploded behind his optics. His body rocketed sideways, and he landed helmfirst onto the wall, his processor offlining.

"Ha—choO!" D-16 yanked his helm away from B-127 and sneezed. “Eugh. Sorry.”

Bee blinked at him. “Bless you.”

D-16 grimaced, sniffling. “Mm.”

“You’re supposed to say, ‘thank you’,” B-127 chirped, nudging the newly-built scrap statue. “Tell him, Steve.”

D-16’s grimace deepened when Steve’s helm tilted forward with a creak. “Eh...”

B-127 tutted at him. “Dee, you disappointed him!”

“Ughhh.”

Orion’s optics snapped open in alarm and he winced, a dull ache in his helm making itself apparent. Ow. Owww ow ow. He blinked blearily, looking around the cabin before checking his coordinates and—uh oh.

“Oh slag. Oh slag oh slag oh slag—” Orion cursed rapidly, scrambling to his pedes and nearly tripping over himself as he bolted toward the ladder that led out of the cabin. His optics darted to the coordinates flashing faintly on the disc’s hologram, the distance shrinking far too quickly for comfort.

“Okay. Okay. C’mon, Pax, you got this. You got this—you don’t got this—Primus, why is this my life, that was the most embarrassing—” His words devolved into panicked mutters as he quickly climbed out of the cabin before gingerly going towards the edge of the roof, the wind making his footing unsteady. Orion crouched slightly, tensing.

The gap between him and the ground seemed smaller than it had before, and suddenly, jumping off of a moving train seemed infinitely more idiotic than it had been in theory.

Well, he thought sarcastically, 'S not like he hadn’t done stupider things.

With a burst of fear and adrenaline, he leapt, a shrilly, high-pitched scream tearing from his vocalizer.

Primus, he thought hysterically, Primus, I’m going to die, I’m going to die again, why did I do this why why why—

—He crashed down with an undignified yelp and rolled onto the hard ground, optics going dark and processor going offline again.

 “...I have not seen your frame around here.”

“Oh!” B-127 perked up eagerly, “that’s cause I’m from Su—”

“—BECAUUUSE he’s new!” D-16 interrupted, slapping a servo on B-127’s mouth and grinning (grimacing) up at Dreadwing. “Haaaha. He’s new. Here.”

“Hmph. Makes sense.” Dreadwing grunted non-committedly. “And where is your little friend? The annoying blue one.”

“Ah, uhm, uh,” D-16 felt B-127’s spit on his palm and he refused the urge to shove him away and scrape his servo onto the wall. “Prolly messing around again. Y-y’know how he is, haha…”

Dreadwing scoffed. “Of course he is.” He shook his helm and sighed. “Disregarding that. Have either of you seen Darkwing around?”

“...No? I, uh, I think he’s supposed to be patrolling the sector after us.”

Dreadwing grunted again and nodded at D-16, not bothering with niceties and walking off.

D-16 deflated. Primus, Pax owed him so much for this. Score twenty-two for D-16.

And then B-127 licked his palm, making D-16 gag and recoil, yanking his arm away. “DUDE.”

B-127 blinked at him, wiping an arm across his mouth. “What? ‘S not like I coulda told you!”

“Just poke me,” D-16 stressed, thoroughly disgusted. He shook his servo trying to dislodge the slobber. “If you ever do that again I swear to Primus—”

And then Dee sneezed again. He narrowed his optics. His Orion had just done something incredibly stupid.

Orion groaned, helm and frame throbbing painfully. “How in Primus’ name did I survive?” He rasped, blinking his optics online.

He was sprawled on his back, thankfully right in front of the teeth-filled cavern, dust and bits of debris clinging to his frame. High above him, the train continued its journey, oblivious to Orion’s idiocracy.

Slowly, Orion sat up, wincing as his knee joints squeaked. Ow. Okay, nothing seemed broken, so he should be fine. Unhelpfully, his processor visualized D-16’s face judging him. “Still not stupid,” he insisted to himself, grumpily.

INTERNAL COMMUNICATIONS LINE REQUEST

status : open

corresponder desg. request : D-16

-

COMM-LINK REQUEST DENIED

He turned is gaze toward Unicron’s Mouth, and the pain ebbed slightly.

The Grave of Primes.

“Alpha Trion,” he murmured. With a quiet groan, Orion pushed himself to his pedes and staggered upright. He shook his helm to clear the static from his processor, and squared his shoulders. “Alright,” he muttered. “I’ve died before. Can’t be anything worse than that.”

He turned toward the sharp-toothed cavern, the strained wobble in his step betraying his determined stride.

“Hold on, hold on—’127, replay that part again?”

‘— Erm. Steve. You and. I. We’re really. Getting somewhere. Uh. Care to improvise with me, homeslice? ’

D-16 felt the corner of his dermas twitch upward. Ha. His Amica was so dumb.

B-127 startled and blinked at D-16. “How did you know my name!?”

…Was he serious? D-16 squinted his optics at the smaller mech before jabbing a digit toward the chute. “You told me. And I heard Orion call you ‘127.”

Bee grinned. “The full thing’s B-127, AKA Bee, AKA Badassatron. Also! Me too—well, not B-127, ‘cause that’s my name—but I heard my best pal call you Dee , which is, like, AWESOME—’cause our nicknames sound the same, kinda, y’know, Bee and Dee—but like, not as awesome as mine.”

D-16 stared at him. 

“...It’s D-16,”—to you , he added internally, staring pointedly at the mech. “Also, I’m Orion’s best pal.” MY Amica Endura.

“What?” Bee gasped, looking inappropriately affronted. “Nuh uh, you’re the side-piece in Orion and Steve’s love story!”

D-16 dragged a servo down his faceplate with an exasperated groan. “Unbelievable. You’re unbelievable.” He glanced again at the trash chute, shifting anxiously. “And if Pax doesn’t get himself killed first, I’m going to kill him myself.”

Bee pointed accusingly and nearly dropped Steve’s helm. “See that!? Best pals don’t threaten to kill each other!”

“I don’t care!”

Far ahead in the dark tunnels, Orion Pax sneezed.

“Dee’s talking about me,” he muttered, optics narrowing suspiciously as he wiped at his faceplate. Then he shook his helm. “Focus, Pax. You’ve got a Prime to find.”

The chamber was quiet when Orion finally stumbled into it, the air eerily still. He swallowed at the sight of the dead Primes, all covered in dirt, grime, and that strange, soft, green growth. Orion didn’t take the time to loiter and instead immediately went toward the rubble that had covered Trion. Straining himself, he hefted the rocks off one by one. 

There, like before, laid Alpha Trion.

Orion Pax took a few moments to vent. Okay. This was it. He took out a small energon ration from his gauntlet, rising to the tips of his pedes to push the cube into Alpha Trion’s mouth. 

His audials picked up the growing whirring noise, and he hesitated. “…Alpha Trion?”

The other stirred sharply, staggering to his pedes and optics blazing to full brightness. "QUINTESSON AMBUSH! ATTACK—”

“Wait wait waitWAITWAIT!” Orion yelped, immediately moving to steady Alpha Trion when he stumbled forward. “I’m not a Quintesson! It’s—everything’s fine, everything’s fine !”

Alpha Trion froze, his optic ridges pulling tight in confusion. He took a moment to glance at his surroundings, optics darting from one fallen Prime to another, growing increasingly weary. “Fine? ” he echoed skeptically, voice gravelly as he finally fixed his gaze at the mech before him, frowning. “Fine doesn’t usually involve strange little mechs in Quintesson-infested territory.”

“No Quintessons!” Orion clarified quickly, shaking his helm. “You’re safe. We’re safe.” He stepped closer, cautiously. “You’ve been in stasis for, uh, a really long time.”

Alpha Trion sagged slightly. “Stasis…” he muttered, as if piecing memories together. He shook his helm again, squinting suspiciously at Orion. Orion huffed. There seemed to be a lot of suspicious squinting happening. “Who are you? And where is your cog? ”

Orion straightened. “Orion Pax. I—”

Before he could finish, Alpha Trion’s optics flared with an odd look, and, to Orion’s utter bewilderment, the ancient mech suddenly took a step backward. With a creaking of old seams shifting around each other, Alpha Trion transformed into his beast-alt-mode—some sort of ancient cyber-beast that Orion couldn’t quite identify: quadruped, broad with massive paws, and a large horn on his forehelm.

Alpha Trion padded forward and sniffed the air around Orion. And then he turned directly toward Orion, venting deeply, his growl softening into a confused hum. 

Orion’s plating crawled. “Uh.” Okay. This is. Weird. Well, his best friend killed him, there can’t possibly be anything weirder than that.

Trion squinted again, optics narrowing as he sniffed one last time for emphasis. “You…” he said slowly, tilting his helm. “You smell like a Prime.”

Record scratch . “I what.”

Alpha Trion transformed back to his root mode, a tall imposing thing, glaring as if Orion had committed a grave personal offense. “You don’t look like a Prime,” he grumbled, rubbing his chin. “But you smell like one. Why ?”

What??? “I…don’t know?” Orion choked, voice cracking.

Alpha Trion squinted harder. “The only “Prime” I know of who isn’t dead is…” His optic ridges shot upward and his optics bore into Orion. “No…you can’t possibly...”

Orion did not like where this train of thought was seeming to go. “What?”

“Relations,” Trion said flatly, “of all mechs, you have had intimate relations with Sentinel Prime!? ”

Orion hated where this train of thought crashed into. “What.” Orion couldn’t believe his audials. Is this real. Is this actually happening? Is Alpha Trion accusing him of interfacing with Sentinel? (Which—no?! Not after everything that's happened! The mech tried to kill his best friend?? And is the very creator of their unfair caste system??!) “What. No. No??? I don’t—I don’t think so???”

Alpha Trion raised an optic ridge, disapproving. “You don’t think so. That seems more akin to a question than a confirmation or denial, young one.”

“Well, I’m denying firmly!” Orion laughed incredulously at the direction this conversation had gone. First Steve, and now Sentinel??? 

Alpha Trion ignored him, already pondering. “So if it’s not the false Prime, then perhaps—?”

“Okay, stop, stop, listen: I’m from the future! ” Orion interrupted, desperate to derail whatever horrifying line of thought Alpha Trion was going to continue on. “I used to have the Matrix of Leadership before Primus sent me back in time! That’s probably why I apparently smell like a Prime!”

Alpha Trion’s optics narrowed. “The Matrix?”

“Yes.” Orion confirmed. “Yes, the Matrix. I didn’t do anything with Sentinel! Or anyone! I died and Primus gave me the Matrix, and now I’m back here! How do you think I knew that you were alive??”

“Hm.” Alpha Trion stroked his chin in consideration. “You do not smell of lies.” Orion’s processor stalled. What does that even mean. “If you truly are from the future, this means you know of Sentinel’s betrayal, yes?

Orion sighed, dragging his servo down his face. “Yes. He lured you and the other Primes into this chamber and you were ambushed by the Quintessons.”

Alpha Trion glanced at his suffering with what might have been amusement. “And you have been given the Matrix of Leadership? I would like to hear that story some time.”

“Great, okay, maybe sometime.” Orion deadpanned. “Let’s just pretend that the other part of this conversation never happened.”

“Alright,” Alpha Trion said solemnly.

They stared at each other for a beat of silence.

“ Never happened,” Orion repeated, for good measure.

“Of course.” Said the liar, who was lying lying-ly and who was definitely going to replay this conversation in his processor.

Once that horrifying introduction was behind them, Orion explained what he knew—Sentinel’s involvement with the Quintessons, how Trion had explained his betrayal and sent him back to Iacon, cogged and with proof. He omitted the fact that D-16, Elita, and Bee were supposed to be with him as well…he didn’t need to know that. Or even what happened afterward, what led to Orion meeting Primus and getting the Matrix (read: D-16 shooting him).

Alpha Trion listened quietly, his demeanor easing as the kliks ticked by.

“You’ve carried a heavy burden,” he said finally. “Far too heavy for one so young.”

Orion shrugged. “I’m a miner. I’m built to handle heavy stuff.”

Alpha Trion tilted his helm. “Regardless. Perhaps Primus chose wisely after all.”

Orion shifted uncomfortably, unsure how to respond. He wasn’t a Prime. And he hoped he never was, in this second chance at life. The idea of Primus “choosing” him when D-16 didn’t felt more like a cruel joke than anything.

Alpha Trion regarded him for a moment, and then a faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He reached forward and took Orion’s servos in his own, gently pressing a lens into his hold—Orion recognized it as the thing with proof that Alpha Trion had handed to him before. “Then I suppose you have work to do, don’t you, young one?”

Orion blinked, surprised by the sudden shift. “Call me Orion. Also—you believe me?”

Alpha Trion snorted. “Orion, then. Would you like me to assume you and Sentinel Prime are having relations?”

“Can we not—” Orion cut himself off, blinking in wonder as Alpha Trion waved a servo, gold dust surrounding a transformation-cog rising into the air from one of the Primes. The cog was glowing faintly, intricately crafted, its surface etched with patterns that seemed to shift in the dim light.

“This,” Trion began, his voice reverent, “is Prima Prime’s transformation-cog. A relic of the first Prime’s unmatched wisdom and strength.” He held it out to Orion. “And now, it is yours.”

Orion blinked, stunned. Back then, Alpha Trion had given them all cogs but never specified who got which—he supposes it might be because this time, Orion is alone, and had all the focus. Was that cog really Prima’s? “...Mine?”

“Yes, yours,” Trion affirmed, his optics glinting. “Do not look so surprised. You’ve got the spark of a Prime, Primus-Blessed or not.”

As he did when the cog integrated itself into him, his frame transformed, the cog resonating with his spark in a way he couldn’t quite describe. Even with his bigger height, he still had to look upward to meet Trion's optics. “Thank you,” he murmured quietly.

Then, Orion’s optics flicked toward Megatronus’ decapitated helm.

Hm.

Hmmmmm.

“Could I make another request, Alpha Trion?” he asked hesitantly, glancing back at the warforged mech.

Trion’s optics narrowed slightly, tilting his helm “...What say you, Pax?” 

Orion hesitated, shifting shyly. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but…could I have Megatronus’ cog, too?”

Trion raised a ridge. “And what exactly do you plan to do with Megatronus’ transformation-cog, young one? I had imagined you would have been grateful in receiving Prima Prime’s cog.”

Orion fumbled for a moment, his vents hitching. “It’s just—there’s this other cogless mech. My Amica Endura.” His voice took on a bashful tone. “He’s. Important. To me. And he’s a big fan of Megatronus, and I thought maybe…well, giving him something like this, would…” He trailed off, struggling to find the right words.

Trion stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he sighed. “Young sparks and all their Conjunx Ritus’..” He muttered, though there was no malice in his tone.

Orion startled. Did he say Conjunx Ritus ?

Before he could dwell on that, Trion waved a servo, and Megatronus’ cog gently flew from the dead Prime’s chassis. It was sharp, etched with angular patterns that glowed red. Alpha Trion shook his helm. “I should not be indulging you like this,” he said, though there was a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But I cannot say no to an earnest spark.”

Orion took the transformation-cog, his spark swelling with gratitude. “Thank you,” he said again, his voice full of wonder.

“Think nothing of the matter,” Trion grumbled, but there was a softness in his optics that betrayed his formality.

As Orion prepared to leave the cavern, he hesitated, his servos tightening around the cog. The weight of everything—the coordinates, the looming threat of Sentinel and the Quintessons, the responsibility of the Matrix (would he have to die again? If he wanted energon to start flowing on Cybertron again, then...) pressed down on his spark. He’d have to do that all over again.

He turned to Trion, hesitant. “...I know I promised myself I wouldn’t drag anyone else into this mess,”—that I wouldn’t drag Dee into this—he cut his thoughts off, shaking his helm. “But everything’s just…a lot. And. It would—it would be really great if you were there to help.”

Trion’s expression softened, and he walked toward Orion, but his tone remained firm. “Young one, it is not about dragging others into this ‘mess.’” He placed a heavy servo on Orion’s shoulder. “It is about understanding that, sometimes, the weight of these battles can be more than what one mech can handle, but despite that, it is not a guarantee of failure. You have been doing extremely well, and you will continue to do so.”

Orion looked up at him, his optics bright. “So you’ll come with me?” He asked hopefully.

Trion’s expression darkened slightly, regret creeping into his tone. “I cannot,” he said apologetically. “My fight is here. Sentinel will be arriving, and my spark-signature will be tracked. I do not want him on your trail. I will also slow you down—and this is not an expression of low self-esteem. I am an old mech, and my frame has been withheld from the Well of Allsparks for far too long. My time has long since passed.”

Orion’s shoulders sagged, disappointed. “Right . Of course. I understand.”

“But,” Trion added, a glint of determination sparking in his optics, “that does not mean you will be facing this alone.”

Before Orion could respond, Trion activated a hidden comm-panel on his arm and sent out a priority signal. “This is Alpha Trion, transmitting to the Cybertronian High Guard—or whatever has become of it. Soundwave, notify Starscream that I have an urgent situation that requires immediate attention…”

Orion’s optics widened, but before he could ask, Trion held up a servo. “Go,” he said firmly. “Get back to Iacon. I will take care of the rest. The Guard will be with you soon.”

Orion hesitated, but Trion’s steady gaze gave him the push he needed. With a deep vent, he nodded and turned toward the exit.

And as the chamber door slid shut behind him, Alpha Trion’s voice echoed faintly in the distance, calm but commanding as he continued his message to the High Guard.

The High Guard arrived at Alpha Trion’s location. At the head of the group was Starscream, his sharp frame and sharper glare setting the tenseness as they filed into the chamber, both his sides flanked by Soundwave and Shockwave.

There, right before their optics, stood Alpha Trion.

“Alpha Trion,” Starscream said reverently, his voice cutting through the room, “you’ve been missing for ano-cycles—I assumed you had gone into the Well of Allsparks...”

“Then it is fortunate that you are often wrong, Starscream,” Trion said warmly, folding his arms over his chassis, “I had merely been in stasis, albeit not willingly.”

Starscream tsked and his wings twitched in irritation, but there was a faint air of relief in his frame. Before he could reply, murmurs broke out among the other members, their optics fixed on the towering mech before them. Thundercracker nudged Skywarp, who was openly gawking.

“It really is him…”

“He survived all this time?”

“I thought Sentinel made sure—”

“Enough,” Trion said, his voice carrying over their whispers. The room fell silent in automatic discipline, and his optics swept over them, his presence commanding. “We do not have time for speculation or sentimentalities. There is a mission at servo, and I require your aid.”

Starscream crossed his arms. “And what exactly is this mission? Or more importantly, who is this mech you mentioned in your transmission?”

“Always quicker to doubt than agree.” Alpha Trion’s optics flicked briefly to Starscream, unimpressed by his skepticism. “His designation is Orion Pax. He is a young mech, but one of great potential.”

“And why,” Starscream drawled, “should we place our faith in some random, unproven mech?”

Alpha Trion’s disapproving glare was enough to silence even Starscream, though only just. “Because I say so,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Because he aided in my awakening, because he is Primus-Blessed, whether you accept it or not—and because I have seen the path he is meant to walk.”

The rebellion exchanged uncertain glances. 

Starscream narrowed his optics. “And we are expected to follow him without question?”

“Yes,” Trion said bluntly. Then, after a brief pause, he added with uncharacteristic fondness, “He may not be a Prime yet, but he is a Primeling in spirit. I would stake my spark on it.”

Primeling.

The room fell into stunned silence. The term hung in the air like a thunderclap.

“Primeling? ” One of the Coneheads murmured.

“Like, as in a descendant , or..?” Skywarp mumbled, trailing off.

Even Soundwave and Shockwave paused to glance at each other. And then, hesitantly, Soundwave stated, “...Perhaps the sparkling of Megatronus and Prima Prime?”

Starscream himself was startled, though not surprised at the idea of Prima and Megatronus. He himself had worked with the Primes, and, though he would never admit it out loud, he had been close to them—close enough to notice the nauseating poetic-near-flirtatious conversations the two had with each other when they thought he couldn’t hear.

If Alpha Trion believed in this “Orion” enough to call him such a sacred title, then there could only be one explanation: he must be the secret sparkling of Megatronus and Prima, and Alpha Trion must be Orion’s Sparksire.

Starscream just sighed in resignation, retorting snappishly, “Fine.” And, then more hesitantly, he added, “...It is good to see you, old spark.”

Alpha Trion smiled and dipped his helm. “And I, with you, my friend. Now go.”

INTERNAL COMMUNICATIONS LINE REQUEST

status : open

corresponder desg. request : D-16

-

COMM-LINK REQUEST DENIED

systems have temporarily turned off requests until : 1 SUB-CYCLE

Orion was in his alt-mode, speeding through the rocky desert, his processor swirling with thoughts of Alpha Trion’s dire warnings, and Megatronus’ cog tucked safely in his chest compartment.

He still wasn’t sure what to make of everything. The last few joors had been. A lot. He huffed, smokestacks puffing. “I’m overthinking it,” he muttered. “It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Just need to go back to…” To Iacon. To D-16.

To Bee. To Jazz, Ratchet, Elita. Don’t forget about the rest of your friends, you slagger. Not everything can be about Dee.

But D-16 was his everything before all of this happened.

D-16 was all he had .

And your "everything" killed you. You banished him. A selfish hypocritical mech who frags around as a hero in his own self-righteousness; can you tell whether this applies to either D-16 or yourself ?

Just as he was about to continue his internal debate, he heard the faint hum of approaching engines.

He froze and transformed, assuming Sentinel had somehow caught wind of his plan and had arrived. A moment later, a small fleet of seekers emerged from the shadows and swiftly dove for him.

Slag. Slag, slag, slag!

One of them, a sharp-edged mech, landed in front of him in a blur. And Orion’s fight-or-flight response, for some Primus forsaken reason, automatically went to fight; he only belatedly realized this the moment his left hook socked the poor mech in the throat cables and sent him crashing down. “AUGH—”

“Oh. Oh??—OH . OH SLAG, I’M SO SORRY!?” he yelped, quickly reaching toward the downed mech and pulling him upward and back on his pedes.

The mech was coughing a little haphazardly. Upon seeing his face, Orion recognized the mech as Starscream—’Double slag,’ he cursed internally; Orion tensed again, preparing to be punched back but not expecting Starscream to just brush Orion’s servos off of him and clear his vocalizer. “You are Orion Pax.” He said, his tone oddly admiral for someone who Orion punched in the throat cables.

“Hi?” Orion replied, unsure of what else to say—he would apologize but the moment had passed and it would seem really weird. “Um. You’re Starscream. ”

“We’ve come to aid you, Primeling,” Starscream huffed and crossed his servos begrudgingly, and his voice, though well hidden, was reverent.

“Primeling.” Orion echoed, furrowing his ridges. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh please,” Starscream said, waving a servo dismissively. “Spare us the lies—you don’t need to hide your heritage from us. Alpha Trion has already informed us of your...unique origins.”

Orion felt like he was missing some extremely critical information. “I see.”

Starscream didn’t clarify, instead stepping aside to allow Soundwave and Shockwave’s approach. The rest of the group followed suit, their stances respectful and oddly deferential.

Orion stared at them all, utterly bewildered—why weren’t they brawling with him? He punched Starscream—their leader, in the throat?? 

“I punched Starscream in the throat,” he repeated his internal thoughts faintly.

“Primeling,” Soundwave murmured, and he proceeded to clasp the mechs servos in his own. What . “The strength you have inherited is seen. It is an honor to aid you.”

“Right,” Orion said slowly, his processor scrambling for an explanation. “Well, um. Send Alpha Trion my thanks? If, uh, a seeker could transform into their alt mode and bring me to Iacon, that would be. Great?”

Starscream clicked his glossa to his dentae, optics narrowing in distaste as his neutral expression twisted into a scowl. He stepped closer. “Iacon!? Do you want us to get—”

Before Starscream could continue, Orion yelped indignantly as he was immediately scooped up by Soundwave, who had transformed into his alt mode—the rest followed suit, including Starscream, who grouched but did not stop them.

As they ascended, Starscream’s sharp voice crackled in comms and through the steady hum of engines, made his voice known. “Orion Pax ,” he hummed, tone dripping with skepticism, “you have the support of the High Guard, the blessing of Alpha Trion, and the lineage of the Primes. And yet, instead of immediately going on a rendezvous to kill the false Prime, you ask us to escort you to Iacon. Care to enlighten us on what your grand plan is?”

Even without Starscream’s presence nearby, he could feel his scrutinizing gaze. He felt an uncomfortable heat build in his frame. It’s not his fault for not having a well-thought out plan!

“Well,” Orion started, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, trying to project more confidence than he felt. “So basically…we, uh…Alpha Trion gave me this lens, and it, uh, has everything that Sentinel has done.” He faltered briefly but invented and pressed on. “I'll use it to expose Sentinel Prime’s betrayal to all of Iacon.”

Silence. Starscream was clearly unimpressed. “And how do you intend to do that? Stand in the middle of the city shouting it at random passersby?”

“Nuh uh!” Orion snapped, bristling at the jab. “I have evidence . Again, I have this ,” He gestured vaguely to the small lens Alpha Trion had given him, securely tucked into his energon-compartment. “I’ll go to the broadcast station and send the footage live. Everyone in Iacon will see Sentinel for who he really is.”

More silence. Orion felt more and more petulant at the second.

“That’s it? ” Starscream asked, growling. “That’s your big plan? No ambush? No battle strategy? You’re just going to show them a holo-vid and hope for the best?”

“To be fair, I am not a spark-born guard like you are. So, yes,” Orion said firmly. Then, as an afterthought, he added, “But…I guess we’d still need to fight Sentinel afterward. I seriously doubt he and Airachnid would go quietly.”

At the mention of a potential fight, several members of the High Guard perked up. Orion’s audials could pick up the contented rumbling of jet turbines.

“But,” Orion continued, wagging a digit even if only Soundwave could see, “no killing. Rebuilding Iacon cannot begin with executions.”

The excitement in the group dimmed slightly, replaced by murmurs of disappointment. 

“No killing?” Shockwave echoed, sounding incredulous. “Even after everything he’s done?”

“Yes, no killing, YET,” Orion repeated, his tone resolute. “We are not like him. I’M not like him. Sentinel will answer for his crimes, but he’ll do it the proper way—with a just and fair trial. If the punishment decided for him is an execution, then so be it.”

Starscream made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort but was calmed at the notion of execution being a possibility. Which. Hm. A cause for concern, probably. “How noble of you, Primeling.”

Orion shot a baleful glare at nowhere but didn’t respond.

As they neared Iacon, Orion couldn’t help but feel the weight of what he was about to do pressing down on him. The announcement facility loomed in the distance, its spire stretching toward the sky.

“You know this plan hinges on you actually making it to the facility without being stopped by Iaconian Guards,” Starscream said, his tone sardonic.

“I know,” Orion replied tightly.

“And on Sentinel not cutting the feed before you show the proof,” Starscream added.

“I know,” Orion repeated, more forcefully this time.

“And on—”

“Starscream,” Orion interrupted exasperatedly, “I appreciate your input, but I’ve got it under control.” Probably.

Starscream grunted, clearly skeptical, but said nothing further.

As the group pressed on, Orion exvented, steeling himself. Okay. This was it—the moment everything had been building toward. He just had to stick to the plan, no matter how much his processor screamed at him that it wasn’t enough.

“All right,” he muttered to himself. “We got this.”

Orion’s audials picked up the murmur of a conversation and, through Soundwave, he could hear the High Guard whispering through comms among themselves.

“—think he takes after Prima or Megatronus?”

“No killing,” one mech murmured. “Definitely Prima. And look at how polite he is, it is almost endearing.”

“He punched Starscream in the vocalizer the first time we saw him, it has to be Megatronus.”

“Prima Prime was the ferally-inclined one, though.”

“Oh.”

Orion barely had time to ask why they kept calling him Primeling when an audial-piercing shriek echoed from above.

“What was—?” he started, only to feel Soundwave jolt violently mid-flight, transforming into his root mode in the air, and used his pede thrusters to fly the both of them through a barrage of shots. Orion’s body lurched forward, and he scrambled to keep his balance as he clung to the mech.

From the sky, a fleet of shadowy figures descended, sleek and predatory. Airachnid’s fleet cut through the air, their optics glowing with malice as they swarmed down toward the High Guard.

“INCOMING!” Starscream bellowed through the comms.

The High Guard instantly broke formation, their alt modes twisting and diving to evade the barrage of missiles and plasma fire that erupted from Airachnid’s ships.

“Of course,” Orion muttered, gripping Soundwave’s frame tighter. “Because why wouldn’t she show up now?”

Airachnid streaked through the chaos, her creepy laugh audible even through the roar of the battle. 

Orion yelped as Soundwave banked sharply to the left, avoiding a stray missile.

“Hold on,” Soundwave’s modulated voice rasped.

“I’m trying!” Orion snapped, barely managing to steady himself.

Below them, the High Guard were engaged in a full-blown aerial skirmish. Shockwave’s calculated movements countered Starscream’s chaotic dives as they wove through the enemy fire. Several guards coordinated their attacks, splitting Airachnid’s forces apart in mid-air.

Despite their efforts, the fleet’s sheer numbers were overwhelming, and some members of the High Guard came crashing down.

“Primeling,” Starscream growled through the comms, his voice laced with irritation, “your plan didn’t account for this!”

Orion bit back a retort, focusing instead on the ships that seemed to have singled him out as a target. Shots zipped past Soundwave, one close enough to sear the air just inches from his helm.

Soundwave twisted in the air, transforming into his alt-mode, and Orion ended up hanging precariously on top of the mech. Soundwave shuddered from the strain of carrying Orion while maneuvering at high speeds. “Situation is...suboptimal,” he stated, flat tone ridden with notes of strain,

“You think?!” Orion laughed incredulously, clutching onto one of Soundwave’s wing-fins desperately.

Suddenly, Airachnid transformed into her root mode and dove toward them like a predator, quickly closing the distance and landing on top of Soundwave with a thud. Orion could see her sneer-like-smile as her extra limbs rose to impale him.

Soundwave executed a manifold-wrenching barrel roll to throw her off of him, which worked, but Orion’s grip slipped, and for one terrifying moment, he felt himself plummeting through the air.

“Soundwave!” he cried out.

A split second later, Soundwave partially transformed, his servo snapping out from below his alt mode to catch Orion mid-fall. The mech dangled precariously in Soundwave’s grasp, his legs kicking at open air.

“I’ve got you." Soundwave intoned, weary.

“I hate this I hate this I hate this I HATE THIS— ” Orion choked out, glancing down at the dizzying expanse of Iacon city below.

Soundwave shifted slightly, his grip tightening. Plasma fired past them, and Orion swore when he felt the heat brush his armor.

“This is fine,” he muttered, tone between sarcastic and hysterical. “Everything’s fine.”

“Hold position,” Soundwave told him firmly, his thrusters flaring as he stabilized them mid-air.

Orion didn’t bother responding, too busy clinging to Soundwave’s servo for dear life.

Below, Starscream was locked in a furious dogfight with Airachnid, the two trading barbs and plasma fire. The rest of the High Guard worked to push back her fleet.

“Get to the station!” Starscream barked. “We’ll handle this!”

Orion grit his dentae. “Soundwave, can you—”

“Affirmative,” Soundwave interrupted, his thrusters roaring as he surged forward.

With Orion still dangling from his grasp, Soundwave angled himself toward the broadcast station, weaving through the buildings with precision.

“I really hope you know what you’re doing,” Orion muttered.

“Confidence: Necessary. Calm down, Primeling,” Soundwave replied, monotone as ever.

Orion laughed again, high on the adrenaline, muttering a quiet prayer to Primus as the broadcasting facility grew closer on the horizon. Behind them, the sounds of battle raged on, Airachnid’s screeches mixing with Starscream’s furious retorts.

Primus have mercy on me .

Bee had tagged along with an increasingly infuriated-looking D-16 to help look for Orion. The two were out of the miner’s barracks and searching for a way down to lower Sublevels. D-16 wasn't able to try going down the trash chute since Dreadwing was stalking around looking for Darkwing.

In the background, D-16 was standing on a crate looking for his Orion, muttering distractedly. "I'm missing the Iacon 5000 because I care for Ori. I'm missing the Iacon 5000 because I care for Ori. I'm missing the Iacon 5000 so I can beat up Orion the moment I find his stupid aft."

In the midst of picking up an empty cube to look underneath it, Bee’s audials picked up the sound of a roaring noise. He looked upward, and gaped, pointing above. “HEY! HEY DEE, LOOK—ITS—ITS SOUNDWAVE, FROM THE CYBERTRONIAN HIGH GUARD! Oh, and Orion! HEY ORION!!! CAN YOU SEE ME!? DOWN HERE!!”

Dee paused, “What?”

And looked up.

And up.

D-16 just barely caught sight of the esteemed fleet—but in that short moment, he immediately spotted the red and blue frame of his Orion.

And his Orion, who was hanging precariously in Soundwave’s grasp, locked optics with D-16. 

You know what? Dee would’ve felt worried . Dee would’ve panicked. Dee would’ve started overthinking: perhaps his Orion was kidnapped and that’s why he’s over a hundred subpedes in the air.

But then, THEN the idiot had the gall to wince and look away with that classic Orion Pax Expression. It was that my-idiotic-plan-went-extremely-awry look. That oh-slag-I-was-caught-in-the-archives look. 

D-16’s optic twitched. He ex-vented, slowly, before his servo shot out to punch the nearest wall. “ORION PAX! ”

Chapter Text

D-16 was usually a calm, logic-based, no-nonsense mech.

Keyword: usually.

Usually, he followed protocol; and because of this, he was one of the more higher-ranking miners. Usually, his days were repetitive, but the routine made it easier to keep things under control.

However.

There were always exceptions to this.

Exceptions who had obnoxiously bright red and blue paint jobs. Exceptions who have large mouths, squeaky joints, a corroded stench, and a talent for dismantling the last shreds of his patience.

Exceptions who specifically went by the designation Orion Pax.

And now, he’d just witnessed his Orion Pax—his walking headache—dangling like loose cargo from the mech who Bee had called Soundwave, and crash spectacularly into a building.

He remembers telling Orion that one day, he’d blow a gasket because of him. He’s pretty sure that that day is today.

“Primus, give me strength,” D-16 muttered darkly before his gaze snapped to B-127, who still seemed more excited than alarmed. “127. Stay here. If you see Dreadwing or Darkwing—"

“—Distract them an’ show them the holo-vid and of Orion kissing Steve, you got it, bossbot!” Bee interrupted him, saluting. 

With that, D-16 leaped down from the crate, ignoring the impact that rattled his joints as he stalked off toward the facility his Orion had rocketed into.

“Pax,” he growled under his breath, “I swear by the Well of Allsparks, if you’re still functional when I get there, you won’t be for long.”

Soundwave and Orion burst through the station. Shards of light refracted around them, scattering across the floor as the two tumbled inside with all the grace of a derailed cargo transport.

Orion groaned, sneezing, and pushing himself off Soundwave’s frame as the mechs nearby scrambled away from the commotion. “Sorry—sorry—AUGH. Prowl, move aside!” he barked, brushing past the startled mech. “Sorry!”

Prowl’s optics narrowed, but before he could utter a word, Orion was already darting toward the main broadcast console, and, grabbing the data-disk that Alpha Trion had given him from his energon compartment, Orion slammed it onto the terminal’s input port.

“Attention, all sectors: stand by for a live transmission feed from Sentinel Prime.”

“I am working my miners as hard as I can, I swear, I will get you the rest—”

The holographic feed crackled to life. Every screen in Iacon City flickered, and within seconds, Sentinel Prime’s imposing frame appeared, towering over the gathered mechs. 

The city of Iacon went silent.

Sentinel, who allowed a Quintesson to attack Prima without attempting to defend him.

Sentinel, who was decapitating Megatronus.

Sentinel, who was giving away their energon.

Sentinel, who bowed before the Quintessons, their leader's grotesque form looming above him.

Again, the audio replayed: “I am working my miners as hard as I can, I swear, I will get you the rest—”

“—swear, I will get you the rest—“

D-16, alongside the crowd of other mechs outside, were staring in shock at the hologram. He couldn’t—there’s no way. Sentinel Prime..lied? He’s giving away energon to the Quintessons—what about the Cybertronians!? What about the rest of the cogless miners—his Orion, Jazz, Ironhide, Elita, Sideswipe, HIMSELF—who were slaving away just to make sure that the rations don’t deplete!?

Dee couldn’t process it. He didn’t want to. 

And yet, Sentinel Prime was kneeling—kneeling—before the Quintessons that he’d sworn had defeated long ago.

He clenched his servos, his spark burning with a mix of rage and betrayal. Sentinel Prime lied. 

The crowd around him erupted into murmurs of shock, disbelief, and anger. Mechs were turning to one another, optics wide and gestures frantic.

Dee couldn’t join them, because something else had quickly caught his attention. 

A blur of blue and gold streaked across his vision—Sentinel himself had flown by and had crashed into the same fragging broadcast station his Amica Endura was in.

Unfortunately, Dee was smart enough to connect the dots. 

“Slag,” D-16 muttered under his breath, his frame locking up as his optics darted toward the structure. His processor raced, calculating the distance, the probability that Orion was somehow involved in all of this, and the likelihood that Orion was in Sentinel’s clutches.

That likelihood was confirmed when Sentinel shot upward with Orion Pax in tow.

“Slag, slag, slag!”

He had no time to think. Shoving his way through the shocked crowd, D-16 broke into a sprint, his pedes pounding against the ground as he charged toward a construction site.

He needed to get to his Orion.

The words echoed across Iacon, reverberating in the sparks of every Cybertronian. The image of their supposed leader handing over their lifeblood to the Quintessons for nothing in return left everyone stunned. Gasps filled the room. Outrageous murmurs began to spread as the truth sank in.

Orion sagged against the console in relief. Finally.

Before anyone could say anything, the facility’s walls shook violently, a deafening noise splitting the air. Sentinel Prime crashed through the building, his bright blue optics blazing.

“You think this will stop me?!” Sentinel roared, his voice drowning out the panicked yells of the others.

Orion barely had time to react before Sentinel glanced at how he was slumped over the console and quickly connected the dots; he lunged at him, massive servos closing around him like a vice.

“Primeling!” Soundwave’s voice rasped from behind, but before he could move, Airachnid tackled him through another window—the two clashed outside, now locked in a brutal struggle.

Sentinel’s thrusters ignited, launching both him and Orion into the air.

“You,” Sentinel growled, his grip tightening around Orion. “You’ve ruined everything!”

Orion struggled, thrashing in Sentinel’s hold. “Nuh uh! You’re the one who ruined everything! You’ve lost, Sentinel!”

Sentinel’s optics narrowed, his voice low and venomous. “Then I have nothing left to lose.”

He climbed higher into the sky, his thrusters flaring as Iacon spread out below them, a sea of lights and confusion. Orion’s optics darted downward, calculating the sheer distance to the ground and then widening when he spots his D-16.

“You’re a coward,” Orion spat, fear curling in his spark.

Sentinel growled, his grip tightening painfully around Orion and making him yelp in pain. “Say that again.”

Orion glared up at him, his voice wavering. “You’re a COWARD. Everyone knows the truth now. What do you think will happen when you kill me, huh!?”

INTERNAL COMMUNICATIONS LINE REQUEST

status : open

corresponder desg. request : Orion Pax

-

COMM-LINK REQUEST ACCEPTED

:: Pax ::

:: Orion ::

:: Orion ::

:: Orion ::

:: Orion ::

:: Ori answer me ::

:: hellp,2 ::

:: deeimscared i ::

:: i’ll find a way up to you please please hold o n ::

In the construction site, D-16 was on the roof of the shell of what would be a tower, haphazardly attempting to get to higher ground. His optics swept over the area but were locked onto his Orion and Sentinel, who seemed to be half-arguing and half-beating each other to death.

He paused.

He glanced at the large stack of metallic ingots that were above him, held together with a thick rubber cord.

He glanced at the springboard-esque truss he was on, hanging halfway off of the roof.

D-16 had an incredibly stupid idea.

Orion bit back the urge to sneeze into Sentinel’s face.

Sentinel’s thrusters roared as he carried Orion higher into the night sky, a fiery glow in the darkness. His grip on Orion’s frame was unrelenting, his optics wild with fury as the city below shrank. Orion squirmed in his hold, spark racing as the cold wind whipped against his plating.

Sentinel’s laugh was low, his voice cutting through the howl of the air around them. “You wanna be a hero, PRIMELING!?” He spat, recalling what Soundwave had called Orion, his optics narrowing.

Orion’s processor raced. He had no weapon, no backup, no safety net—

Sentinel raised his Primax Blade into the air. “Then DIE LIKE THEM.”

—but Orion Pax learned from D-16 a long time ago that sometimes, desperation was enough. He flexed his servo, and then lashed out, punching Sentinel square in the face. 

Sentinel yelled and instinctively let go, and in an instant, Orion dove downward in a controlled fall, before whipping around mid-dive. His propulsion jets, not meant for flight, flared brightly to support his weight. He surged upward with all the force his engines could muster, revving harshly and heading straight for Sentinel. The false Prime had no time to react before Orion transformed into his alt mode and slammed into his midsection with a deafening clang.

“AUGH!” Sentinel yelped as Orion’s front bumper dented his chestplate inward. He spiraled briefly, stabilizing with a growl. “You little glitch!”

Orion transformed back into his root mode mid-air, landing precariously on Sentinel’s shoulders—Orion couldn’t describe how exhilarating and freeing this was. Perhaps it was because Sentinel played a major part in D-16 turning into Megatron, which is why he’s filled with anger-born catharsis at his twisted triumph. Orion’s grin was bared more like a snarl. “What’s the matter, Sentinel? Don’t like a fair fight!?”

Sentinel roared, twisting violently in an attempt to dislodge him. Orion held on tightly, his servos scratching Sentinel’s armor as the two tumbled through the air. Sentinel managed to grab Orion by the pede and attempted to fling him downward, but Orion twisted in mid-air, transforming halfway into his alt mode and crushing Sentinel’s servo between his tires.

Sentinel hissed and painfully freed his bleeding servo, swinging his massive Primax Blade at Orion. The weapon missed, but just barely, the blade slicing through the air with a terrifying whoosh and making Orion’s finials twitch in irritation.

They banked left, hard, landing on a nearby rooftop. Sentinel’s heavy frame slammed onto the roof with enough force to crack the metal beneath and—he twisted sharply so Orion fell off of him.

“You’re just delaying the inevitable!” Sentinel spat, stalking toward Orion.

“Maybe,” Orion replied, his voice steady despite the speed his processor was going. “But at least I’m not you!”

Sentinel roared, lunging at him. Orion ducked under the swing of Sentinel’s Primax Blade, grabbing a loose piece of rebar from the damaged rooftop. He swung it with all his strength, the improvised weapon slamming into Sentinel’s side.

Sentinel grunted in pain but retaliated quickly, backhanding Orion and sending him skidding across the roof. Orion grit his dentae, rolling to his pedes just in time to dodge another strike. His rebar struck Sentinel’s pede joint, and the larger mech stumbled, giving Orion just enough time to leap onto his back.

“You’re sloppy, Sentinel,” Orion taunted, gripping Sentinel’s helm. “Too used to letting Airachnid fight your battles for you!?”

“Get off of me!” Sentinel bellowed, slamming his back against a ventilation unit in an attempt to dislodge Orion.

Orion yelped when felt his back struts crack in the impact, but despite the pain, clung on, crossing his pedes around Sentinel’s neck cables for leverage. Sentinel leapt into the air, wobbling precariously with the weight of Orion on his back and yelped when Orion repeatedly bashed the rebar onto Sentinel’s helm in a violent motions of desperation.

Sentinel swooped backward mid-flight and finally managed to grab ahold of Orion’s throat cables. With a growl of effort, Sentinel hoisted him higher, servos tightening. Orion choked, dropping the rebar to claw at Sentinel’s servos, trying to pry them loose.

“What’s the matter, little Primeling?” Sentinel sneered, shaking him violently and making Orion gag. “Losing your spark!?”

Orion, jabbing his middle finger up at the other, spat back with all the defiance he could muster. “S-Shu-Shut up!” he snapped, his vocalizer cracking slightly from the strain. And with a sudden surge of adrenaline, Orion slammed his helm forward, smashing it directly into Sentinel’s faceplate. A sickening crunch echoed through the air as Sentinel’s olfactory ridge broke, energon spurting from the wound.

“YOU LITTLE BRAT!” Sentinel roared, clutching his now-bleeding face with one servo. He tightened his grip on Orion’s throat, who, coughing and gagging, yelled, “Stop mon-monologuing and-HRK-just fight, you overgrown dr-dr-drone!”

Sentinel growled, wiping the energon from his face, his optics blazing with murderous intent. “YOU WANT A FIGHT, LITTLE PRIMELING!?”

With a sudden burst of speed, he rocketed toward the sky, and Sentinel hurled him upward with all his might. “THEN A FIGHT IS WHAT YOU’LL GET.”

The force of the throw sent Orion spiraling upward uncontrollably, his systems scrambling to stabilize.

Sentinel, with his back turned to Orion, surged higher into the sky, his thrusters flaring brilliantly. Then, with a display of acrobatics that mirrored his every introduction to the Iacon 5000, Sentinel flipped vertically mid-flight, his frame twisting elegantly through the air—Orion’s optics barely registered what was happening before Sentinel’s pedes came down like a hammer, slamming directly into his chassis.

The impact was catastrophic.

A deafening crack echoed as Orion was sent hurtling downward, his frame spiraling toward the ground. His chassis caved under the force of Sentinel's pede, splitting open to reveal the faint, flickering glow of his spark chamber.

Orion crashed into the ground with a thunderous boom, the impact sending up a cloud of debris and sparks. He screamed, loud and ragged—his systems sent query after query, warning alerts flashing across his HuD. His servos twitched as he struggled to push himself upright, his exposed spark pulsing weakly. He was killed by his own friend, his own Amica. SENTINEL is nothing by comparison. He’s FINE.

Sentinel landed, standing over Orion, and, with a wolfishly happy expression, raised a pede to stomp directly onto Orion’s knee joint. Orion’s vocalizer glitched harshly as he screamed, his knee bending the wrong way with a sickening snap. Sentinel then raised his Primax Blade above Orion’s neck, preparing for a killing blow, but a blur of black, silver, and gold shot into view from above. 

CRUNCH.

Before anyone could react, D-16 slammed his elbow joint into Sentinel’s faceplate with a force that could’ve rivaled a comet.

The sickening crack of the punch echoed through the battlefield, and Sentinel was hurled sideways, his frame skidding across the ground as he roared in pain.

“WHO DARES—!?” Sentinel bellowed, clutching his dented helm, energon oozing from the corner of his flickering optic.

D-16 froze for half a nanoklik, staring down at his own trembling fist. “Did I just—” His optics widened in realization, and a low, horrified laugh escaped him. “I just slugged Sentinel Prime across the face.”

Before he could spiral further into his existential crisis, Starscream swooped down with a gleeful cackle, unloading a volley of plasma blasts at Sentinel. “Finally! Someone shut him up!” Starscream taunted as he dove toward him, just barely slamming onto Sentinel's helm, who once again took to the skies with a snarl of fury.

D-16’s focus snapped back to his Orion, who lay limp on the ground. Orion was larger than him now, and with his chassis broken open, Dee could see his cog—and his exposed spark, which flickered faintly, the damaged chamber around it groaning under the strain.

“Orion,” D-16 whispered, his voice barely audible over the chaos. Then, louder, more frantic, “ORION!”

He dropped to his knees, scooping the battered mech into his arms. His frame shook as he held his Orion close, his optics scanning desperately over every visible injury. His voice cracked with panic. “ORION PAX, WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!”

Orion groaned weakly, his cracked optics flickering open. “Ugh…Dee?” he rasped. “I thi-thi-think. Hkk. Sentinel hates-ssss—me.”

D-16 stared down at him in sheer disbelief. “OF COURSE HE HATES YOU, YOU WERE BRAWLING HIM MID-AIR !” He shouted, his voice a mix of fury and terror. “WHAT IS HAPPENING?? YOU HAVE A COG NOW??? WHY WON’T YOU TELL ME ANYTHING?!” Orion’s spark panged at the well-hidden sliver of hurt that D-16 had in his tone.

Orion coughed, a faint, wheeze escaping him. “Sorry.. it seemed—haah—it seemed like a good idea at the time?”

“GOOD IDEA?! TO HIDE WHATEVER ALL OF THIS IS!??” D-16 nearly dropped him, his servos shaking as he shook Orion back and forth. “YOU’RE INSANE. DO YOU KNOW THAT? YOU’RE INSANE!”

Orion winced but managed a faint grin. “ Hh—ouch, ouch—hahha, you like me like that.”

“STOP JOKING, YOU ABSOLUTE MADMECH!” D-16’s voice cracked with emotion, and his grip on his Orion tightened. “DO YOU KNOW HOW CLOSE YOU WERE TO DYING?!”

His Orion blinked up at him, his spark flickering faintly. “But I didn’t.”

D-16 paused, his vents heaving as he stared down at the mech in his arms. His spark ached at the sight of his Amica Endura's upset expression, and then he startled when D-16 leaned down to suddenly ensnare Orion in a hug, making the mech wince but melt into his arms.

“You are never doing this again,” D-16 muttered fiercely, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Do you hear me? Never again. You’re insane, Orion. If you weren’t already battered I’d beat you in the helm.”

Orion smiled faintly, his optics dimming slightly as exhaustion began to take over. “I’ll—hkk—take that as a compliment.”

D-16 groaned, pressing his forehelm to Orion’s, his frame trembling with barely-contained panic. “Primus be slagged, you will explain everything, you hear me!?”

His Orion smiled and pat D-16’s shoulder weakly. “Augh—okay.” Both mechs flinched at the sudden closeness of blasters, the booming noise irritating their audials and making Orion’s finial twitch.

Above the two, the battle between Sentinel Prime and Starscream raged across the sky, a flurry of aerial maneuvers and violent energy blasts. Sentinel’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and cruel.

“Still angry about Skyfire, Starscream!?” Sentinel sneered, his voice dripping with venom. “All this rage—and for what? You couldn’t even protect him. Maybe it’s good that your Conjunx is dead!”

Starscream froze mid-flight. And then his wings flared with pure, unfiltered rage. “YOU TAKE THAT BACK SLAGGER!” he screeched, his voice cracking with fury, as he transformed into his alt mode and tackled Sentinel, sending the both of them crashing down to the ground, next to Orion and Dee. “YOU DON’T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT SKYFIRE!” He transformed back into his root mode and punched Sentinel in the face over and over before he held his arm up and transformed his blaster out; it was charged, bright and lethal, as he aimed it squarely at Sentinel’s dented chassis.

No.

No, no no no!

Orion's processor reeled rapidly, flashing back to a moment he had tried so hard to bury: D-16—Megatron—raising his own arm cannon, firing that devastating shot—and then his mind flashed back to his own words: ‘Rebuilding Iacon cannot begin with an execution.’

D-16’s words were muffled. “—Orion??”

“No,” Orion whispered, his spark hammering in his chest. Then louder, more desperate, “No! HKK-STARSCREAM, STOP!”

He couldn't lose Dee to warlust again!

As Starscream’s blaster roared to life, Orion didn’t think—he moved with everything he had, and he threw himself into the path of the blast.

The shot struck him squarely in the spark.

The world seemed to stop. The sound of the impact echoed, Orion’s frame jolting backward from the sheer force, his energon spilling from the wound. His chassis was a mess, more than it ever had been, and Orion’s frame felt splintered with pain.

Starscream froze, his optics wide with horror.

D-16 was next to him in an instant, his optics blazing with panic as he rushed to Orion’s side. He dropped to his knees, cradling his Orion’s limp frame in his servos. “No no no no no WHY?!” he roared, his voice breaking. “Orion, why—why would you do that, why?!”

Orion’s optics flickered weakly, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips despite the energon pooling beneath him. 

D-16’s grip tightened, coolant streaming down his face as his voice cracked into sobs. “Please,” he whispered hoarsely, shaking his head. His shoulders trembled, the weight of what was happening crushing him. 

In the background, the rest of the High Guard were constricting Sentinel—Airachnid was limp, being dragged around by Soundwave; her optics were offline, but her extra limbs were still twitching.

Orion, his spark-sleeved Orion, ever so gently reached up, his servo trembling as he cupped D-16’s cheek. “It’s—hh—okay,” he murmured. “You’re still here.” D-16 was still here. Not Megatron—his D-16.

D-16 didn't speak—he couldn’t. His dentae were grit and his frame was tense, but he held his Orion’s servo so gently and pressed his dermas against it, tears of coolant dripping onto the mech’s cracked armor. It was a quiet, desperate gesture, one that spoke volumes more than words ever could.

Orion’s optics were failing, now, and he couldn’t move his pedes anymore, so, summoning the last of his strength, he weakly reached into his broken chassis compartment, and he pulled out a sharp angled, glowing sphere—Megatronus’ transformation-cog.

“What?” D-16 whispered hoarsely, shaking his head furiously as realization dawned on him. “What are you—Pax, what is this? ”

His Orion smiled faintly, his optics dimming. “Take it,” he whispered, strained. “Megatronus was—hahh—always your fa-fa-favorite, right?”

With that, he gently pushed the cog into D-16’s empty cog-hole. The mechanism flared to life, and D-16 barely had time to react before it integrated into his systems. His frame glowed, and his optics flashed orange as a transformation he hadn’t asked for overtook him.

“No,” D-16 whispered again, his voice cracking as he clutched his Amica Endura tighter—D-16 was bigger, now. With the Prime’s cog, his frame was larger than before, and his Orion seemed dwarfed in his arms again. “Don’t you dare. DON’T YOU DARE LEAVE ME! ORION!”

“————o——y—u,” Orion spoke weakly, his audials deafening and his processor blanking out. The blue of Orion’s optics faded, and his frame fell still. 

Orion didn’t know what his last words were, and he wished he knew. Everything felt like it was unraveling. Perhaps if he and D-16 had been Sparkbonded, if they were Conjunxes, Dee would have felt what Orion said, and Orion would have felt it back. 

The last thing he saw was D-16’s new form, his now crimson optics blazing as he roared, his new fusion cannon aimed directly at Sentinel and Starscream and shaking the ground below with a boom. 

Megatron.

Despair. His one chance, gone to waste.

Orion failed.

And then, there was only darkness.

And then, Orion Pax was Awake.

He blinked, startled, and he staggered, servos flying out to steady himself against the rough, rocky surface of the cave entrance. His ex-vented sharply and his spark seized, thrumming unevenly as the memories of this—timeline?—slammed into his processor.

What in Primus’ name—?!

He forcefully ex-vented, his digits curling against the stone as he fought to ground himself. His optics darted, taking in the jagged walls of the cave. Wait, cave?

Beside him, D-16—he felt his spark flare painfully and he resisted the urge to hug his best friend and cry—glanced over, the slight tilt of his helm betraying his concern. Orion’s audials picked up on faint chatter ahead.

He recognized the voices instantly.

Elita, Bee.

Orion’s spark shuddered.

He checked his memory files. This was before. Before they found the grave of Primes, before they found Alpha Trion, before they discovered Sentinel’s betrayal, before everything. He knew this moment. But if time repeated again, then why wasn’t he back in the Archives, in the “beginning” of everything? Why did he go back again at all!? Why did he have seperate memories of this timeline?

He winced as a memory surged to the forefront of his processor—Starscream’s shot. The pain, searing through his spark. The darkness. And D-16’s voice, raw and desperate, calling his name, how Orion died, the way Dee’s optics had burned red—

Oh, Primus.

His trembling servo rose to his chest, half-expecting to feel the gaping wound there. Instead, his armor was intact. His spark thrummed steadily beneath it. If he had a credit for each time he’d died, it would be two, now.

No. No! Orion didn’t die. Yes he did. Neither deaths count since one, he was revived, and two, he had gone back in time so he’s fine. 

And what of Megatron?

Nope. No, no, not gonna go into that spiral. Compartmentalize, Pax, push everything that happened into tiny little boxes and then scream at them later.

“Pax?”

The voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. Orion’s helm shot up, locking optics with D-16, who was frowning, and was closer than he’d anticipated.

Gold.

“Uh—ack—yeah? Wh-what’s up?” Orion stammered, stepping back a little too quickly and nearly tripping over his pedes. Score zero for Orion Pax . He crossed his servos, forcing on a wide grin, though it felt wobbly. “Everything’s cool! Totally normal!”

D-16’s optics narrowed slightly. Gold. Not red, gold—“You’re a terrible liar.”

“Hey you dolts!” Elita’s sharp tone cut through the tension like a blade. “Come on, let’s go.”

Orion latched onto the distraction like it was a lifeline. “Yep! Doing it! Let’s go!” He bolted forward, his processor racing as he trailed after her. Orion’s optic kept twitching and his vocalizer kept tightening up each time he tried thinking of what happened so he’s simply going to not think about it.

‘Better said than done,’ he thought bitterly, as his processor helpfully brought up the memory of Sentinel crushing his knee joint—he refused the urge to crumple and bonked a servo on his helm to distract himself.

The group stepped into the chamber. Orion barely registered the others’ reactions as they took in the sight of the fallen Primes. D-16 slowly approached Megatronus Prime’s severed head. “Megatronus Prime..”

Instead of silently taking in the saddening sight like the others, Orion strode directly toward the pile of rubble that covered Alpha Trion. Bee perked up. “Bossbot?”

“Orion, what are you—?” Elita started, her tone sharp with confusion.

Orion didn’t answer. His servos dug into the rubble with precision, ignoring the others’ sharp vents of shock as the ancient form of Alpha Trion was revealed beneath the debris.

The old mech’s optics were offline, but his spark still faintly glimmered. Orion didn’t hesitate, grabbing an energon ration from his compartment, going up to the tip of his pedes, and gently tilting it into Alpha Trion’s mouth.

“Wake up,” Orion muttered under his breath. “Come on, come on.”

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, Alpha Trion’s optics flickered faintly. His frame jerked, his optics snapping online fully as he sat up with a sharp intake.

“QUINTESSON AMBUSH!” Alpha Trion roared, his voice echoing through the chamber. “—UNDER ATTACK!”

“Whoa, whoa, WHOA!” B-127 yelped, darting out of the way as the old Prime flailed, nearly toppling over.

Elita, who was originally gaping, moved quickly to steady him. “Stand down! There aren’t any Quintessons anymore, the war’s over!”

Alpha Trion squinted at them, clearly disoriented. “What? Then...” He glanced around at all of them. “—Who are all of you? Where are your cogs?”

D-16 stepped forward, cautious. “We—we’re cogless miners. From Iacon.”

Trion frowned, shaking his helm, “No, that—” He cut himself off, optics widening in horror as he glanced from one downed Prime to another before landing on Orion specifically and his optics narrowed at Orion, who froze under his scrutinizing gaze.

Then Alpha Trion cocked his helm to the side, and sniffed.

Oh no. 

Oh no.

Orion blanched, distinctly remembering what happened last time the Prime had started sniffing at him and tried discreetly backing away.

Unfortunately, the ancient Prime transformed into his beast alt-mode and had immediately strode toward him, sniffing at Orion with an unnerving intensity. His optics gleamed with something like wonder, “..Primeling.” He finally rumbled, “You are the Primeling.”

Orion paused. What?

He was expecting to be accused of. Well. Interfacing with Sentinel Prime again. Why did Alpha Trion change what he said?

And then he panicked. He couldn’t say he probably smelled like a “Primeling” because he had the Matrix before he went back in time! Maybe Alpha Trion would believe him like he did in the past—first time loop???—but the others? His processor felt too scrambled to properly think of potential scenarios, but he’s pretty sure he’d immediately get sent to Ratchet.

Just play dumb, Pax.

“Well,” Orion said, optic twitching, “Um. Yes?” 

Internally, Orion beat himself in the helm with a rebar. DUDE NO YOU DOOFUS PLAY DUMB THE OTHER WAY AND DENY!

“I mean no! No, no—“ Orion said frantically, waving his servos around.

“What.” D-16 stated flatly. Bee and Elita shared a similar incredulous  expression, but Bee seemed more excited.

“Look, that’s not important right now!” Orion blurted, waving his servos frantically. “I didn’t—he—I mean—it’s complicated?”

“I feel as though finding that you are the unknown Primeling of Megatronus and Prima Prime, the sparkling thought to be dead, is, in fact, important,” Alpha Trion said dryly, “and not too complicated to understand.”

Orion's processor stalled. He was the unknown what of who now???

Dee suddenly turned to Orion and then gripped his shoulders, seemingly peeved, excited, jealous, and awestruck all at once. “Your Sire is MEGATRONUS PRIME!?”

“No! I don’t have a Sire!” Orion sputtered. He discreetly attempted to take a step back, only to find himself pinned, with D-16’s servos still firmly gripping Orion’s shoulders.

“Don’t lie to me, Pax,” D-16 growled—and oh boy Orion Pax was learning new things about himself that he didn’t want to—though his tone was more incredulous than angry. “This explains so fragging much—Primeling of Megatronus and Prima!? That’s why you’re all. You!”

Now what the frag was that supposed to mean!? Orion wasn’t sure if he should be offended or not, but he glared anyway.

“Me? Me?!” Orion squawked, flailing his servos as if he could physically toss the accusations away. “Dude, I don’t know what he’s talking about! I think he’s confused—he just woke up, you know? Probably seeing things! Ancient circuits and all that!”

“Ancient circuits?” Alpha Trion growled, “I am not confused, young one. Your spark sings of their union.”

“Okay, no," Orion said, starting to feel like the only sane one here, “that’s not a thing. Sparks don’t sing. They can flicker though—sign of old age and whatnot—uh—not that you're old, old—???”

D-16, still holding Orion’s shoulders in an uncomfortably tight grip, leered closer, his optics narrowing. “Uh huh.”

Orion nearly screamed when his cooling fans kicked on, and he pointedly leaned away. “Nuh uh?? Okay, look, Dee, pal, best buddy, homeslice, we’re all tired, yeah? And Alpha Trion just woke up after Primus knows how long, so maybe he’s confused. You know, old processors and all that—”

“I assure you,” Alpha Trion interrupted with an imperious glare, “I am not confused. You are exactly what I say you are. Not enough with accusing me of senility."

“I didn't mean to—?! Oh Primus, help me,” Orion muttered under his breath, trying to squirm out of D-16’s iron grip. “Dee, my absolute best buddy, please let go before you break my shoulders. You know miners don’t get free Frame-Care with damages from anything other than mining.”

D-16 decidedly did not let go. Instead, he stared. Orion's cooling fans went up a level at the scrutiny and he desperately wanted to punt himself in the face for all the things his processor was imagining of his Amica Endura. “Orion, if this is true—if, then why didn’t you say anything?”

“What, the Frame-Care thing?” Orion laughed nervously, avoiding optic contact. “I mean—usually most no-cog miners know about that stuff, Dee.”

D-16’s grip tightened, his optics boring into Orion’s. “You know what I’m talking about, Pax.”

Bee gave Orion a pitying look. “Even Steve can come up with a better distraction than that!!”

Oh Primus no. Orion snapped his helm so he could look at Bee. “Do NOT talk about Steve,” Orion hissed, his optics flickering with barely concealed panic before belatedly realizing that the whole Cheating-On-Steve thing didn't happen—in this time-line. 

B-127 looked indignant, but before he could retort about his apparent homicide, Elita butt into the conversation, gesturing at Bee. “You. You mentioned Pax killing.. Steve? A while ago?”

Bee shrugged. “He’s foreign! And now beheaded, I guess!”

Elita looked aghast. “Pax, you actually killed a mech!?”

Alpha Trion tilted his helm, before nodding decisively. “Ah, yes. I see that Megatronus Prime’s heritage is showing.”

Orion made a strangled noise. “Steve isn’t real!”

Bee looked scandalized, now. “You made him lose energon!!”

Trion transformed back into his root mode, now towering over the rest of them. He raised an optic ridge. “If it can bleed, it can live, in essence denoting that it can die.”

If Orion Pax had the physical mobility to, he’d shove his helm in his servos and scream. Unfortunately, because of Dee, who for some Primus saken reason won’t stop staring, he couldn’t, so he resolved to keep desperately trying to defend himself. A losing battle, really. “I did not. Murder. Steve. I am not. A Primeling.”

Alpha Trion’s optics narrowed in deep contemplation. “Your denial is expected. Humility is a virtue as the descendant of Prima.”

That’s it. Orion was sure he'd short-circuited and died and this was all some sort of purgatory that Primus subjected him to.

And then he felt digits on his cheeks. His helm was suddenly turned, and he was forced to stare at D-16 again. 

Dsjgkgjvkslw???

Orion’s cooling fans were at max speed now. “Heeyyyyy Dee—”

It’s not fair. None of this is fair. He’s too hot for his own good. Platonically, of course, because who doesn’t find their friends hot?? Orion Pax reasoned with his dwindling sanity, like a normal mech.

“Pax.” D-16 barked, his voice cutting through whatever half-baked excuse Orion was going to come up with. His expression softened just enough to betray the sliver of hurt that lingered beneath his frustration. “Pax, we—we're each other's Amica Endurae, aren't we? Why wouldn’t you tell me about this?”

“Because I have nothing to tell!” Orion insisted, a little exasperated. “I’m not a Primeling, I’m not descended from anyone important, and you all are jumping to conclusions!”

“Yeah, sure, Pax. I think I’d trust Alpha Trion’s word better than yours, of all mechs,” Elita snorted, and Orion dutifully ignored the twinge of hurt that comment caused. Elita barreled on, “But if you were a direct descendant, how?” Elita demanded, stepping forward and folding her servos across her chassis. “That doesn’t even make sense. They’ve died VORNS ago.” She glanced at Orion suspiciously. “Unless you’ve been keeping secrets.”

“Hey, Orion?” Bee interrupted, looking genuinely confused. “By the way—and like the whole Megatronus-is-your-Sire-thing is cool and all—but like, how did you know where Alpha Trion was?”

Orion froze.

Primus-fragging-son-of-a-glitch.

“Uhm,” he said eloquently, processor scrambling for a plausible explanation. “Lucky guess?”

“Confidently walkin’ toward a big pile of rubble and immediately hauling rocks off of Trion is a 'lucky guess'.” D-16 asked flatly.

“Yes, exactly! And,” Orion not-so-smoothly deflected and finally managed to wrench himself out of Dee’s grip to gesture at Trion. “Look, can we focus on the important things? Like the Quintesson thing you mentioned?”

Alpha Trion raised an optic ridge. “I said no such thing.”

“Yes? Yes you did???” Is this real. Is any of this actually happening. “You woke up from stasis and immediately started yelling about the Quintessons???”

The ancient Prime tilted his helm, his optics narrowing thoughtfully. “Curious,” he murmured. “You speak of events as though you’ve lived them before… yet that would be impossible. Unless—”

Orion’s spark seized and he shook his helm, frantically making a servo chopping motion. “No!”

The others glanced back at him in confusion. Alpha Trion’s optics gleamed with sharp interest. “Ah. I see.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“NO, YOU REALLY DON’T.”

D-16 pinched the bridge of his olfactory ridge with an audible sigh. “Pax, please. For once in your life, stop digging yourself into deeper holes.”

“I’M NOT DIGGING!” Orion snapped. “I’M—” He paused, closing his optics and taking an exaggerated slow venting. “I’m. Not. A. Primeling.”

Dee looked back at him with an expression of frustration that made Orion’s tanks churn with unease.

But he didn’t have time to process that, because Alpha Trion was stepping forward and leaned downward so only Orion could hear, his optics gleaming with far too much knowing amusement for Orion’s liking.

“Primeling,” the ancient mech rumbled, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone, “your secrets—your abilities that come with being a Primeling—are safe with me. Based on your reaction to what I have not had the chance to say, is it time-relevant?”

“I don’t have anything!” Orion hissed through grit dentae, his optics darting nervously to the others. “And stop calling me that!”

Alpha Trion sighed, finally relenting, to Orion’s relief. He shook his helm and straightened his frame, as though dismissing an internal debate. “Very well, Primeling,” he muttered, his voice heavy with resignation but tinged with a trace of fondness.

Before anyone could respond, Alpha Trion raised his servo, and four faintly glowing cogs, each surrounded by a metallic dust, emerged from the air itself. The cogs floated effortlessly, their surfaces etched with ancient patterns that seemed to hum with latent power. Orion recognized one of them being Prima Prime’s.

The others watched with wide optics, awe and disbelief painted across their expressions. Orion, tried to seem as awestruck as they are, but he’s gone through this twice—three times, if you counted the Matrix.

“All Cybertronians are born with cogs,” Alpha Trion began, his tone both reverent and grave. “They are the essence of what we are, the conduits of our connection to Primus himself. I have my… suspicions, about what happened to your original cogs and where they might have ended up,” he said darkly, but continued, “But these are the cogs of fallen Primes—Prima, Micronus, Onyx, Alchemist. Their sparks may have departed long ago, but their strength, their legacy, will live on through you.”

As Alpha Trion gestured, the cogs shot forward, spiraling toward their intended recipients. The sound of shifting metal echoed through the chamber.

All of them stiffened when their plating shifted and expanded, their new frames gleaming as new panels locked into place with satisfying precision. “This is so COOL!” Bee whispered, awestruck. “I wish the gang could see this!!!”

Orion stood still, watching with a faint smile as the others marveled at their transformations. 

His optics flicked towards D-16, and he did a double take. For a moment, their gazes met, and D-16 frowned slightly, as if considering something. 

The dust settled, the chamber now quiet save for the faint hum of their upgraded frames. 

D-16 startled, as if realizing something, and then crossed his servos, optics narrowing in confusion. “Wait, wait—Alpha Trion, you said you had suspicions about where our cogs had gone. We were born cogless, though.”

Alpha Trion froze mid-thought, his optics flashing with confusion. “What?”

Orion spoke up, reminding Trion of what Dee had said earlier. “We’re cogless miners. From Iacon.”

Alpha Trion’s expression darkened, disbelief flickering across his features. “Miners… why?”

Elita stepped forward. “We’ve had to drill for energon ever since it stopped flowing.”

“Impossible!” Alpha Trion exclaimed, his servo curling into a fist.

D-16 turned toward Orion, an expectant look in his optics. Orion blinked and then realized that this was the part he’d explained. 

Orion’s optics shifted briefly to the ground before meeting Alpha Trion’s gaze. “That’s why we’re here. If we can find the Matrix of Leadership and bring it to Sentinel, the energon can start flowing again.” His voice remained steady, though his thoughts churned, the thought of giving the Matrix to Sentinel was.. eugh.

Alpha Trion’s frame stiffened, his voice a low growl. “Sentinel is no Prime.”

Bee’s helm snapped up in confusion. “What??”

D-16’s optics blazed with confusion and anger. “Sentinel is our protector! He’s been saving us from the Quintessons ever since the day—”

“You have not been saved,” Alpha Trion interrupted, his voice sharp as steel. “You have all been living a lie. I have seen the truth with my own optics. Come.”

And suddenly, metallic dust surrounded them.

The dust gradually settled, revealing all of them frozen in shock—except for Orion, who stood silently, his expression unreadable.

D-16’s optics darted between the others before settling on the ground, his fists clenching and unclenching. His expression was nothing short of a storm. Orion glanced at him out of the corner of his optic, his spark sinking at the familiar anger that had eventually born Megatron.

D-16 finally broke the silence, his voice low and trembling. “Every single day of my life has been… a lie?”

Orion watched him closely.

D-16’s voice grew harsher, filled with rising fury. “He deceived… everyone.”

Elita’s voice cut in, tense and biting. “Sentinel bought himself power, then put us to work paying off his debt.”

Bee shook his helm, his tone almost desperate. “I can’t believe—well, I can, I just… I just saw it. But. What..?”

Alpha Trion stayed silent, watching them all carefully.

D-16 turned toward Orion abruptly, his steps purposeful, his frame thrumming with barely contained fury. His expression twisted into something sharp and seething. The optics Orion had been used to burning vibrant gold now seared with a molten orange glow, brighter and more feral with each step as D-16 closed the distance between them. If Orion blurred his optics, they would almost seem red.

“You just had to do it, didn’t you?!” D-16’s voice was sharp, the words flung like loose shrapnel.

Orion flinched, his vents hitching unevenly. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. His optics immediately darted downward—his frame felt locked up and rigid. He remembered this part. The “original” timeline. This moment. This turning point.

Hello, Megatron.

D-16 was trembling now, and he laughed, cold. “You just had to go to the surface! Had to enter the Iacon 5000! You just had to break protocol!”

Orion resisted the urge to curl into a ball. Dee wasn't wrong, he had done those things and—and maybe it would be better if he just didn't speak.

Another flashback. 'Don't you want to stop him??' 'NO I WANT TO KILL HIM.'

He'd just make it worse. Like he always did.

Bee hesitated. “Um, Dee?” He ventured cautiously, his servos half-raised in a placating gesture. For once, even he seemed unsure. “Maybe you should—”

“And nothing bad happens WHEN YOU STAY. ON. PROTOCOL!” D-16 thundered, cutting him off. His fury drowned out the faint murmur of Bee’s protest.

Orion’s frame shook. His servos, clenched so tightly that it ached, trembled under the pressure. But he still didn’t move. He still didn’t speak.

He couldn’t. Dee deserved this much, right? To be so angry with him?

“And that’s the whole thing, isn’t it?” D-16 continued, his tone shifting into something colder, sharper. Each word dripped with derision, each syllable another bolt into Orion’s spark. “You’re never thinking about anyone else. Just yourself!” His vents heaved as his words grew louder, rawer, cracking under the force of his own voice. “Fantastic! Another Orion-Pax-Master-Plan, I can’t WAIT to hear this one!”

Inside, Orion’s processor whispered, cruel and unforgiving, ‘He’s right, Pax. You ruin everything. You deserve this. All of this, is YOUR fault.’

His audials began to buzz with a deafening static that drowned everything out. Everything except D-16’s voice.

“It’s a wonder why I’m even friends with you.”

What?

No.

No, no, no.

The words painfully pressed against Orion’s spark. D-16 regrets being his Amica Endura? His spark clenched so tightly that it almost felt like he was dying again.

Orion sniffled, his ventilations hitching again, this time uncontrollably.

D-16 snapped his helm toward him, his optics locking onto Orion’s as if to deliver the final blow. But something shifted. D-16 froze, faltering. Regret and dread bloomed like a dark stain across his face.

Orion distantly wondered why D-16 looked so horrified.

To D-16, Orion was never a still thing. He was always constantly on the move, even when they were idle—shifting in his place, brushing dust off of Dee’s frame, fiddling with a nearby tool—even in stasis, his Amica Endura was moving in his own constantly optimistic and happy-go-lucky way. It was one of the Orion Pax Things that Dee kept close to his spark.

And yet, for the first time that D-16 has seen, Orion Pax was truly still. His frame was rigid and his expression was locked into something neutral, gaze somewhere far away.

And, worst of all—

Orion Pax was crying.

Chapter Text

Orion Pax felt like his entire world was crashing down.

D-16 hated being friends with him. D-16 had let him fall. He didn’t want to save him—who would? It makes sense it—it’s tiring. He's tiring. This isn’t new and he shouldn’t be upset. Come on, Pax.

There is something inside him that breaks, and Orion is only half sure it isn’t his spark. He sniffled again, vents hitching quietly.

Everything is silent.

Orion, optics still downturned, felt a bit self-conscious. His vents hitching hadn’t been that loud, right?

Even D-16 stopped ranting. The sudden silence pressed against Orion like an anvil, and, nervously, he risked glancing upward again. Everything seemed oddly blurry, but he dismissed it as another trick of his overworked optics—it’s not like he’d taken the time to recharge throughout all of this. To Orion’s guilty relief, D-16’s face no longer held any trace of resentment or anger.

But there was something else there in their stead.

Dread. Concern. 

“Uhm—” Orion started, but another sharp hiccup from his vents cut him off. Primus, that was annoying. He blinked hard, temporarily clearing his optics, but the blurriness only seemed to worsen. He glanced around at the others, hoping someone would break the tension, but no one moved. No one spoke.

The silence made him feel unbearably uncomfortable. There is something bitter that crawls underneath his plating at the awkwardness of it all. Come on, Pax, this is a new low.

Bee stepped forward, cautiously, unsure. “Bossbot?”

Orion snapped his helm toward him, startled by the nickname. “Yeah?” His voice came out strained from the odd tightness in his throat cables, making it sound smaller than he intended. Weak.

Bee hesitated, opened his mouth as if to say something, and then promptly closed it again. He glanced helplessly at Elita, who only grimaced in response.

Orion followed his gaze, his nervousness growing as his optics darted from face to face. Alpha Trion, though silent, had his optics narrowed at Dee.

D-16 himself wasn’t saying anything either. His focus was solely on Orion, and his optics weren’t orange anymore—they were gold. ‘That’s good,’ Orion thought faintly. ‘Gold is good.’

Then Dee moved, quickly reaching out toward him with a servo. His right servo—the one that Orion knew had his fusion cannon. Orion didn’t know what to expect, but his spark sank at the thought that D-16 might still be furious—furious enough to activate his cannon and kill him early on.

His processor raced, wondering whether or not it would be worse if D-16 lashed out physically or if he simply walked away in disappointed silence, and Orion braced himself, his frame subtly stiffening in preparation for… something. Anything.

D-16 noticed.

There is a pained expression that crosses his face. It is sharp and immediate. He paused. Then, slowly, cautiously, he reached out and swiped his servo across Orion’s cheek.

“I’m—I'm sorry,” Dee said, strained—his voice was awkward. Low. Unsteady. As if he’d still had the adrenaline of a fight left unfinished and it was dwindling without a proper outlet.

Orion blinked. Despite the warmth, he refused to lean into Dee’s servo. He couldn’t. He didn’t deserve it. “Why?”

Elita-One’s voice cut in, sharp and incredulous. “Pax, he made you cry.”

Orion stiffened. 

What?

“Oh.” 

His processor blanked out for a moment, and then scrambled to react, and he leaned away from Dee, instinctively reaching up to rub the tears of coolant from his face. “So?” His tone was lighthearted, dismissive. Desperate to move on. “That doesn’t mean he’s not right.”

Dee’s frame tensed, his golden optics dimming as his servos clenched into fists at his sides. He almost looked panicked, but why would he be? “No, no no no, that’s—it's—” He seemed to struggle with his words, “You’ve never cried,” he said, his words terse and his expression in disbelief. “Ever. I made you cry.”

Orion let out a quiet snort, a weak attempt at laughter for a humor unshared. “Hah—yeah right, not that you’ve ever seen.” His tone was flat, and his frame won't stop trembling. Orion feels guilty for the bitterness in his words but he didn’t have the energy to take them back. Why bother? Everything was falling apart already anyway.

There was a flash of what looked like alarm on Dee’s face at the notion Orion made—at the implication that it wasn’t the first time Orion Pax cried because of him. At the implication that every time he did cry, D-16 never noticed. 

Orion took a step back, away from D-16’s lingering servo. “Dee—look, man, I’m fine. See? Doesn’t matter if I’m acting like a sparkling. There’s more important stuff we need to do. And you’re right anyway, it’s—”

He broke off, his lip wobbling despite his best efforts. He grit his dentae and held his vents in, willing himself to hold steady—but then there was the sting of tears welling up in his optics and his throat cables feel tight and he feels small all over again. His voice was gruff and cracked when he finally spoke.

“You’re right. This is all my fault,” he choked out, his optics firmly planted on the ground. “I dragged you into this—into all of this. And I—” His voice wavered, breaking entirely as his gaze darted away. He reached up with trembling servos, desperately trying to stop the new flow of tears. Come on, Pax. For Primus’ sake, stop fragging crying. Stop being stupid. This is good. Accountability is good.

“Sorry, Dee,” he mumbled and forced himself to look at D-16 directly. To prove he was being sincere. He could at least do one thing right, couldn’t he? “Sorry for… not being a good fr—” He paused, and swallowed thickly, his spark wrenching painfully. “For—for making you be my friend.” ‘For making you be my Amica Endura.’

With each word, D-16’s face looked more and more stricken, and Orion felt despaired. Apologies wouldn’t be enough to make this all better, after all—to make up for the things he’d done wrong. He was just making it worse like all the stupid plans he went through.

There truly was nothing he could do when everything was already falling apart except to try being better than before for Dee’s sake. It feels like a hollow promise.

D-16 opened his mouth as if to respond, but before he could get a word out, Orion turned away. He couldn’t look back—it was selfish, but if he met D-16’s optics any longer, he’d start crying all over again.

He directed his focus toward Alpha Trion instead. He ignored the ancient Prime’s furrowed expression, ignored the gentle concern he could feel radiating from him. His back was now toward the others but his frame was stiff from the scrutiny they were probably subjecting him to.

Internally, Orion berated himself. That was so embarrassing. Get it together, Pax. There’s no time for this. Compartmentalize. Compartmentalize. 

Orion cleared his vocalizer with a quiet cough and straightened his frame, forcing his trembling limbs into something resembling composure. His voice, though hoarse, was steady. “Alpha Trion,” he said, his tone carefully light, “about the Cybertronian High Guard. Will they be able to join us?”

Alpha Trion hesitated, clearly reluctant to move on. “How did you know about—” The pleading expression Orion wore thankfully worked because Trion faltered, and remedied: “I will contact them. Or whatever has become of them.” He moved toward Orion and pressed the data-disk with proof of what Sentinel had done against his servo with a gentle motion, and then, stepping back, he waved a servo, gesturing for the group to leave. “Go on, Primeling,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Make your way back to Iacon City. The High Guard will meet with you soon. May Primus be with you.”

Orion nodded curtly, refusing to glance back at D-16 or anyone else. His processor echoed with his own thoughts, sharp and biting. 'That was so fragging embarrassing, Pax. Compartmentalize. You died to your Amica En—'

A pause. His spark twisted.

'You died.'

'There’s nothing worse than that.'

D-16 hated the quiet.

He was used to noise. The roaring revving of Cybertronians in their alt mode speeding around in Iacon city, the multitude of trains charging through tunnels horns blaring, the sound of footfalls around every corner—and in the miners’ barracks, there was always background chatter, the sharp clang of mechs in a play-fight, the charge of a drill, Ratchet yelling at someone in the medbay, and most importantly: his Orion Pax, happily listing out the details of his latest escapade (and, no matter how stupid it was, Dee would always listen).

Noise, like protocol, was a constant, steadfast thing for him. The reassurance that nothing is changing, that there is nothing for him to need to get used to, only to mess it up on the first try—that everything is normal enough to chatter through and things are as-is, like they should be.

And now, it was quiet.

At least, it felt that way to D-16. 

When they all got their transformation-cogs, Dee thought the air would be loud with the sounds of the revving and engines and rumbling of their alt modes whilst they sped through the metallic desert—instead, they hadn’t actually been able to transform instantly like they’d all assumed, and the air had been too tense to have a mutual talk to try figuring it out.

Instead, Bee was chattering excitedly with Elita up ahead about their newly cogged frames. And to D-16, walking right beside his Orion, his horribly—adoringly—annoying talkative Amica? The mech who, just a sub-cycle ago, casually talked about needing to jump out a window, nearly dying, and still sounding so happy-go-lucky?

The silence between them felt heavy. 

His Orion kept his gaze forward, steadfastly refusing to look at D-16. Dee felt guilt tear down his pride, clawing up his throat cables over and over each time he glanced over. His Orion’s shoulders were slightly hunched, his steps lackluster than they were supposed to be—D-16’s spark twisted at the sight. 

He did this. Of all mechs, Dee was the one to make Orion—his Amica Endura, cry. And, based on how he responded—it wasn't the first time. Was it always in secret? Did he cry when everyone else was in stasis? On one of the many solo-adventures he took when Dee refused to join?

Maybe if they’d been sparkbonded—his vents hitched at the thought—he would’ve been able to feel his Orion’s hurt each time.

He didn’t know if that made the situation right now better or worse.

The group pressed on through the darkening desert landscape, their footfalls muffled by the shifting sand. D-16 kept his optics trained on Orion, unable to shake the unease that coiled tighter with every sluggish step his Amica took. 

It was subtle at first, the way his Orion lagged behind slightly, his shoulders sagging more with each mile. His vents were cycling unevenly. His servos hung limply at his sides, digits twitching now and then like he was stifling the urge to fidget or stretch. 

And then, his Orion stumbled.

D-16’s servo shot out, gripping Orion’s arm just before the shorter mech crumpled completely. The momentum dragged him down slightly, but he held firm, steadying his Orion with both servos. “Orion!” 

For one spark-stopping moment, his Orion’s optics were offline. His frame sagged heavily against D-16’s, limp and unresponsive. Dee’s processor immediately filled with worst-case scenarios—overheating, frame failure, spark flickering—what if that conversation they had back in the chamber was the last thing—

His Orion startled back to life, his optics flickering online as he pulled himself upright with a wince. “Sorry, sorry. I’m good.”

Slaggin’ liar.

D-16 held back the urge to hold him close again. And perhaps keep him in his arms for the rest of the sub-cycle. For his safety, of course.

Bee, not knowing what had just happened, looked befuddled as he walked back toward them. Elita-One stared at Orion with a grimace, but Dee caught the barely-hidden sliver of worry. “Pax. Orion. We should stop for the low-light phase,” she suggested, her tone careful. “It’s getting late, and if we push ourselves too hard, we’ll end up in stasis somewhere inconvenient.”

Orion frowned, the corners of his mouth pulling downward. “I’m f—,” he began, but then hesitated, glancing at Bee and Elita—why did he look guilty? “Oh. Yeah, okay. That makes sense.”

D-16 knew that the real reason Elita proposed taking a break was because Orion looked exhausted. Emotionally. It was etched into his every movement. It was—

Disturbing. Uncanny. Quiet.

They found a small cavern not far from the main course, its interior just big enough to accommodate them. Elita glanced between Orion and D-16 as they settled in, her optics sharp. She tilted her helm toward B-127, who gave her a questioning glance before following her as she quietly led him toward the entrance of the cavern, leaving the two of them alone. Orion didn’t seem to notice.

His Orion was still, in the way he’d never seen—in the way he’d begun to hate.

He was sitting near the cavern wall, his frame stiff and unmoving. His pedes were drawn up and he had his helm in his arms. He was so curled into himself that, if it weren't so tense, perhaps Dee would've laughed at how silly he looked. 

He didn't. Instead, he moved closer.

“Look,” D-16 started, his voice low, hesitant. He barely resisted the urge to cringe at himself—his tone sounded too gruff. Too insincere. “Pax—Orion. I’m sorry.”

Orion didn’t respond. His finials twitched downward, the only acknowledgment given.

The quiet stretched uncomfortably. D-16’s frustration bled into his tone, sharper than he intended and he moved closer. “Orion—”

Oh.

Orion was in stasis.

D-16 vented slowly, before taking a hesitant step toward the recharging mech. He swallowed, before sitting beside him and—

Orion’s frame shuddered and, still in stasis, he curled into D-16, his helm resting on the taller mech’s frame. Dee froze, processor halting momentarily, before hesitantly wrapping a servo around the shorter mech.

D-16 could apologize later.

Elita-One sat on a small rock near the cavern’s mouth, her optics fixed on the darkened horizon, brightened by Cybertron's twin moons. B-127 stood a few paces away, nervously twiddling his digits. The low-light phase was quiet, save for the occasional hiss of their vents.

“Hey—um, Alita? Like, this is usually something A-A-Tron would do and I know we’re not really supposed to talk about mechs behind their backs, but—you think he’s okay?” Bee asked hesitantly, breaking the silence.

Elita huffed, leaning forward and resting her servos on her knee joints. “It’s Elita.” She corrected, but for the first time, she doesn’t seem tense or commanding like her demeanor usually was. “And—I don’t know,” she admitted. “Pax’s always been easygoing. A little awkward and very stupid, but never..” she struggled for a moment, face pinched, “—sad.”

B-127 frowned. “I mean, yeah! Even if—well I don’t actually like know know him, I just met him a few joors ago, but we went through, like, a LOT, and he’s been a pretty happy guy!” He rattled off, his expression conflicted. “And same goes for his boyfriend—well, I thought they were boyfriends—oh did they break up?”

Elita snorted. “Like either of them has the guts to even ask each other out—they’re Amica Endurae. Can’t blame you for assuming though, the two idiots look like they wanna be up in each other’s modesty panels on a daily basis.”

Bee gaped at the bluntness. “Oh—OH? Oh wow. Wait—then shouldn’t it be obvious? To them?”

Elita squinted her optics dubiously and thought of the many times she caught Orion Pax and D-16 being idiots. Specifically the day when Orion stole energon from Darkwing shoved the cubes in Dee's mouth, and D-16, for some Primus-forsaken reason, ate the cubes in one go. She shook her head. “No. They’re too busy goofing off to pay attention.”

Bee snickered. After a beat of silence, he spoke again. “Dee seemed pretty mad at Sentinel.”

Elita’s optics narrowed as she mulled over Bee’s words. “Can you blame him? Sentinel’s betrayal put us miners in danger for—for nothing.”

Bee shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah, but—I mean, I’m not a miner anymore, ‘cause I was promoted to waste management since I was so useful and stuff so I haven’t talked to anyone but the gang in vorns—but like, even I can see how angry Dee was earlier. Like, scary, furious.” He paused, wringing his servos. “I kinda thought he was gonna—”

“Don’t say it,” Elita interrupted, her voice firm. “D-16 would never hurt Orion.” Not intentionally. She added to herself, hesitantly.

Bee shot her a skeptical look.

Elita shook her helm, ex-venting deeply. “Trust me on this, kid. D-16’s not like that. He’s never—acted so angry, but Orion means too much to him. He’d never cross that line.”

B-127 groaned, his servos dropping to his sides. “I wish things didn’t go all bad so fast, I thought this would all be like—a really cool adventure and stuff! Like Orion talked about saving Cybertron!”

Elita smirked faintly, a touch of exasperation in her expression. “If only. But that’s not how things work, Bee. Especially not for cogless miners—oh. I guess we aren’t that, anymore, either.”

She paused, recalling what Bee had said earlier. “Wait, you were… promoted? Into waste management?”

Bee lit up. “Oh yeah!!! It was pretty quiet—well I guess not quiet ‘cause the incinerator’s pretty loud but—”

Incinerator?

“I’ve never seen you before, though. Which sector of Sublevel 40 were you in?” She cut in, frowning. B-127 didn't seem to mind the interruption and immediately launched into a long streamed explanation—Elita was, admittedly, only half-listening until another sentence caught her attention. “—sent down to Sublevel 50 which I didn’t even know existed so that was crazy—”

There was unease curling in Elita’s spark. “Wait—waitwait wait, hold on, there are only forty sublevels.”

B-127 beamed at her. “That’s what I thought too!! No wonder no one visited, no one knows 'bout it! At least me and the gang had each other, though. They're pretty cool.”

“The gang?” Elita echoed, furrowing her ridges. Bee scooted closer to her and, pressing a button on his right arm, and showed her a hologram of—

Scrap statues. Very obviously not-alive scrap statues.

Elita hesitated—what could she even say to that?—before hesitantly reaching toward Bee and stiltedly patting his helm. Bee looked extremely pleased.

Quietly, she thought back to what he said about being brought down to Sublevel 50, and wondered if that was just another horrible thing of Sentinel’s doing.

The two of them lapsed into silence, the weight of their conversation settling heavily around them. After a while, B-127 spoke again, his voice hesitant. “Should we check on them? Make sure they haven’t—well, I know you already said Dee would never, but—you know?”

“Offlined each other?” Elita stood up and brushed off her servos, snorting. “They wouldn’t. Let’s just hope the dolts aren’t fragging each other right now.” B-127 squinted and gave her a slightly reproachful look.

They made their way back into the cavern, the dim light casting long shadows on the walls. They approached the small area where they’d left Orion and D-16.

There was a pause.

Orion Pax and D-16 were slumped together on the ground, their frames tangled in an unintentional embrace. D-16’s larger frame curved protectively around Orion, his arms resting lightly on the smaller mech’s shoulders. Orion’s helm was tucked against D-16’s chassis, his vents slow and even. 

The two looked peaceful.

Bee blinked, his optics wide. “Oh. Thank Primus.”

Elita’s lips quirked into a small smile, the tension in her frame easing. B-127 glanced up at her, his voice quiet. “Do you think they’ll be okay?”

She nodded, her optics lingering on the two mechs. “Yeah,” she said, weary. “I think they will.”

Orion stirred slightly, his frame sluggish. There was a warmth that encircled him, steady and grounding. Instead of onlining his optics, he allowed himself a moment to slip deeper into his processor and think—just for a moment. Just until he had some semblance of control.

Unfortunately, his processor wasted no time dragging him back to the events of the prior sub-cycle. There is a flash of sharp words and silence and comfort compressed into a more-bitter-than-sweet memory file—his processor, to Orion’s dismay, automatically scanned through it, making him relive everything all at once.

He mentally cringed. Primus-fragging-slag. That was all a wreck. He was a wreck. A horrible, weak, fragging wreck. Score zero for Orion Pax. Again.

The memory of himself crying and messily apologizing to Dee hit like a punch to the spark. He could hear his own words stumbling out, thick with shame, and Orion grimaced again, the memory file twisting his spark into a tight, uncomfortable knot. No, no, no, nope, he scolded himself. Stop thinking about it. It’s done. Over. Move on, Pax.

His processor refused. 

Suddenly a section of the memory became forcefully magnified—he could feel Dee’s servo wiping the tears he didn’t know were falling, the words replaying on a loop: 'I'm—I’m sorry.' 

He’s sorry.

When Dee said this a few joors ago—yestercycle, at this point—Orion was too distracted and worn out to properly think about it. But now, for some reason, thinking back on those words made Orion’s frame stiffen. His vents hitched.

‘He’s sorry?’ The thought was bitter and unrelenting, now. ‘He’s sorry??’

Stop.

Orion’s finials twitched downward at the familiar heat of anger that grew in his spark, low and dangerous—the same anger he’d repetitively tried shoving away the first time he'd time-traveled. ‘Hard to believe he’s sorry when he literally kicked me aside to shoot Sentinel,’ he thought bitterly, his dentae clenched so tightly that it sent faint creaks through his jaw.

For a fleeting moment, the strange warmth around him felt too familiar and reminded him of the moment he’d been shot with Dee’s cannon—a hot, searing, angry thing that burnt his circuits and left his optic destroyed. 

His processor sped up, dredging up doubts and frustrations from the depths of his mind—it felt like a slip into madness. 

'As if Orion would believe Megatron when he was the one who let him fall.'

Stop—stop, no, no no no no that's not good.

His vents hitched again, and his exhaust pipes hissed. His processor was snarling now, prickling with rabid thoughts. Traitor, his mind hissed. Traitor, traitor, traitor—

NO.

Orion was reeling, desperately tugging back his line of thought, desperately pretending that maybe he was just low on energon, maybe he wasn’t actually thinking these things. Dee hadn’t even shot him yet, and he apologized for making him cry! And now he was pinning all the blame on Mega—on Dee—for his own fragging idiocracy!?

'Maybe he’d like it if he was the one blown to bits.'

Orion’s processor churned nauseatingly. What was the matter with him!? It’s not Dee’s fault he acts like he’s drunk on high-grade half the time! It’s not Dee’s fault Orion put the world over him! D-16’s anger was. Is? Reasonable! He deserved getting shot, he compared Dee to Sentinel!

And then.

Quieter, the thought he’d been avoiding whispered into his processor: But why wasn’t Orion’s say-so enough?

His systems suddenly flared. He panicked and tried to exit stasis—he was in too deep in his processor, he was unburying things that definitely deserved to stay dead—but again  his processor refused, his HuD blinked warnings at him. He painstakenly watched his own thoughts colliding with the flashing queries. 

SYSTEM QUERY:

WHAT ABOUT [ YOU ] , ORION .

SYSTEM QUERY:

DID [ YOU ] ORION NOT SPEND [ YOUR ] LIFE [ SPARK-DEAD , PRIME-REVIVED ] TRYING TO REACH PEACE [ UNITED ] .

Please—  

SYSTEM QUERY:

DID [ YOU ] ORION NOT SPEND CYCLES [ UNRESTED , NONSTOP ] TRYING TO SAVE HIM [ D-16 ] FROM HIMSELF [ D-16 ] .

No—no, no. It’s his own fault he fell. It's his fault he got shot by his cannon. It’s Orion’s fault for making Dee the way he was in the first place.

SYSTEM QUERY:

REPLAY MEMORY FILE; AUDIO:

“I’d transform into a shovel and beat you.”

He would’ve deserved it. D-16 was joking, but he still would’ve deserved it.

SYSTEM QUERY:

REPLAY MEMORY FILE:

[ D-16 PUNCHING [ YOU ] ORION ]

[ [[ YOU ]] ORION , WHO THOUGHT HE [[ D-16 ]] WOULD DEFEND [[ YOU ]] FROM [[ DARKWING ]] ] .

He deserved it.

SYSTEM QUERY:

REPLAY MEMORY FILE:

[ D-16 PLACING BLAME [ YELLING / SCOFFING / INCREDULITY / INSULTING ] ON [ YOU ] REGARDLESS OF HIS [[ D-16 ]] WILLING [ AGREEMENT ] PARTICIPATION IN YOUR PLANS ] .

He deserved it.

SYSTEM QUERY:

DID [ YOU ] ORION NOT SPEND [ YOUR ] SECOND CHANCE TRYING [ WITH DEATH / WITH FAILURE / WITH DAMAGE ] TO SAVE HIM [ D-16 ] FROM HIMSELF [ MEGATRON ] AGAIN [ REPETITIVE / MULTIPLE / MORE THAN ] .

Orion Pax felt his frame twitch but still, he was trapped in his own processor. Stupid, stupid Orion and his self-induced stasis paralysis—

SYSTEM QUERY:

DID HE [ D-16 ] NOT PUT HATING SENTINEL OVER [ LOVING ? ] YOU [ ORION ] . 

Orion couldn’t breathe.

SYSTEM QUERY:

DID HE [ D-16 ] SAVE YOU [ ORION ] ?

His vents stuttered, anguish roiling in his systems like a physical weight. The longer he spent with queries flashing around him the more he felt like the moment he was shot all over again, with the sharp sting of being left to fall, discarded. Orion’s spark burned. 

His vents stuttered again, louder this time, and he could tell his frame was shaking. Please. Please please please he doesn’t want to be stuck in his own helm he doesn’t want to face—

QUERY:

REPLAY MEMORY FILE; AUDIO?

“I’m done saving you.”

QUERY:

REPLAY MEMORY FILE; AUDIO?

“I’m done saving you.” Orion?

QUERY:

REPLAY MEMORY FILE; AUDIO?

“I’m done saving you.” Orion.

QUERY:

REPLAY MEMORY FILE; AUDIO?

“I’m done saving you.” ORION.

QUERY:

REPLAY MEMORY FILE; AUDIO?

“ORION!”

D-16 didn’t expect to wake up from stasis early, let alone wake up to a trembling Orion Pax who was venting way too fast than what was considered healthy. What the slag?! He immediately moved, servos grasping the mech in his arms and shaking insistently. “Orion? Pax, get up. Orion, you’re scaring me dude—come on—Orion, it’s okay—everything’s okay!”

His Orion startled awake with a desperate gasp. His optics fluttered before finally focusing. 

D-16 sagged with relief. Primus.

Orion’s expression was filled with nothing but dread. Dee’s own frame was trembling and he held Orion closer. “Orion, you scared the slag—”

“I’m sorry,” Orion interrupted, his voice strained and rushed, like he was trying to get the words out before they strangled him. “For—uhm. Waking you up. For being hard to hang out with. If—if you just give me a few joors, I won’t be like this anymore. No more scares. Promise.” He tried to manage a faint smile, his usual lightheartedness slipping through, but it was so strained. “You won’t even notice.”

The words hit D-16 like a blow to the spark. He let out a pained noise, part ex-vent, part growl, and his servos tightened on Orion’s shoulders. Asking about Orion’s stasis could wait—though he had a guilty sneaking suspicion of what it was that made Orion act so scared—right now he needed to make amends.

“No,” Dee said, shaking his helm. His voice wavered slightly as he continued, his grip firm. “No, that’s not—this isn’t—I…” He paused, sucking in a breath. “We need to talk. A while ago, about what I said—I didn’t mean it.” His words tumbled out. They sounded small. They sounded like flimsy excuses a sparkling would make—but he barreled on. “Any of it. The stuff I said—I was—I was so angry. But not at you, never at you—at Sentinel. At everything else. And I took it out on you, but it’s not your fault.”

Orion pointedly looked away. D-16’s optics darted to his finials—they twitched downward again. Well, if they aren't sparkbonded—his vents again hitched at the thought—and feel what the other was feeling, he could at least tell by using Orion’s finials.

D-16’s own vents hitched, his optics dimming slightly. He can feel his pride getting dented with each word, but it’s not enough, it doesn’t feel like it. “And you can—you can tell me all about what just happened to you in stasis later, but right now I need to tell you that I’m so fragging sorry. For making you cry. For—sayin’ all that stuff. I was wrong. You’re a good friend, Pax.” Better than he deserved. Better than D-16 could ever hope to be.

His Orion finally looked up. And for a moment, he simply stared. 

There is a flicker of something in his expression—maybe hope, maybe doubt—but it was fleeting. D-16 could see it clearly: his Orion didn’t quite believe him.

The ache in D-16’s spark grew unbearable. Without thinking, he pulled Orion into a hug, his servos wrapping firmly around the shorter mech.

His Orion stiffened at first, caught off guard, but then he sagged against Dee. His vents stuttered, and D-16 felt the faint tremor of his frame as he exhaled shakily. Dee’s spark tightened when felt the warmth of tears against his frame. Orion didn’t express any verbal forgiveness, but at least he wasn’t so still anymore.

“If you’re crying again,” D-16 said, forcing his voice into something gentler, almost teasing, “I won’t mention it.”

His Orion let out a quiet, watery laugh, muffled against D-16’s frame. “Shut up,” he murmured. He paused, his voice growing smaller. “A while ago. When—when you were ranting. Were..were you going to hit—” his Orion cut himself off, mouth clicking shut abruptly.

D-16 spark ached. It was doing that a lot these past few joors. He pulled back just enough to meet Orion’s optics. “No,” he said firmly. “I would never.”

His Orion didn’t respond, his expression unreadable—far away, like he was remembering something. He glanced away, grimacing. “Would’ve deserved it.” He said eventually, his voice quiet.

Dee gently bonked his forehelm against Orion’s. “Nuh uh. Shush. No. You are a good mech. You are a great friend and I am—I’m so fraggin’ lucky that we’re Amica Endurae.” 

‘—And that you are mine.’

Dee paused. What. 

He shook off the thought, brushing it off as nothing. It was noise. Something he was used to, and nothing out of the ordinary. 

And somewhere in the back of D-16’s processor, quiet enough that Dee doesn’t notice, there is something fierce that whispers: If there were any set of words less intimate than ‘I love you’, but more than what ‘thank you’ can provide, then I would say that over and over to you, my Orion, my spark-holder, my Amica Endura, my lo—

“I know we don’t really talk. Emotional talk and whatnot. And I know this doesn’t—fix anything,” D-16 said, his wording stilted, clumsy. “But. I want—I want to show you I’m not lying. I promise.”

Orion didn’t respond, but for the first time in joors, his Orion’s dermas curved into a faint, genuine smile. Dee held up a fist, and Orion bumped it with his own.

For once, Dee didn’t really mind the quiet anymore.

Orion would probably feel mortified at immediately getting close—no, he was not snuggling—to Dee’s frame if it weren't for the sheer relief of getting out of his stasis-paralysis. 

Dee was already out like a light, but his servos remained intact on Orion’s frame. Meanwhile, Orion himself was busy imagining a mental box with gigantic chains and shoving all the weird-bad-feelings-stuff inside. A box deep within his processor, labeled: DO NOT OPEN.

Said box rattled with the spiraling trains of thought he knew were trying to get out and had to bite back the urge to knock his helm against Dee’s frame.

Focus, Pax. ‘You already—’ He hesitated, his dermas twitching downward. ‘You already cried. That counts as releasing your frustrations, right? So you don’t get to feel this way anymore. You’re fine now. You’re fine. You’re fine. You’re FINE.’

Orion Pax has died. Orion Pax is fine. This is nothing.

Because if he wasn’t fine, then he was angry. And sad. And upset. And he couldn’t deal with those feelings because then it would make everything that happened real.

If he opened his optics again, he’d see Dee’s frame curled protectively around him. The thought brought a strange mixture of comfort and shame.

Dee hadn’t let him fall apart completely. He’d been there, steadying him, pulling him close. Their frames fit together in a strangely satisfying way—and he made Orion feel—

No, not better. Lighter.

QUERY:

ARE YOU [ ORION ] SURE [ ABSOLUTE / CERTAIN / CONVINCED ] ?

The doubt reared its helm again, and Orion immediately shoved it away. He tightened his hold on his mental box, forcing the lid down harder.

'Later.' He told himself firmly. Later, when it’s safer, he’d cry about it or something. When it won’t matter as much. When they can all just laugh about it.

For now, he let the warmth of Dee’s frame anchor him. 

“WAKE UP, MAGGOTS!”

“Anwjhw—aCK!—Yes ma’am, Elita-One!?” Orion jolted from his stasis and, scrambling, he tripped over everything and nothing all at once. His optics rapidly blinked online, trying to scan for whatever just happened.

Unfortunately, in the midst of his scramble, he had somehow managed to knock both himself and Dee onto the cave floor, and he had somehow managed to end up with his chassis squashing D-16’s faceplates.

“Asdjfwe,” D-16 said intelligently, words muffled against Orion’s frame. Orion yelped, bleating static as he quickly moved off of him.

Dee, now free of Orion’s weight, sat up slowly. He looked. Frazzled. Of course he would, he just got flattened by Orion's chassis. But he also looked—contemplative?

Orion, attempts to make a sentence happen. “Uh—” And then, as if this couldn't get more awkward, he and D-16 accidentally made optic-contact. The other quickly looked away, raising a servo to his mouth, and making a polite cough, pointedly looking at the wall.

“Glad to know you two dolts are getting along so well.”

Both himself and D-16 snapped their focus toward the culprit—Orion narrowed his optics. Elita’s own optics were twitching and her dermas looked pinched like she was trying to hold back a laugh, and Bee looked—for whatever reason—extremely scandalized.

Orion’s processor caught up to what she said, and he squinted. “Getting along..?” When he turned to look at Dee with a questioning glance, he did a double take.

Dee looked like someone had just slapped him with a virus. His optics were wide, his dermas were pressed into a thin line, and his servo was hovering near his face as though trying to decide whether to shield his expression or not. The sight was so out of character that Orion’s own embarrassment was momentarily forgotten.

“Elita…” Bee’s scandalized tone broke through the moment. The smaller mech shifted awkwardly, his optics darting between Orion and Dee like he was watching a particularly volatile experiment unfold.

“What?” Elita asked, raising an optic ridge and acting clueless. It was a lie, of course. No one who’s dermas were twitching upward so much was innocent. “I’m just saying, they seem closer now. Isn’t that a good thing, '127?”

Bee made a small choking sound. Orion’s processor stumbled over her words before doubling back in sheer confusion. “Closer?” he echoed, his tone more accusatory than he intended. “What does that even—”

He turned back to Dee, again hoping for mutual confusion, except. Dee was still staring at the far wall blankly. He at least looked more composed—except for the slight twitch in his right optic. Orion was starting to feel worried.

Dee blinked hard and coughed again into his servo, finally breaking his own silence. “Ignore her, Pax,” he said, his tone oddly clipped. “She’s just trying to get a rise out of us.”

“Oh, I don’t have to try very hard,” Elita cut in, her optics shaep. “Honestly, D-16, you’re easier to read than Sentinel’s lies.”

Huh. Orion Pax feels like he’s missing incredibly critical. 

Dee’s optics snapped to her, his flustered expression momentarily overtaken by an intense glare. “You’re not helping,” D-16 bit out, voice oddly strangled.

Orion blinked between them, utterly lost. “What in Primus’ name is—”

“ANYWAY,” Bee cut him off, his tone unnaturally high-pitched, “shouldn’t we, uh, be getting back on the road soon? You know, ahaha uhm—back to Iacon?”

Elita raised a brow ridge but ultimately let the conversation drop, nodding. “Right. Pack it up. We’ve got a long trek ahead.”

Orion shook his helm, still thoroughly lost, but he decided not to push it further. He turned back to Dee, whose optics flicked toward him briefly before darting away. Dee stood, brushing nonexistent dust from his plating, his posture unusually stiff.

“You good?” Orion asked, frowning slightly.

Dee hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. “Yeah—yeah, don’t worry, homeslice,” he said, with a strained smile. 

Hm.

He raised a fist, gesturing slightly—Orion, who's optic twitched at the nickname, silently made sure to keep a close optic on him, and bumped his own fist against Dee's.

D-16 has been through many things.

D-16 has never had Orion at extremely close proximity (ergo, he has never been so close to where Orion's spark would be. Ergo, his chassis.)

D-16 has had many things to think about. 

He thought of Orion's chassis again, contemplatively analyzing what it looked like from memory.

‘Oh Primus,’ Dee thought, with mild horror. ‘I’m in love with Orion.’ He realized, with much more horror.

And then his fist flew out and automatically punched the mech behind him in the throat cables. 

Orion didn’t realize anything was wrong until there was a sudden choked, garbled, “AUGH!” in the background.

The sound was so sharp that everyone jolted in surprise. Orion instinctively spun around, optics wide, just in time to see Starscream crumple to the ground, clutching at his throat cables. 

Slowly, his optics trailed to D-16, who's fist was still half-raised, and his expression was somewhere between blank and vaguely horrified, as though even he wasn’t entirely sure what just happened.

“Dee!” Orion yelped, his spark spiking with panic and his processor helpfully bringing up memories of Starscream getting absolutely beaten by D-16. And Orion, still in a panic, reached toward Dee and shook him back and forth. “What the frag?! What the frag was that?”

“Akjswf,” Dee attempted, his mouth seemingly not listening to his processor, but Orion wasn’t listening anymore. He was already crouching next to Starscream, trying to assess the damage. If he had a shanix for each time Starscream’s throat cables get damaged he’d have two—or, well, three.

“Ack—Primus, I’m so sorry!” Orion sucked air through grit dentae, wincing, and, reaching out to help the downed mech. “Are—are you okay? He didn’t mean it, I swear!”

“Didn’t mean it?” Starscream rasped, pushing Orion’s servos away even as he struggled to sit up. “He punched me in the fragging throat cables!”

Before Orion could respond, Shockwave loomed behind Starscream and effortlessly lifted him off the ground, one servo clamping around the winged mech’s midsection. The sight of Starscream flailing in his grip, screeching, was so absurd that Orion took the time to blink.

“Starscream,” Soundwave said, stepping forward. His tone was calm. “Control yourself.”

Starscream froze mid-screech, though his optics burned with fury as he glared at Shockwave. “Put me down, you one-optic brute!”

Shockwave, however, did not oblige, keeping Starscream firmly restrained as Soundwave turned to address the group. “We are here under orders from Alpha Trion,” he said, his voice smooth and steady. “The High Guard offers its aid to the Primeling.”

Orion blinked. He wished he was surprised. “The Primeling.”

“Primus,” Starscream muttered under his breath, still squirming in Shockwave’s grip. “We’re here for him, not the rest of you. The rest of you can go frag off to Unicron—”

Shockwave gave him a sharp, deliberate bonk on the helm.

“OW! You oversized excuse for a—fine!” Starscream snarled, giving up on escaping. “Fine! We’ll aid all of you. Happy now?”

Orion opened his mouth to thank him, but before he could get a word out, Dee, who finally seemed to gain composure, muttered, “I’ve only just met him, but suddenly I really wanna strangle the guy.”

Orion turned to him, giving him a flat look. 

D-16 sighed, avoiding optic contact. The corner of his mouth twitched downward as he reluctantly relented. “Okay,” he grumbled. “I won’t.”

From where he was still being restrained, Starscream hissed, his wings flaring indignantly. “I heard that!”

In the background, Bee had sidled up to Soundwave, his optics wide with curiosity. “So, uh,” he started, looking up at the taller mech. “I know everything about you—well, not everything, I know your names, but, like, what's it like being in the High Guard? Do you guys have, like, secret hand signals? Or cool code names? Ooh, do you even need to talk, or do you just, you know—” He made vague, wiggly gestures with his servos.

Soundwave tilted his helm slightly, clearly content to let the mech ramble.

Meanwhile, Orion had focused his attention back on Starscream, who had finally been set back on his pedes. The mech grumbled as he dusted himself off, his wings flicking irritably.

“Erm. So,” Orion began, turning his helm to glance behind Starscream. “Where’s the rest of the High Guard?”

Starscream’s expression shifted subtly, his scowl deepening as his optics darkened. “They are.. deceased. Courtesy of the Quintessons.” he said gruffly, refusing to meet Orion’s gaze.

Huh. 

That's two discrepancies in a row, now—the thing with Alpha Trion calling him Primeling and now the lack of guards.

And then Orion frowned, once the words caught up with him, but before he could offer any words of sympathy, Starscream shook his helm sharply. It was a clear signal to drop the subject, and Orion obliged, though secondhand guilt lingered.

“Alright,” Orion said after a moment, his tone carefully even. “Then we need to get to the miner's barracks and recruit the miners.”

Starscream froze, his wings snapping upward in disbelief. “The miners?” he repeated, his optics narrowing. “Those cogless mechs? What use could they possibly be?”

Orion’s optics narrowed in return, and there was a flicker of anger he was starting to feel too familiar with. His finials shot forward, standing at attention. “We were cogless miners,” he said, his voice sharp.

Starscream winced, expression suddenly pinched. Before he could stammer out a response, Shockwave’s servo came down on his helm with a resounding thunk.

“OW?!” Starscream yelped, throwing an indignant glare over his shoulder. “Stop fragging doing that!”

Elita, who had been watching the exchange with thinly veiled annoyance, leaned closer to Orion. “Are you sure you don’t want D-16 to strangle him?” she asked quietly, her optics glinting.

Orion sighed, rubbing his olfactory ridge. “No.” he said firmly.

D-16 raised an optic ridge—PRIMUS.—and, looking almost hopeful, he echoed Elita. “Are you sure?”

Orion gave him a pointed look before reaching over and lightly knocking Dee on the helm. “Yes, I’m sure. Aren’t you two supposed to be the reasonable ones here?”

Dee blinked, momentarily startled, before he huffed softly. “Fine,” he muttered.

Huh. No threats.

Starscream, still rubbing his helm, grumbled under his breath. “I don’t get paid enough for this.”

Shockwave, his optic steady and unmoving, simply replied, “You are not paid.”

"Your Carrier didn't get paid enough for you," Starscream replied petulantly before immediately ducking when Shockwave's servo came crashing down again.

Chapter Text

Soundwave trudged along, occasionally pausing to shake the accumulating desert sand out of the seams of his pedes. He was in the back, lagging behind the rest of the group. 

All of them had been heading toward Iacon on pede since the guard couldn’t exactly fly them all to Iacon—and, apparently, the Primeling and his friends were all cogless mechs courtesy of Sentinel before meeting Alpha Trion, so of them had ever transformed into their root modes before.

Beneath his battlemask and his visor, Soundwave grimaced. The concept of taking away a mech’s cog was, in and of itself, an entirely horrid thing. The thought of Sentinel taking the Primeling’s cog the moment his gestation chamber unlocked… Primus.

It did not seem to have any adverse effects on the Primeling, thankfully, but it left Soundwave infinitely curious on what happened when Sentinel ripped out Prima’s gestation chamber—not even Alpha Trion knew what had happened and how Orion Pax managed to even survive, or end up in the miner’s barracks at all.

Well. He reeled his thoughts back to their original point. Even if the newly-cogged mechs knew how to transform, it’s not as if they exactly could. Their energon levels were too low, so there was a high chance they would enter stasis-shock.

At the very front of the group were Shockwave and Starscream, who were occasionally—and begrudgingly, for Starscream at least—talking to the pink and yellow mechs behind them. From what he could pick up, they were talking about Shockwave’s time as Senator before joining the High Guard. 

In front of Soundwave was the Primeling, Orion Pax, and his Conjunx, the gray-white mech—”Dee”, he recalled the Primeling saying—walking by his right, occasionally glancing at the red and blue mech. 

It had been silent between them for some time now, and for a brief moment, Soundwave wondered why the two were not talking before belatedly realizing that they were both probably communicating via spark-link or internal comms. It was probably the former, since Soundwave couldn’t pick up any electromagnetic transmissions between them.

He stared at Orion, contemplative. If they were conveying with each other with their spark-link, then the Primeling wasn’t very invested—he instead seemed distracted and kept glancing up at the sky, frowning—he’d actually been doing that for the past joor, now. 

Soundwave recalled what Alpha Trion had vaguely mentioned about Orion Pax’s prophetic abilities...perhaps the Primeling had been expecting something to happen. He isn’t too surprised at the prospect—all Primes had been Primus-Blessed with their own special abilities, after all.

That did make Soundwave wonder, however: Orion Pax was the first direct heir of the Primes, rather than being born from Primus himself, like the others. Had that affected anything? Were the Primeling’s abilities spark-born or Primus-Blessed? Perhaps if Megatronus and Primus were alive, they would know.

If Megatronus and Prima were alive, the rest of the High Guard would not have had to die to the Quintessons.

If Megatronus and Prima were alive, Soundwave would not be—

He ex-vented sharply, extinguishing the spiral of thought. He couldn’t afford to wallow or reminisce about past feelings. What’s done is done. Soundwave glanced around briefly, and allowed himself to get lost in his processor for a moment, while there were no active threats he would need to protect the group from.

The sparring chamber was lit with a mix of bright sparks and electric charge flying through the air, rhythmic clangs of metal against metal echoing through the room. Prima Prime and Megatronus Prime were locked in a fierce duel, both having been given the challenge of sparring without the use of their alt-modes (and, to make it fair, without Megatronus' Requiem Blaster).

Prima’s Star Saber glimmered with an almost ethereal light, parrying the heavy swings of Megatronus’s fists. Megatronus moved with a forceful weight, engines rumbling fiercely in something Soundwave vaguely translated to ‘get out of my way’, his strikes deliberate and forceful. The two Primes were both evenly matched, though their styles could not have any been more different—it’s a wonder how they ended up Conjunxes at all.

Soundwave stood at the edge of the chamber alongside Shockwave, Starscream, and Skyfire—all were commanders of different High Guard squadrons. Their primary function were to ensure the safety of the Primes, but—

And they all watched as Prima suddenly leaped upward, clambering up Megatronus’ frame to bite at his helm like a rabid turbofox.

—Beneath his battle mask, Soundwave smiled fondly. He doubted the two even needed their protection.

Megatronus threw Prima off of him and Prima skid across the floor, sparks flying beneath his pedes, before he darted forward in a whirlwind of speed. His Star Saber struck against Megatronus’s arm plating in a flurry of strikes, each blow ringing with a loud clang—Megatronus shifted his stance, absorbing the strikes with a totalitarian resolution and responding with a powerful right hook that nearly knocked Prima off balance.

“Hnn,” Shockwave hummed, his single optic following the rapid exchange of blows. "It truly is a fascinating feat how unabated Megatronus is, even without his Requiem Blaster.”

“Fascinating for you, maybe,” Starscream muttered, his arms crossed as he leaned against Skyfire. “The rest of us are here to make sure nothing goes haywire. Even without the slagging blaster, if Megatronus lands wrong, this spar could go from sport to chaos—Primus knows what would happen if they allowed themselves to use alt-modes inside again!”

Skyfire glanced down at his Conjunx, a small smile tugging at his dermas. “You underestimate Prima. He’s faster than he looks, love.”

Starscream rolled his optics, snorting. “I am not underestimating a slagging Prime—I just don’t want to clean up any messes that they’re going to make.”

Soundwave, though fond of the two Primes, unfortunately had to agree with Starscream. He himself had spent one too many times having to clean up large debris and kick away broken weaponry rather than actually being able to train himself and his squadron.

Meanwhile, Prima grinned impishly, his optics shining with mischief as he ducked under Megatronus’ attempt to body slam him onto the floor and delivered a sharp kick to his unarmored midsection. Megatronus staggered back but recovered quickly, swinging his arm out in a wide arc that forced Prima to leap backward.

Megatronus lunged forward, his frame barreling toward Prima with enough force to make the room shake. Prima parried with a deft twist of his blade, laughing as he sidestepped the attack.

“You’ll have to do better than that, Megs!” Prima teased, his voice light and melodic—unfitting for someone whose blade was able to cause catastrophic damage if he wasn’t careful. He yelped and jumped upward in a dodge when Megatronus suddenly charged toward him.

“Focus, Sweetspark,” Megatronus growled, his deep voice reverberating through the chamber.

“Always,” Prima replied, his tone warm. He twirled his blade with a flourish, and he lunged again, his Star Saber a blur. This time, however, Megatronus was ready. He sidestepped the attack and brought his fist down in a calculated strike that knocked Prima’s blade from his servo. The weapon’s glow died away as it skittered across the chamber floor, coming to rest near the High Guard. 

Skyfire leaned downward to pick up the Saber and placed it somewhere off to the side. Starscream slapped a servo on his face, groaning. “These are our Primes. These are our Primes. At this point, all of us are Unicron’s Favored!”

“Oops,” Prima said with a laugh, crouching and posturing defensively, as if getting ready to fling himself onto Megatronus again. Prima tilted his helm and his finials briefly folded in on themselves before flaring open again, wider this time—ah. He was taunting Megatronus.

Megatronus growled and took the bait, charging forward. Prima pressed his advantage and leapt onto Megatronus’ helm again, but the moment he did, the large Prime threw his own body onto the floor and into a barrel role—the force that Megatronus threw himself downward with caused Prima to lose his grip and fly off, just barely avoiding getting crushed. Megatronus jumped from his position on the floor and landed behind Prima. His punches were relentless, forceful, and increasingly less and less restrained—Starscream cringed when Megatronus’ fist shot down to strike at Prima, only to miss and cause the floor beneath to dent inwards.

Finally, with a roundhouse kick, Megatronus managed to sweep Prima’s pedes out from under him, sending the elder Prime sprawling onto the chamber floor. Megatronus closed the distance quickly and pressed his fist against Prima’s chassis, scuffing the other’s metal with his own purple paints.

“Yield,” Megatronus demanded.

For a moment, there was tense silence. Prima stared up at him, his expression unreadable. Then, to everyone’s surprise, Prima smiled and went lax. He leaned back against the floor, optics bright with triumph despite his loss.

“Well fought, my Spark!” Prima said, grinning up at Megatronus from his position on the floor. “And—oh, by the way—I’m Carrying. Congratulations, Megatronus, you’re going to be a Sire! And a strong one, at that!”

The room froze.

Soundwave’s processor stuttered, the weight of Prima’s words taking a moment to sink in. He blinked hard as his processor recalibrated thrice in a row, certain he had misheard. A quick glance at his fellow guards confirmed that he had not.

Starscream’s jaw hung slightly open, his wings, usually held up in strict posture, were slightly distended. Skyfire looked genuinely astonished, optics wide and optic ridges high, a raised servo covering his mouth. Even Shockwave’s optic was brightened, and he kept glancing back and forth between the two Primes in disbelief. Prima himself was smiling glibly and Megatronus’ expression was hidden from view beneath his mask.

“What.” Megatronus finally said, strangled. He hadn’t moved yet, but his fist now rested on Prima’s chamber rather than restrained him.

Prima beamed, doing jazz servos. “Congratulations!” He repeated, like the himbo he was.

Soundwave resisted the urge to smack his helm. He wasn’t sure if he was talking about himself or Prima’s. Megatronus himself looked as though he were about to blow a gasket. Soundwave painfully empathized with him.

The war-framed Prime vented, as if to speak, but there was a pregnant pause before he actually said anything again. “You mean to tell me,” he said slowly, “that you did not think to tell me you were Carrying earlier?!” Megatronus’ voice was slightly higher pitched, incredulous.

Prima, utterly unbothered, idly brushed away at some invisible dust on Megatronus’ arm playing and flashed his Conjunx a smile, like he’d just talked about the weather. “You seemed like you were having fun! I did not want to interrupt.”

Megatronus stared at him, his vents hitching slightly. “Fun? You thought I was having—Primus above, Prima!” His frame was rigid, servos splayed, as if he wasn’t sure whether to shake him back and forth or pull him into an embrace. 

Before he did either of these, he transformed his mask away—Prima snorted, and even Soundwave had to choke a little bit of laughter back—Megatronus Prime appeared to be going through the five stages of grief in quick succession, his expression rapidly rotating between shock, disbelief, incredulity, and horror, before settling on a deep, overwhelming concern. Gathering his bearings, he quickly bent downward and helped Prima to his pedes with a firm grip, pulling him into his arms.

“Sweetspark, I do not particularly enjoy the notion that I have endangered our Sparkling! I threw you around, I struck you, I had my fist pressed upon your chassis?? I—”

In the corner, Starscream leaned toward Skyfire and muttered, “If you ever pull something like this, I swear—”

“Mmh,” Skyfire noted contemplatively, though his expression was amused. He leaned closer to Starscream and he raised an optic ridge, smirking. “Though, that is assuming you wouldn’t be the Carrier in that situation. Based off of our previous experiences in berth, though, I assumed you would—”

Starscream quickly slapped a servo over Skyfire’s mouth, face bright and cooling fans whirring rapidly. Soundwave logged that audio away under a file he labeled: Starscream Blackmail.

Meanwhile, Megatronus had been busy ranting, but before he could get another word out, Prima smiled, transforming his chassis open.

Soundwave’s own spark skipped a beat.

Oh.

His focus narrowed on the glowing sphere-like gestation chamber nestled just above Prima’s spark chamber. He couldn’t remember when exactly he had last seen a gestation chamber, let alone an active one—all mechs had one, including himself, but they weren’t typically shown in public. 

The sight stirred a faint pang of nostalgia—or perhaps longing—he quickly suppressed it, though. It would not do well for him to dwell on such thoughts.

Megatronus, for his part, was frozen in place, his servos hovering, just shy of touching the chamber, as if afraid he might destroy it. “You—” His voice cracked, and he quickly cleared his vocalizer. “You really should have told me sooner, I could have—”

Prima playfully bat a servo at Megatronus, but his optics glowed with warmth. “You would have worried too much and held back, my Spark. And besides…” Prima reached up to clasp Megatronus’ servo in his own, bringing it to rest on his gestation chamber. “Your strength is magnificent. You will make a wonderful Sire, my Megatronus.”

Prima and Megatronus stood together, and they both leaned in to—Soundwave looked away in respect and to give them some privacy. Then, Megatronus finally broke the silence, and Soundwave glanced at them again in time to catch Megatronus’ optics narrowing sternly. “You are not sparring with me, or any other of the Primes tomorrow. You and I will sit in our berth and you will not stray from my sight. And you will tell me if anything else changes. I would like to be there once the—our Sparkling finishes its developing stage and catch it as soon as it disconnects from your chassis.”

The High Guard all turned to pointedly look at Shockwave’s own rather impressive chassis. 

Shockwave glared at all of them and his left finial twitched irritably in a silent gesture of no-I-will-not-test-if-I-can-fit-multiple-gestation-chambers-inside-of-me-get-your-mind-out-of-the-gutters-you-illogical-fragheads.

When Soundwave glanced back at the two Primes, Prima was laughing, and he leaned against Megatronus with an ease that belied his station. “I love you.”

Megatronus just sighed. “I love you too.”

Soundwave forcefully snapped his attention back to the laughing guard. Unicron’s Favored, indeed.

Orion had two different sets of memory files.

He’d noticed it before, at the beginning of—this.. timeline, but to be fair, he had been too busy embarrassing himself and shoving everything in a mental box to firmly lock it all up to be able to think properly about the concept. 

Right now, though, they were all in their thoughts, silently walking toward Iacon City, the looming silhouette of its spires starting to become more visible.

Orion glanced up toward the sky, his finials twitched and he refocused his attention back into his processor. Right. Two sets of memory files: one of them containing every memory he’d made up until now—and the other one was a set of memories that belonged to this timeline specifically.

Did he have something like this the first time he’d gone back? Orion grimaced. If he did, he didn’t notice. He theorized that the file was created to act as a backup—but why would he need a backup in the first place..?

He’s not sure he wanted to know. The smokestacks on his shoulders hissed quietly in his discomfort. 

The memories within them were strange as well. They matched up with his “main” memory file—as Orion decided he’d call it—but there were more weird discrepancies and it unsettled him. 

He was ranked sixth instead of being at rock-bottom.

D-16 was the one who refused to follow protocol and saved Jazz using his jetpack. Orion carried the both of them out. Orion felt a little incredulous at the aftermath of that—Elita hadn't been demoted and Darkwing didn't punch him!

His and Dee’s recharge slabs were switched.

That was. 

Hm. 

Orion squinted. He’s not sure how he felt about that.

Did any other things change? He glanced up at the sky again—he couldn’t help it. Airachnid’s fleet could descend on them at any moment—it had happened in the “original” timeline when they were at the High Guard’s hideout, and last timeline as well, even when they had head directly to Iacon. What was stopping her from suddenly appearing again? Would this be another discrepancy?

“Remind me again why we can’t just fly there?” Orion’s audials picked up Starscream grumbling from somewhere up ahead, his wings twitching irritably as he stomped along.

Shockwave’s monotone voice cut through the quiet. “Tsk. Do you want to carry everyone, then? A bold decision—truly bold—but you’d get squished.”

Starscream whirled around, optics narrowing dangerously. “Oh, frag you!”

Shockwave tilted his helm, the faintest hint of amusement evident. If he had a face, he’d probably be smirking. “Illogical. I do not think your Conjunx would approve if you were fragging me.”

Starscream let out a strangled noise, sputtering. “You know that’s not what I meant, imbecile! Or did the Empurata procedure lessen your critical thinking skills as well!?”

“Hah. Wait, hold on—” Elita raised a servo, optics narrowing. “What the frag is Empurata?”

Oh. Orion’s finial twitched. The Empurata procedure was—

Bee perked up alongside her, gesturing wildly, “Oh, I almost went through it once!”

Record scratch. What.

“It’s for criminals,” Bee continued, unabated, “like, where they cut off your helm and your servos and replace them with—with, uhh, ah slag, forgot what they’re called—the thingimajigs that look like what Shockwave has right now for his helm and stuff—they were actually gonna replace my helm with Steve’s—oh!” He then gasped audibly. “Wait, wait, wait! Did you say Skyfire? As in, Zeta Prime’s Major Skyfire?!”

Orion’s processor felt scrambled. There was a lot to unpack there.

He glanced at Elita, who looked appropriately horrified. Orion winced—he’d read about Empurata, once, and only once—it was, in his opinion, not a proper consequence, but a weirdly morbid and cruel procedure done toward criminals that made it so everyone knew who to shun. With what B-127 said, Elita probably wasn’t horrified at the notion that Skyfire and Starscream were Conjunxes.

But now that he was thinking about it.. that practice was a relic of a bygone society and left with the end of the Age of Primes. He could understand members of the High Guard going through it, since they were all nearly as old as the Primes, but from what Bee said, Sentinel was still taking it into practice—and what in Primus’ name did Bee do to deserve even being sentenced to that procedure..?

Meanwhile, Starscream’s wings flared, and he visibly bristled. “How do you even—what does that have to do with anything!?”

Bee ignored him entirely, now bouncing in place, “The records never mentioned you being Conjunxed with Skyfire! That is like, so awesome, man! Did you sparkbond, too?! Do you guys have any sparklings?”

Elita looked a little strangled. “Bee, that’s—“

“Someone shut the yellow annoying one up—!” Starscream, flustered, lunged toward Bee, but before he could land on him, Shockwave caught him by his back kibble and yanked him upward, careful to avoid his wing-fins. Starscream flailed and gnashed his dentae, trying to get a bite in—Shockwave quickly put distance between them, keeping Starscream held in the air.

Their conversation spiraled, and Orion’s processor turned back toward the sky. He slowed slightly, his optics darting nervously upward—still no sign of the fleet. The sky was too quiet, too still. Was this another weird discrepancy?

“You good, Pax?”

Orion blinked, startled out of his thoughts. He glanced over to find Dee to his right, walking beside him, one optic ridge raised—frag that afthole for looking so cool—in curiosity.

“Oh, aha,” Orion laughed awkwardly. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, man. Totally fine. Homeee—bro. Homebro. Ha.” Back to score zero—Orion Pax was clearly off his game.

“Mm.” Dee tilted his head and he didn’t look convinced, but extended a fist—left fist, not right, this time—anyway. “I got your back anyways.”

“And I got yours.” Orion grinned weakly and bumped Dee’s servo with his own. The contact lingered, and Orion’s processor helpfully brought up how warm it had been when he cuddled with Dee and he choked a little. There was a small beat of silence before Orion cleared his vocalizer.

“So,” Orion Pax said, smoothly pushing mental image of himself and D-16 away, “The. Uhm. Er. How was your recharge?” He wanted to offline himself immediately after he asked. What kind of conversation topic was that!?

Dee looked equally reticent, his optic ridge twitching as though he were holding himself back from cringing. “It was. Good. I mean, uh, not like—good—er, I—you’re warm. Us. It was. Nice. I liked. It?”

Orion tried for a grin, “Yeah, I uhm—same. Same, man, same. Thanks??”

D-16’s optic twitched and he grinned as well, though it looked more like a grimace. “Your welcome???”

What an eloquent conversation.

The two of them fell quiet again, the silence between them charged and awkward. Out of the corner of his optics, Dee seemed to glance at him every so often, but when he turned toward Dee to look at him it was like D-16 never turned his helm at all.

Then—

“Orion—”

“Primeling—”

Orion shrieked and stumbled to the side, the sound high-pitched and alarmingly shrill.

Everyone jolted in alarm, and quickly turned—before pausing to stare at the sight before them.

Ever since D-16 had the processor-shattering revelation that he was in love with Orion Pax, he could not stop thinking about him.

Specifically, he could not stop thinking about his Orion in a brand new light.

Hold on.

His.

His??? His Orion. His. Orion. How long had he been—? It was so normal but now it wasn’t but it still is. But also it wasnt. Haha???

To reiterate, D-16 couldn’t stop thinking about him.

His processor had become overwhelmed with a multitude of memories, and he certainly wasn’t helping himself by re-analyzing them over and over, focusing on the intricate details of Orion Pax; details that only someone with far too much time to observe—and far too much of an interest—would notice.

Oh Primus. He was the someone who had far too much of an interest on Orion Pax. 

Orion’s optics, for instance. A bright and vivid hex code of 4BDADF that seared itself into Dee’s visual memory—he thought back to the first day he had met him. Those blue optics were the first thing he’d noticed and catalogued under his Orion Pax Things file.

Their color wasn't a static thing, either—like, for instance, there was a rare sub-cycle when light from the surface shone directly into the barracks. Orion had gone underneath that light, fascinated, and Dee noted that the hue of his blue optics shifted slightly to hex code AED5D2—another hex code he’d tagged under his Orion Pax Things folder without even realizing. It was almost laughable to him, not. How did he not know he was so—infatuated? What normal mech memorized specific hex codes of his friend’s optics?? 

And frag those new finials. He’d seen them on other cogged mechs before, and he didn’t think much of them, but.

But.

It wasn’t fair how much personality the finicky things added to Orion.

It wasn’t fair how demonstrative they were, when Orion already wore his emotions on directly on his plating—how they pinned backward when he was upset, perked up eagerly when something caught his attention, flicked ever so slightly at any small disturbance—Dee’s digits twitched at the thought of them. Oh, how he wanted to run a digit along the length of one, just to see. 

Were they sensitive? Would they twitch at his touch? Quiver, perhaps? What would happen if he held it in its place? What expression would his Orion make? 

Stop.

He could barely keep his new engines from rumbling at the thought of Orion Pax flushed—NOPE.

D-16 was going insane. No, no. He was already insane and he just noticed. That sounds right.

He’d catalogued the way Orion’s optic ridges furrowed in concentration when he was deep in thought—an unfortunately rare thing, because Orion Pax was not a thinker—the faint pout of his lower derma pushing upward ever so slightly. It looked. So. Hrhrgff. Biteabl—stop. Dee’s processor helpfully recounted the multiple instances his processor had brought up memories of the expression and how he had allowed himself to stare at it for longer than was socially acceptable, even before he had this realization. 

He glanced at another memory of his Orion again. And his optics trailed along his chassis and then lower and—STOP. HEY NOW. 

SYSTEM QUERY :

SPIKE: PRESSURIZED.

ALLOW [ SPIKE ] TO RELEASE FROM [ SPIKE HOUSING ]?

He blinked. And then blinked again, hard, frantically dismissing his system's queries.

Frag him. Frag his systems. Frag it all. Frag Orion, maybe. NOT IN THAT WAY. MAYBE IN THAT WAY. PRIMUS. ‘Come on, man,’ he thought desperately, pinching the ridge of his olfactory sensor, ‘you don't wanna pop your panels open in the middle of the slagging desert—stop thinking about him like THAT.’

He was a mess. 

As if to spite him, his processor zoomed in on the memories of what happened just a few joors pripr, how his faceplates pressed on his Orion’s chassis—so close to his spark. Even the shape of Orion’s chassis was infuriating in every perfect way. His red and blue frame was compact, still smaller than Dee’s own bulky build, even after getting cogged. The way his new helm framed his face, drawing attention to his facial features, angled handsomely. 

And then there was his midsection—slim. There was genuinely no other way he could describe that section of his frame. The way it tapered inward—it was so slagging small, he’d probably be able to grasp the entirety of it in both his servos and still be able to touch his digits together. 

Or would he need only one?

His processor lingered on that fact longer than it should have, and he painfully resisted the urge to slap himself.

Dee had also noticed how, unconsciously, Orion often mirrored D-16. It was such a small, almost unconscious habit, but noticing it now sent what felt like the equivalent of static shock through D-16’s processor. If Dee stood with his arms crossed, Orion’s arms would eventually cross too. If Dee leaned against a wall, so would Orion. If Dee was brushing dirt off of Orion, Orion would take it upon himself to start doing the same to him. 

His thoughts spiraled, every memory of Orion reframing itself, processor re-cataloging each recollection under Orion-Pax-Things-To-Look-At-Later.

He thought about Orion’s dermas again and analyzed them in great detail.

‘Primus kill me now,’ Dee thought mildly, ‘I kinda wanna kiss him.’

And now.

His Orion had landed squarely in Dee’s arms, his own servos clutching at Dee’s shoulders like his spark depended on it. 

On one servo, Orion Pax was in his arms. On the other servo, Orion Pax was in his arms.

D-16 couldn’t tell if he was Primus-Blessed or Primus-Cursed. 

Behind them, the blue mech with the red visor—Soundwave, he thinks Bee had called him during his long rants—the horribly silent slagger, stood stock-still. If he was fazed by Orion’s reaction, he didn’t show it, though he did pause as if considering whether to comment on D-16’s expression or not.

Dee turned his helm slowly toward him, optics flaring brightly. Soundwave wisely chose to stay silent.

It was a common thing for Orion not to think things through before he did them. Unfortunately, immediately jumping into Dee’s arms—and, wow, he’s strong, he didn’t even budge under Orion’s sudden weight—after getting jumpscared by Soundwave was now one of those things. 

Orion Pax stared upward at the sky for a few moments, taking a few moments to ponder his life decisions up until this point, before belatedly realizing he was still in Dee’s hold and awkwardly clambering down from Dee’s frozen arms. D-16’s optics followed him down, his expression unreadable—Orion distantly noted how he had hovered a little too close, but he didn’t question it. 

Orion was too busy not having a crisis. Because that didn’t happen. Orion Pax did not scream and leap into D-16’s arms like that. Everyone was hearing and seeing things. 

Including him.

Yup. This is all just a group-hallucination. Something about the desert making mirages in the heat. Yeah.

He painstakingly forced himself to make optic-contact with Soundwave—well, as much as he could with the visor in the way—and he also seemed to be forcing optic-contact with Orion. “What’s up?” Orion asked, his voice only slightly higher than usual.

Soundwave ignored Dee’s subtle posturing, inclining his helm toward Orion. “Primeling,” he began, his voice calm and even, “inquiry: what do you know of your Carrier and Sire? Prima and Megatronus Prime?”

Orion's first instinct was to deny it outright like he does with all the other nonsensical things assumed of him, but then he remembered that it would be a little strange to deny it right now, after everything that's happened, and that Primus apparently hated him enough that the mechs would probably insist on his heritage anyway.

“I. Uh.” He glanced at Dee, who was now watching him intently, before he shrugged half-heartedly. “I don’t know, man—I mean, I know them from what I’ve seen in the Archives? If you’re talking about my. Uhm. Own knowledge on them, I don’t kn—remember. Firs’ thing I remember’s waking up in the miner’s barracks.”

And he wasn’t lying—even in this timeline’s memory files, the first memory he had was waking up in the barracks. D-16 frowned, and Soundwave’ wings drooped, as though betraying some kind of internal disappointment.

“Uh.” Orion’s optics darted between them, thoroughly confused. “Sorry.”

Soundwave shook his helm slowly. “No. It is understandable not to remember your Sire and Carrier.”

“Right…” Orion said, still thoroughly baffled. “Yeah. Totally.” When he looked at Dee, he was still frowning in that horrifyingly familiar I’m-sorry-Orion-Pax facial expression.

Internally, he squinted. Why would Dee feel sorry for him? None of the miners had Sires or Carriers.

‘Wait,’ the geek within him scrambled suddenly, ‘this is the perfect opportunity to learn more about Prima and Megatronus! That’s why Dee’s sad that I don’t know anything!’

Orion’s optics brightened, his finials flicking forward with interest, “Wait, but what were they like? I mean, since I don’t remember them. Were you close to them?”

D-16 perked up and Soundwave hummed, his servo lightly tapping the side of his visor as though contemplating how much to say. “Megatronus… spent much of his time with the High Guard. He was kind. Patient.”

“Patient?” D-16 leaned forward, optic ridges furrowing in confusion. “Really? I thought Megatronus Prime would be all gruff and angry. Maybe a little filled with warlust or somethin’. Y’know, since he’s the—”

“—strongest of all Primes,” Orion cut in, amused. D-16 flashed him a lopsided grin and there is something familiar and warm that blooms in his spark—he quickly switched his focus on Soundwave instead.

Soundwave paused. He seemed to be doing that a lot. “Yes,” Soundwave said at last, his voice even. “He was the strongest. However..”

Orion swore he heard a faint ex-vent from Soundwave, almost like a laugh. “..If warlust were an actual title, I believe Prima Prime would happily claim that role.”

Prima Prime what now.

Orion froze, his processor stuttering for a solid klik. “Prima.” he echoed in disbelief. “As in, the first Prime. The guy known for his wisdom and gentleness?”

Soundwave nodded. “Still correct, though shallow. I assume that the knowledge of Prima’s full reputation in the Archives is… incomplete.”

“I mean, yeah, there’s a buncha missing info and the Age of Primes' all sorta just compressed together, but what are the incomplete parts??” Orion demanded, optics flaring bright. 

“He was judicious, as you’ve described, but also an optimist,” Soundwave intoned, humming. “He took advantage of every opportunity and was the fiercest in battle. His… enthusiasm for combat was unmatched, even when he had lost to Megatronus.” Orion nodded, processor quickly noting the information down. His processor also helpfully imagined a tiny minuscule version of himself doing happy backflips at the new knowledge. 

Orion blinked—D-16 was asking something, but he wasn’t paying attention. Soundwave shook his helm, gesturing vaguely, “Even while he was Carrying the Primeling, he insisted on sparring with Megatronus. When he refused, he would jump out of the window in an attempt of rebellion—Shockwave and I would have to station ourselves below the window to catch him.”

To his side, D-16 snorted, probably remembering the time Orion himself was ranting about how he’d jumped out a window to escape the guards in the Archives. Orion narrowed his optics at him, pettily imagining D-16’s face after he got punched by Darkwing.

Then Soundwave tilted his helm slightly, as though scrutinizing Orion. “You remind me of him,” he said after a moment.

Orion startled, his gaze snapping away from D-16. “What?”

“Your own demeanor,” Soundwave clarified. “It is… reminiscent of Prima’s.”

Before Orion could process this revelation, a loud familiar whirr filled the air, growing steadily louder. Orion stiffened, his optics snapping upward.

No.

Overhead, a distant roar of engines echoed through the air. His optics shot skyward, and his worst fears materialized. The shapes of Airachnid and her fleet darkened the horizon, descending toward them terrifyingly quickly.

“Ah, frag.” Orion cursed, his voice tight with dread.

“What the slag is—” D-16 began, but his words were drowned out by the screech of engines as Airachnid’s fleet descended, swarming them.

“Airachnid,” Orion hissed, drawing his arms up into fists. Soundwave’s helm snapped to look at him but he didn’t ask, instead positioning in front of Orion and D-16 defensively.

The fleet fanned out, circling around all of them ominously before their blasters roared to life. Explosions shook the ground, and the group scattered for cover.

Starscream’s wings flared, and cursed silently. “We’ve been tracked!”

“Defensive formation—protect the Primeling!” Shockwave ordered sharply, brandishing his cannon. 

Starscream transformed into his alt-mode and took to the skies, darting between enemy ships with a practiced grace that contradicted his temper. His blasters lit up the sky, and Orion’s audials could barely pick up the sounds of Starscream spitting insult after insult beneath the blasts.

Shockwave and Elita were somewhere behind him, and Orion couldn’t spare a moment to check what they were doing—not when the sound of cannon fire and clashing metal roared all around him. He sharply elbowed away a drone, sending the drone crashing into another before turning to frantically scan for his friends.

Just as he snapped his helm toward Shockwave and Elita, a flash of yellow shot into his peripheral vision, hurtling through the sky.

Wait—was that Bee?

The small yellow mech collided with a drone midair, tackling it out of the sky in a flurry of limbs. Orion laughed, incredulous. Did Shockwave throw him???

“WOAH! I HAVE KNIFE HANDS!” B-127 yelled, delighted. The mech clung to the drone’s back, his newly deployed arm blades flashing bright blue as he tore through the drone with an enthusiasm that would have been comical if they weren’t all bush fighting their afts off. Starscream shot toward him just as he started falling, and the two hurtled through the sky, slicing through their obstacles.

Orion flinched as a blaster shot past his helm, narrowly missing him but making his finials twitch irritably. He spun to see D-16 barreling toward him, a half-destroyed drone clutched in one servo. Dee slammed the drone into the ground with a growl, his optics locking onto Orion.

“Pax!” Dee shouted, running toward him as more drones swarmed around. A blast struck the ground beside Orion, sending shrapnel and smoke into the air. Before Orion could react, Dee grabbed him by the waist and yanked him out of the blast radius, lifting him off the ground and onto his shoulder before making a run for it.

“Ack—dude, let me down—I’m fine, Dee!” Orion grunted, wrenching himself free and landing haphazardly on the ground, D-16 quickly pulling him back up.

It wasn’t the first time Dee had manhandled him like that to keep him alive. Various memories of collapsing energon caverns flashed through Orion’s processor—of Dee dragging him away from falling debris, of Orion doing the same for him. He moved to cover Dee’s back, spinning to intercept an attacker before it could get too close, punching it away.

D-16 growled something Orion couldn’t make out, too focused on the fleet to reply. Orion glanced over his shoulder and saw Airachnid darting between the chaos, narrowly avoiding Soundwave’s sonic frequencies and nearly managing to behead the mech.

“I’m goin’ to Soundwave for a klik!” he shouted to D-16, who grunted in acknowledgment as he stomped on a drone. Orion leapt forward, his frame shifting and clicking as he transformed into his alt mode. Dee’s expression of sheer disbelief barely registered as Orion’s wheels hit the ground.

His engine roared to life, and he shot forward, weaving through the chaos. He managed to use a deactivated drone as a pseudo-ramp, and he vaulted toward Soundwave, who was being surrounded—Orion's smokestacks transformed into makeshift weapons, spitting sparks that disoriented the drones around Soundwave long enough for the other mech to take the kill shots. 

Pivoting sharply, Orion rammed into another attacker, sending it crashing into another as he drove back toward Dee, transforming into his root mode just in time to kick away at a nearby drone just inches away from D-16’s helm.

“You are NOT getting out of explaining how the frag you just did that.” Dee laughed, his wide grin slightly hysterical and optics twitching. Orion winced and half-smiled-half-grimaced, processor scrambling in an effort to find some sort of half-baked explanation for how transformed without any trouble, but—

D-16 immediately punched through the drone behind Orion with his bare servos. Sparks flew as his fist shattered its frame, energon spraying in a messy arc. He laughed again, high and wild, high on the adrenaline. 

Orion would have reflected on why his cooling fans wanted to activate at the sight if he weren't so busy staying alive. He spun to cover Dee’s exposed flank, deflecting a blast meant for the larger mech. Out of the corner of his vision, he watched Shockwave holding Elita by her pede and swinging her body in circles while she smashed at other drones using a metallic rod she probably ripped out of something. 

Orion grinned. They could do this. They were—

A shadow fell over him, and he turned just in time to see Airachnid staring at him. Her bladed-legs gleamed, her optics alight with predatory glee.

“Primeling,” she hissed, her voice cutting through the cacophonic noise.

His spark seized and be staggered, his optics snapping up to see Airachnid herself transforming into her root mode. Her frame gleamed in the dim light, her sharp appendages clicking menacingy. His plating crawled when her multiple optics locked directly onto him.

Orion barely had time to react before a blast from her gun turrets knocked him off his pedes. He hit the ground hard, and he struggled to get up, but—OW?! Her other legs caged around him, haphazardly piercing through his servos and pedes. Orion felt his optics burn with unshed tears, vents cycling harshly.

All optics locked onto his, and an uncanny smirk spread across her face. “Hello, lost thing,” she whispered maliciously. 

“Get away from him you fragging—!” Elita screamed, Shockwave having thrown her directly onto Airachnid, making the larger mech stumble backward. Elita’s legs locked around Airachnid’s neck cabling as she spun in a pirouette, upper body a blur as she managed to both dodge Airachnid’s serrated legs and take out two of Airachnid’s extra optics by shoving her digits haphazardly onto her helm. Airachnid screamed, a sharp and shrill thing, before using her actual servos to grapple at Elita-One’s pedes and send her flying through the air.

Orion had been attempting to get up, the pain of sliced circuitry making him flinch and wobble before she was on him again. Her movements were a blur, and though he managed to block her first strike, the force of it sent him skidding back onto his aft again, and he couldn't help but cry out when the pain splintered around his frame, making his joints lock forcefully. Airachnid sneered at him, servo closing around Orion’s throat cabling. Orion struggled, his servos clawing at her grip, but her hold was unrelenting, denting his plating.

Primus. What was up with mechs and wanting to strangle him?!

“Orion!” D-16 roared desperately, launching himself at Airachnid with that familiar fury he’d killed Orion with. Orion bat away at the thought—not the time. “Let him go!” Dee attempted to bodyslam Airachnid but her unoccupied legs easily shoved him off to the side.

The others fought desperately to reach him, but the drones were too many. Orion’s optics dimmed suddenly, his systems blaring in warning—frag. Frag, frag frag frag why were his energon levels so low?!

“Orion!” Bee shouted, his voice frantic and buried underneath the ringing in Orion’s audials.

Airachnid lifted the both of them into the air, her grin widening before she transformed into her alt mode. “Your Prime is awaiting.”

Orion’s optics flickered, his systems struggling to stay online. The last thing he saw before everything went dark was Soundwave sending blast after blast toward Airachnid—his visor and battle mask had broken, and he could see the stricken expression on his face.

“PRIMELING-!”

Orion awoke, he immediately dimmed his optics at the glare of light hitting golden walls. What was—where—

When he attempted to move, his optics widened in alarm at the chains surrounding him. What the frag. What the frag?!

"Ah, Orion Pax! Great to see you finally awake!"

Orion's spark dropped.

Sentinel Prime and Airachnid were standing side by side—the blue and gold mech was grinning, though it didn't reach his eyes.

"Welcome home, primeling."

Chapter Text

D-16 didn’t know when exactly he’d started loving Orion.

Well, he knew the exact moment he’d realized he loved his idiot—specifically when he had the chance to memorize how the grooves in the mech’s chassis felt against his face—but that was just him discovering his already existing infatuation.

Maybe it was the moment his Orion had stuck the high quality Megatronus Prime decal onto his shoulder? Mn. No, no. He remembered the strange, buzzing warmth lingering on his frame long before that occurred—the way his frame warmed in what he could now recognize as love whenever Orion was around.

Hm. Perhaps it was when they’d first seen the stars together. Dee had asked Orion about his designation, curious—he himself had been named after their sector after all, a fairly normal occurrence for a cogless miner. Orion had launched into a long winded explanation about the Orion constellation, detailing its history with a happy smile and excited twinke in his optics.

D-16 had just smiled, not having had anything useful to add in—Orion, naming himself after Prima’s Star Warrior, Orion Major? Oddly fitting, especially after their recent revelation (he still couldn't get over it, because what do you mean the mech he's helm over heels with is the sparkling of Megatronus and Prima?!).

Orion had spoken of other constellations, too—ones Dee had never even heard of that Orion had casually mentioned breaking into the Archives to read about. That revelation had been a conversation of its own, filled with a multitude of Are-You-Stupid insults and frazzled threats that if Orion ever pulled a stunt like that again, he’d be the one to offline him.

His Orion had just laughed it off and promised to only sneak into the archives during the low-light phase. A compromise that he broke almost immediately. The next time D-16 saw him, the idiot was grinning sheepishly, holding out a datapad filled with Megatronus’ biography.

D-16 had openly gaped and struggled to form a response—should he be grateful, or appalled that Orion had risked his aft again just to bring him a gift?

“I, uh, have this spot we can see stars without going into the surface, if you wanna come,” Orion had said, rubbing the back of his helm, looking genuinely apologetic toward the stress he caused Dee. “Thought you might like it.”

Dee hadn’t had the spark to tell him that his irritation had already melted away the second Orion had the courage to meet his optics and smile.

So a few joors later, they had ended up on the roof of one of the taller buildings beneath a narrow surface opening, stargazing as much as they could with all the smog floating around.

Orion had rambled on about each visible constellation, mapping them out in the air with vague gestures. Dee had tried to visualize the shapes, but it was useless. The stars blurred together, and honestly, he’d been a little distracted—he’d only ever admit this to himself, but the dim light from the opening above had cast a glow over Orion’s frame, reflecting off the smooth curves of his plating. He looked lovely.

Which meant that wasn’t the moment he fell for Orion, either, because what not-already-lovesick mech focuses on how the light hits his friend's plating just right?

Love at first sight was ridiculous—but still, maybe it had been their first meeting? 

Their first interaction had been a disaster, at least in D-16's perspective. Dee had been distracted when his Orion greeted him and asked him if he ever mined energon before with that charming smile. Dee fumbled and accidentally replied that, no, he’d never mined before—while standing there with a high-ranking miner’s badge on his chassis.

Orion hadn’t said anything. Maybe he hadn’t noticed, maybe he was just sparing Dee the humiliation. He had only laughed, holding out his fist for a casual bump like Dee hadn’t just outed himself to be a complete hopeless fraud.

Dee had assumed (and hoped) that Orion would forget. He hadn’t.

A few cycles later, Elita-One had instructed all ranks above seven to help train the newbies. Dee had done his best to avoid Orion’s optics, forcing himself to focus on teaching his assigned group how to properly use their drills. Afterward, D-16 had braced himself for Orion to ask why the frag Dee lied. Which is a great question! Because he didn't know either!

Instead, Orion just asked D-16 what it was like to be high-ranking. Dee blinked, momentarily startled, but Orion wasn't at all sarcastic or mocking. He just looked at him a little differently after that for a few sub-cycles—with that awed twinkle in his optics reminiscent of the stars they’d seen a few deca-cycles later. Dee wasn’t sure how to feel about the strange warmth that spread through his frame.

Huh. Maybe it was love at first sight. Or at least almost-first-sight.

The two of them got along surprisingly well, even if they didn’t know each other too long. Dee was pretty sure that since their meeting, neither of them were ever too far from each other, aside for the occasional solo-adventures his Orion went on.

And now, D-16 watched, helpless, as Airachnid ascended into the air, his Orion’s limp frame dangling in her grasp. 

D-16 was without his Orion.

Rage and horror slammed into him all at once—he needed to move, he needed to do something, he needed to—

He whipped his helm around frantically. Bee and Elita were helping each other up, talking frantically and glancing at the sky. Soundwave was a little ways ahead of Dee, frozen, and Shockwave was beside him, speaking quietly, a servo on his shoulder. Behind him, he could hear Starscream cursing gruffly. Was no one going to do ANYTHING??

He turned toward Starscream, who’s left wing was hanging limply—he was useless, he was USELESS—shoving him backward. “AUGH—?!” Starscream yelped, having had momentarily lost his balance before immediately striding toward Dee, sneering angrily. “What in the slagging stars do you think you’re doing?!”

“What are YOU doing?!” Dee thundered back, feeling heat spread from the right arm that held his cannom and then throughout his frame—how DARE he—”Aren’t you supposed to be the, oh, I dunno, the High Guard?! Aren’t you supposed to PROTECT Orion??!”

Starscream grit his dentae, optics flicking away guiltily and Primus did that aggravate D-16—why won’t he look at him in the optics how dare he look away how DARE he—D-16 sneered, engines rumbling lowly. “Tch. Figures. Why should we expect you to be capable when you couldn’t even save the rest of your so-called Guard?”

Any guilt in Starscream’s optics had vanished and his engines thrummed before he slammed his helm into D-16’s face.

The impact sent a sharp crack through the air, pain flaring across his sensors and his processor notifying him his olfactory sensor had broken. Snarling, he swung his arm, catching Starscream in the side. The High Guard member staggered, wings twitching with barely restrained fury, then lunged—servos splayed, aiming for Dee’s throat cabling.

Then they both crashed onto the ground together, rolling around and grappling angrily—D-16 felt a vague, far away sense of satisfaction when he managed to grab Starscream’s jaw and yank down, forcing it unhinged and broken with a snap and the other thrashing with a pained cry. He deserves this. He deserves this. He couldn't protect Orion. He's useless. He's—Dee barely registered anything else, it all seemed so far away—Bee shouting, Elita cursing, the sharp hiss of hydraulics as Soundwave and Shockwave moved—because his optics were covered in a haze of red.

Servos grabbed at him, yanking him back by his back kibble.

“Elita—let me GO—”

“D-16, stop!”

"Dude—!"

Elita and Bee had him by the arms, holding him back just as Soundwave and Shockwave restrained Starscream. The mech just stared at him fiercely, fuming, jaw bleeding blue and hanging taut. But there is a glint of fear in his optics that D-16 took roiling satisfaction in.

Dee’s vents hissed and shot out hot steam. His servos clenched—then, abruptly, he twisted free from Elita’s grip, shoving past her and lunging for Soundwave.

“Why didn’t you save him?!” Rage and despair boiled beneath his plating. His right arm felt like it was pyretic. He grabbed at Soundwave’s plating, shaking him. “Why didn’t you do anything?!”

Soundwave didn’t resist or fight back. But his battle mask was gone, and the thin, tight press of his lips was visible beneath it, a quiet kind of grief that he didn't deserve.

Elita grabbed Dee again, forcing him to look at her, face to face. “Dee. We aren’t getting Orion back like this.”

He shook, vents heaving. Her optics clicked audibly, circling clockwise and narrowing on him. Blue.

“Pull yourself together.”

Blue optics.

Blue, like the energon on his servos.

Blue, like Orion’s optics when he smiled—frag, focus, focus—!

Dee ex-vented sharply.

Then, without another word, he transformed into his alt mode and took off, tearing away from the others before they could reach him.

INTERNAL COMMUNICATIONS LINE

status : open

corresponder desg. : D-16

:: pax ::

:: Orion* ::

:: Orion when you see this comm me. ::

:: please ::

COMM-LINK STATUS : BLOCKED

If Orion weren’t currently preoccupied—or, alternatively worded, chained up and silently panicking because of how fragging close Sentinel and Airachnid were; ergo, two of the three mechs who attempted to offline him—perhaps he would’ve busied himself admiring the room. 

Because despite his current predicament, the habsuite WAS pretty. 

The walls weren’t the pure gold he’d assumed they were after immediately getting blinded by the room’s lustre.Instead, the paneling was a cream-colored metal, with thin strips of rose-gold alloys gilding the edges. Throughout the room were giant windows that allowed light from the surface to shine through, making Ancient glyphs carved along the bottom trim, all leafed with a pretty gold-alluminum intermetallic, glow with a sheen ever so often.

Orion squinted. The glyphs in question—Orion wasn’t fluent in Ancient Cybertronian, but he could vaguely interpret them as a constant repetition of the phrase... Enormous Throne?

If the little tail end of those glyphs were removed, it would translate into Enormous Tool.

Ha. That's what he said.

Enormous Throne..

Orion frowned. Wait a slagging klik. Those glyphs looked familiar—Orion’s processor haphazardly brought up memory files of what he’d read in the archives, rapidly comparing the glyphs he’d briefly glanced over. Enormous Throne. Mega-Tronus. 

Oh sweet Primus. They were in Megatronus Prime’s habsuite.

Orion’s optic ridge twitched. Hang on. Now that he was unwillingly thinking about it, does this mean that when Dee renamed himself, basically just called himself Enormous Tool?? Ergo, giant spike???

Then he forcefully refocused his optics on the two in front of him. Focus, Pax, not the time. Laugh at Megatron later. The room was suffocatingly still, save for the faint hum of Airachnid’s frame as she lingered in the background, her stare fixated on Orion. 

Sentinel himself was uncannily eased, stepping closer with that same disarming grin he’d greeted Orion with the first time he encountered Sentinel face-to-face in the medbay with Dee.

“I can’t believe we’ve finally got our primeling back after all these vorns! It truly is a relief,” Sentinel said, his voice warm. Orion felt sick at the almost affectionate tone, and he shifted his weight uneasily. 

Orion opened and shut his mouth a few times. Sentinel’s gaze was patient and unwavering—Orion had to force himself not to look away from the taller mech. “I’m not a Primeling,” Orion started, carefully, “I’m a cogle—I’m just an energon miner.” He faltered as he corrected himself, his words catching on his glossa, and he resisted the urge to cringe. 

Sentinel’s warm smile didn’t dither. Even when the point of his Primax Blade was piercing at Orion’s throat. 

“Hkk—” Orion’s vents seized and his optics flickered rapidly, his processor panickedly bringing up memory files of their last brutal fight—Orion getting strangled midair, Orion’s chassis caving inward underneath Sentinel’s pede, the sickening snap of his knee as the joint cabling snapped from the pressure and his knee was forced backward—

—FOCUS.

Orion forcefully shuttered his optics before onlining them again. 

Sentinel was standing idly, unmoving. He was still smiling, but his optic ridges were creased. He looked. Concerned?

The blade was nowhere to be seen.

‘What the frag. What the frag???’ Doubt began to curl uneasily in Orion’s frame. Did that actually happen or did his processor forced-trauma code itself or something?? He'd only ever heard stories of that from Ratchet, he hadn’t actually seen mechs with the code himself, but..

Ratchet grimaced. “Forced-trauma coding is.. complicated. It’s meant to be a defense mechanism created by the processor stemming from, well, traumatic moments, but it’s more hindering than useful. I mean, who the frag would want to see things that aren't there on the daily?

INTERNAL COMMUNICATIONS LINE

status : open

corresponder desg. : Elita-One

:: Orion, Soundwave’s trying to track your location. Hang tight. ::

COMM-LINK STATUS : BLOCKED

Sentinel shifted his stance slightly, crossing his arms. Orion zoned back in at the movement, and Sentinel smiled wrily at him. “You don’t know how hard it’s been trying to find you, y’know!” He chuckled, shaking his helm. “Guess it’s not your fault, though. Our systems didn’t recognize you when you were cogless—because, hah, well. Why would we look for a cogless Prime? But it does make one wonder…”

He stepped closer, frowning, his optics dimming until they were an eerie shade of blue. 

The dullness was reminiscent of the miners Orion had seen trapped beneath the rubble, their energon draining from their offlining bodies.

Shff.

Orion’s frame locked up, optics snapping to the side.

There were golden-armored guards surrounding the room. Their helms were set straight ahead, and all were eerily unmoving—they camouflaged perfectly with the background, and if it weren’t for the light from the surface shifting minutely and reflecting off of their plating, he wouldn’t have noticed them at all.

Sentinel stepped closer again, now, and his words turned softer, so only Orion could hear. He couldn’t see his face.

“What you said earlier—you’re an energon miner.” Sentinel paused. “And I’ve scanned your badge—handy little things, aren’t they? Orion Pax, 6th rank, energon miner of Sector D-16.” He shook his helm, clicking his glossa in mock disapproval. “Point is, you weren’t lying. That little miner’s badge of yours is proof enough.”

Sentinel tilted his helm. “But all energon miners are cogless.”

Orion’s spark skipped a pulse as Sentinel’s words hung in the air, heavy.

“So.” Sentinel continued, tone unreadable. “Pray tell, lost primeling. How in Primus’ name did you end up in the mines, cogless, of all things, and just where did you get that t-cog?”

Orion’s vents hitched, his processor scrambling for a response that wouldn’t betray him or Alpha Trion. He latched onto the first excuse his panicked mind could generate.

“Uh. I grew it.” PAX. 

Sentinel stepped backward a bit, and raised an optic ridge. “You grew it.”

Orion forced a tight smile—a poor attempt to mask his need to bash his helm against the wall. “Yeah. Uh.”

Sentinel stared at him, the silence stretching uncomfortably. His optics were pinned on him, his optics still that dull dead blue, his gaze flicking over Orion’s frame with something almost akin to amused pity. Orion’s spark buzzed uncomfortably, his thoughts racing for a way to divert the conversation.

Orion grimaced. “Er… You said you’ve been looking for the Prim—uh, for me—for vorns?” He paused, recalibrating his words and trying again. “You said it’s been vorns. Why am I only hearing about this now? I mean, I thought somethin’ like that would be a public thing, like—like, uh, when you talk about your search for the Matrix.”

Sentinel’s expression turned thoughtful. Holy slag. He couldn't come up with a better deflection?! Orion had to manually shut off his vents to stop them from hissing in distress, and batter away queries very helpfully warning him that his internals were going to overheat—come on, take the bait, don’t ask about his cog, don’t ask about his cog, don’t ask about his cog—for a moment, Orion thought he might press the issue, but then the mech tilted his helm and spoke again.

“Well,” Sentinel began, his tone smooth, apologetic. “Very few knew about Prima carrying.” He sighed heavily, expression somber. “After the Quintesson ambush, when we tried to look for you, your gestation chamber had disappeared from Prima’s chassis. We assumed that the Quintessons took it—or destroyed it. And at that point, there was too much chaos to prioritize revenge or recovery.” 

Orion swallowed minutely, finial twitching. 

Sentinel’s optics flicked to Orion’s finial and he hummed, frowning distantly now. “Then came the energon crisis—you know the whole shebang, Matrix disappearing, the flow ceasing—the Matrix became our top priority. We never stopped searching for signs of your survival, even while looking for the Matrix.”

The genuine melancholic sincerity in Sentinel’s tone made Orion’s plating crawl. Before he could form a reply, Airachnid’s voice cut through the air, sharp, and Orion flinched. “Sir.”

Sentinel turned to glance at her, something unspoken passing between them. Then he looked back at Orion, his grin returning as if it had never gone. “Ah, yes. Apologies, little primeling. We have to prepare for our next expedition—you know, looking for the Matrix of Leadership and all that.”

He turned to leave, and Orion vented quietly in relief, but Sentinel paused halfway, glancing over his shoulder. His optics gleamed, his right wing flicking in a playful manner. Orion blinked—he forgot that Sentinel even had wings. It was a little eerie how still they’d been the entire time.

“Orion,” he said, his voice easygoing. “We’ll talk more soon. I’d hate for you to think I’ve forgotten about you after all this time.”

With that, he strode out, the golden-armored guards in the room leaving with him. The last thing he saw as the door slid shut was Airachnid’s optics, all pinpointed at him.

Despite all the warmth Sentinel had shown, Orion’s frame felt cold.

INTERNAL COMMUNICATIONS LINE

status : open

corresponder desg. : Orion Pax

:: pax ::

:: Orion* ::

:: Orion when you see this comm me. ::

:: please ::

COMM-LINK STATUS : BLOCKED

:: [ ERROR . COMM CANNOT BE SENT. ] ::

:: [ ERROR . COMM CANNOT BE SENT. ] ::

:: [ ERROR . COMM CANNOT BE SENT. ] ::

:: [ ERROR . COMM CANNOT BE SENT. ] ::

:: [ ERROR . COMM CANNOT BE SENT. ] ::

:: [ ERROR . COMM CANNOT BE SENT. ] ::

:: [ ERROR . COMM CANNOT BE SENT. ] ::

:: [ ERROR . COMM CANNOT BE SENT. ] ::

:: [ ERROR . COMM CANNOT BE SENT. ] ::

:: [ ERROR . COMM CANNOT BE SENT. ] ::

:: [ ERROR . COMM CANNOT BE SENT. ] ::

:: [ ERROR . COMM CANNOT BE SENT. ] ::

INTERNAL COMMUNICATIONS LINE

status : open

corresponder desg. : Orion Pax

:: Orion, Soundwave’s trying to track your location. Hang tight. ::

COMM-LINK STATUS : BLOCKED

:: [ ERROR . COMM CANNOT BE SENT. ] ::

:: [ ERROR . COMM CANNOT BE SENT. ] ::

INTERNAL COMMUNICATIONS LINE

status : BLOCKED

corresponder desg. : Orion Pax

:: { soundwave: arrival anticipated soon. } ::

::  { soundwave: …be safe. } ::

‘Frag,’ Orion thought calmly. ‘Frag. Fragfragfragfragfrag.’

He paced the length of the room, careful not to trip over his own pedes. His servos twitched uselessly behind his back, still bound. 

The restraints bit uncomfortably into his plating, and if he moved too suddenly, they would snag on the edges, and yank it upward, making the delicate mesh go taut. He winced. That was a painful thing to discover.

It had also taken him far too much effort and time to haul himself off the floor with his arms still bound behind him. He flexed his servos again, less of an attempt to break free but now mostly to fidget restlessly—nothing.

Still tight.

“Right. Okay, okay, think, Pax,” he muttered to himself, finials flicking. “What if I—” He paused, imagining himself throwing his full weight against the door, hoping to jar it open. 

And then he frowned. That wouldn’t work. The door looked too heavy; he wasn’t a warframe, so he’d be more likely to damage his own plating than somehow create a hole large enough for him to squeeze in through. ‘And,’ he thought dryly, ‘even if I somehow break through, there’s prolly just more guards outside.’

His optics darted to the ventilation shafts, and he pursed his dermas thoughtfully. 

Maybe if he…? His processor helpfully provided various images of himself awkwardly trying to climb up with his arms tied, wriggling into the vent and using his pedes and shoulders for leverage, only to either get stuck halfway through, or just fall back down and dent his aft painfully. 

‘Nope,’ he snorted and shook his helm. ‘Not even gonna try it.’ A dented aft would be really weird to explain. Plus, he still had those injuries Airachnid inflicted on him—he doesn’t think he’d be able to put any pressure without straining his circuits. He glanced down at his pedes, both strangely undamaged—maybe Sentinel had gotten them fixed up?

He glanced out at the window and his optics widened—if he used his smokestacks to glide downward, he could reach the miners’ barracks himself! Orion swallowed, stepping backward to launch himself at the window, before turning on his smokestacks and—

Click.

Orion frowned. “Huh?”

Click. Clickclickclick.

SYSTEM ALERT:

ENERGON LEVELS: 16%

ALT-MODE FUNCTIONING TEMPORARILY POWERED DOWN.

Orion groaned frustratedly, turning to face a wall and bonking his helm against it out of embarrassment. Of course. Just great. Awesome. Cool.

He’d honestly forgotten about his energon levels entirely—they were probably the reason he blacked out the moment Airachnid had him in her grasp. He squinted judgementally at the air. She was so fragging creepy, and for what??

That train of thought caught his attention and he pressed his dermas into a thin line, half-mindedly running through his memory files again. 

About what happened with Sentinel earlier… did that actually happen? 

It couldn’t have, right? 

How in Primus’ name would a giant sword suddenly disappear like that anyway? If that really was just a product of forced-trauma coding, then was Sentinel being genuine? No, it couldn't be—in this timeline’s memory file, Alpha Trion showed them what Sentinel had done.

Was Orion just being paranoid?? That didn’t make sense though. His arms wouldn’t be bound like this and he wouldnt be kept locked up in here if Sentinel was good.

He bit the inside of his cheek. It didn’t make sense. None of this made sense—Sentinel was definitely not the mech he’d been preaching himself to be, but. 

What if this was another outlier? 

He seemed genuinely warm—maybe he’s just lying? 

But what if he wasn’t? 

But then why was Airachnid so aggressive when she captured him?? 

Were they that desperate to get their Primeling back??? 

Why are there so many outliers anyway?? 

Why the slag did he travel back in time again?!

Orion swallowed. If.. Hang on. There's no way. But if Orion died again, would he—

The door opened with a creak, and Orion startled out of his spiraling, whipping around.

The mech standing in the doorway was fragging tall. It was another one of those golden armored guards Sentinel had surrounded himself with. There weren’t any weapons visible, but Orion still took a step back. “Uh—”

Without a word, the mech strode toward him and gripped Orion by his back kibble, hauling him forward. Orion yelped. “Ohuhwait hold on acK—!” he stumbled from the sudden force, thankfully able to right himself before he actually tripped. In a blink, he was shepherded forward, this time out of the room and into the hallway. 

The ledge broke off beneath his pedes.

D-16 yelped and barely caught himself in time, digits scraping against the smooth metal and struts groaning as he hoisted himself upward. His joints ached, his plating felt raw, and exhaustion creeped into every inch of his frame.

It’s been a few sub-cycles, now, since he’d ran—and yes, he knows it was stupid. He knows he shouldn't have but—

D-16 grit his dentae. NO. They were all useless, they couldn’t—what was the point of them being there if they couldn't save his Orion?!

Something in the back of his processor whispers, ‘But did you save Orion?’

Didn’t matter. He was saving his Orion now.

Currently, he was scaling the tower Orion was held captive in—unsurprisingly, the same tower Sentinel Prime. NO. THE SLAGHEAD DIDN’T DESERVE TO BE CALLED PRIME. FRAG HIM.

Grinding his dentae, Dee forced himself upward, digits denting the metal. 

His servo slipped.

For a terrifying moment, his weight lurched backward—falling, falling—

He twisted midair, slamming his other servo onto the ledge. The force of it nearly wrenched his shoulder out of place, but he ignored it.

He vented shakily, frame trembling. He couldn’t afford to fall. Not now. He was almost there

He dug his servos onto a ledge above, agonizingly pulling himself up. But finally—finally—the window came into view.

And inside—

His spark slammed against his chestplate.

His Orion.

He was sat on a giant berth, his frame gleaming, gilded with gold.

That wasn’t right. That wasn’t right. His Orion wasn’t supposed to look like that. Not regal, not delicate, not—

His servo slipped again.

The world tilted.

Dee barely bit back a curse, twisting sharply—his fist slammed into the glass, rattling the window.

Inside, his Orion startled, and their optics locked.

There was a momentary pause and then open panic. His Orion scrambled for something—anything—to break the barrier. And then, his stupid idiot looked him in the optics and just bashes his helm into the window

A burst of shards, a sharp ex-vent, and then—impact.

Dee threw himself into the opening and the both of them crashed to the floor.

Dee hovered over his Orion, venting hard, a single arm against the floor just barely stopping Dee from squashing Orion.

His Orion blinked up at him, wide-opticked and gaping.

Dee’s spark flared. Orion was alive.

And frag. Frag him for looking so pretty.

Orion lost track of time. It had been a few sub-cycles since he was shoved outside the room, held down to be cleaned and polished and painted over (thankfully, he was only outlined in gold and he wasn't covered in it entirely), before he got shoved back into his room again the moment the paint dried.

Right now, he was sat on the giant berth. It was surprisingly comfortable—compared to recharge slabs, at least. Orion glanced down at his freed servos and bit the inside of his cheek. Well, at least he wasn’t chained anymore.

Recharge came in fits and starts. Occasionally, he'd get a small energon ration from the guards—not enough to let him transform, though. He drifted in and out, his processor churning too fast to let him rest. The sensation of servos on his plating lingered, the new weight of gold on his frame alien and suffocating. He frowned. He’s pretty sure the blue and gold they'd used on him were the same shade as Sentinel’s.

He replayed the past few joors over and over, trying to make sense of it. Unfortunately, Orion Pax was a stupid stupid mech and—nope. No! No, he wasn’t stupid. What could one even gather from that whole fiasco anyway?!

And his comms—

Orion sat up abruptly. Oh Primus he was stupid!

His servos twitched as he attempted to activate them, to reach out to someone. And then his finials lowered, discouraged.

He couldn’t access his comms at all.

A cold numbness washed over him. He really was isolated.

The silence stretched, suffocating.

Then—

There is a soft scuffle and then a series of frantic thuds against the window. Orion stiffened, optics flicking over.

Oh. 

OH WAIT PRIMUS THAT WAS DEE HANGING FROM THE WINDOW LEDGE.

“Slag slag slag SLAG—!!” Orion scrambled toward him, servos splayed, whipping his helm back and forth and looking for something he could use to break the damn thing before he gave up thinking and smashed his helm against the window instead. 

Orion didn’t have time to brace himself before D-16 shoved himself inside, landing onto Orion and making the two of them tumble onto the ground. 

They stared at each other. Dee’s plating was scuffed, vents running hot.

Neither spoke.

Then, all at once, Orion moved—sitting up and shoving his face into Dee's face, grabbing D-16 by the shoulders, gripping tight, as if he needed to make sure he was real.

“You’re here,” Orion whispered. His voice was raw.

D-16 exhaled sharply, reaching up to grip Orion’s arms just as tightly. “Obviously.” His voice was low, clipped—but there was something shaken underneath it. His optics flickered all over Orion, taking in every detail, and the longer he looked, the deeper his scowl became. His servos moved to caress Orion's face and Orion sighed shakily and leaned in at the warmth. “What did they do to you?”

Orion cringed. Then, almost helplessly, he gestured to himself. “They—dude, I don’t know! They cleaned me, they painted me, then they put this on me, and no one said anything, it was creepy as slag—” His vents stuttered. “I don’t—I don’t know what’s happening.”

D-16’s grip tightened.

“Are you—did you get hurt?? Wait, wait, where are the others?” Orion asked suddenly, optics locking onto D-16’s. “Do you—are you guys working on some kinda escape plan? Are they safe?”

D-16’s expression twisted.

Orion’s spark lurched. What the frag. What the frag was that expression?! “Dee? Dee, you're scarin' me here bud."

D-16 just scowled, optics flicking to the side. “I left them behind.”

What?

Orion blinked. “Wait—”

D-16 was already moving, gaze sweeping over the room. Orion’s servos clenched and he scrambled back up, trying to get D-16’s attention. “Dee?!”

Then he snapped his helm to the side, audial finials flicking.

Footsteps.

Sharp. Clipped.

D-16’s frowned, his plating flared anxiously. “Pax?”

Orion panicked.

He barely had time to think before shoving D-16 backward—toward the berth. D-16 jerked in surprise, but Orion didn’t give him time to glare at him, pushing him under the frame as quickly as possible.

The moment D-16 was hidden, the door slid open.

“Look who I found,” Sentinel said cheerfully.

Then, without warning, he shoved forward—

The bodies hit the floor in a tangled heap.

Orion’s spark nearly failed.

Soundwave. Shockwave.

Elita-One. B-127.

All unmoving. all bound. Oh thank Primus they were just unconscious then.

Sentinel tsked as if mildly disappointed. “High Guard traitors,” he said lightly. “And miners, too. How surprising. You know these ones, Pax?"

Orion barely heard him. His processor was a whirlwind. They’re alive. Its fine. They’re alive. 

Sentinel ex-vented, shaking his helm with regret. Then his optics flickered toward the broken window, and then to Orion, raising an optic ridge. Orion laughed a little hysterically. “Uh. I tripped.”

“...Well, never mind all that.” His servos clapped together, bright and sharp.

“It’s time for your debut, little primeling. Come along now.”

Orion stiffens. Debut? His vents stutter, his optics darting down at his gold-adorned frame. Was that what all this preparation had been for? But if he leaves now, if he follows Sentinel—Dee would be—

His servo trembles. He has to force himself not to glance down at the berth. “No.”

Sentinel halts mid-step, his expression flickering between surprise and something unreadable. Then, comprehension seems to dawn, and he softens, offering Orion a gentle, knowing smile.

“Ah, I see.”

Orion pauses. What?

Sentinel shakes his helm, stepping closer. “I was shy too, during my own debut,” he muses, voice light, almost nostalgic. “Thankfully, my old mentor—Zeta Prime, I’m sure you’ve heard of ‘em—was kind enough to let me skip it.” He hums, reaching behind him. “You’ll need to get some publicity eventually, of course—you're the lost primeling, after all. But for now, especially since this is more of a pleasantry than anything, we can do the tradition here instead and just announce your arrival later.”

And then, when he moves his arm from behind him, Orion can only focus on the glint of the Primax Blade.

He barely registers Sentinel’s continued words as the blade is placed into his servos. Sentinel keeps talking—something about the rite of passage, about the transition from Primeling to Prime—but Orion—he can’t—

—Orion getting strangled midair, Orion’s chassis caving inward underneath Sentinel’s pede, the sickening snap of his knee as the joint cabling snapped from the pressure and his knee was forced backward—

Orion blinks. The warmth of Sentinel’s servos against him forcefully grounds him back. The mech held Orion’s servos—both enclosed around the handle of the blade—they were moving, he didn’t know where but it’s slow, deliberate. There’s no force, no cruelty. And—

—The point of the blade barely kissing Orion's neck, the reflection of his widened optics in that energon stained weapon, the—

Sentinel used his free servo to pat Orion’s back kibble in a comforting manner and Orion is forced back into reality again.

And for a fleeting moment, Orion thinks this time might be different. 

That maybe, maybe, Sentinel isn’t the same ruthless mech he'd come to know, maybe he was an outlier. 

That maybe he might be—

Orion blinks.

The point of the blade is resting atop the berth.

His vents hitch and he slowly turns to look at Sentinel.

Sentinel tilts his helm, smiling pleasantly. “What’s wrong? You’ve no qualms about the tradition, surely? Normally, we’d use a large cube of high-grade for the ceremony, but—” He snorts, gestures vaguely. “Resources are limited. I’m sure we can make do with the berth, no matter how silly it is.”

Orion’s frame locks. Dee is underneath.

He shakes his helm, stepping back, trying to pull away—but Sentinel’s grip tightens around his servos, firm and unyielding. There is a glint of something in the mech’s optics that Orion hadn't seen before—

Oh.

Oh, he knows.

“Wait—” An attempt to back away. More pressure is applied and he’s forced to grip the Primax Blade tight but he—

“Tsk.” A quiet sound of disapproval. And then—

Sentinel forces Orion’s servos down, and the blade plunges straight through the berth.

D-16 would die because of Orion.

A sickening crunch.

Metal splits apart under the force, screeching and splitting apart with a whine.

Orion’s spark lurches, his entire frame trembling with the horror of it—

Sentinel grins.

“A sacrificial mech works just as well as a cube of energon.”

No. No, no, please—

Orion's vents stutter. His spark slams against its casing. He barely has time to register the words, barely has time to process the horror clawing up his frame—

Sentinel turns, blade whipping toward him. Smiling and it is something so warm so sickeningly warm—how did Orion fall for—how—why—

—”THEN DIE LIKE ONE.”

Orion sees his own reflection in the gleaming metal, optics wide, and his optics keep flickering and he doesn't know if the energon on the blade is real or not he can't tell if the blue is from his own optics or Dee’s energon—

And Orion is brought back at the loud boom from a fusion cannon firing a solid shot, and his view erupts in a bouquet of fiery colors. The berth is ripped apart in an explosion of metal and flame. Orion staggers back as debris rains down, his audials ringing (or were they ringing the whole time?). His optics flicker to Dee, who’s placed himself next to Orion, worried and angry and—

He's alive. He's alive he's alive and—

“Oh thank Primus,” Orion chokes out, gripping at Dee’s plating. Out of the corner of his optics, Sentinel is off-balance, reeling from the blast. 

And then there is an idea planted into his processor.

Orion lunges, throwing himself into Sentinel with everything he had, his fists colliding with Sentinel’s helm over and over. Sentinel snarls, but Orion is faster, fueled by desperation, by raw, burning panic, because—

D-16 can't turn evil if Orion kills Sentinel first.

His thoughts are visceral and the intensity of all of this propels Orion forward, fingers curling around the hilt of the Primax Blade thrown off by the blast. Sentinel tries to twist away, but Orion steps on his servo and raised the blade in the air before he stabbed down.

Sentinel’s helm rolls away, and his body falls limp. 

Orion grins and drops the sword, more out of exhilaration than anything and he looks at D-16—

A sharp pain passes through his chassis. He can see the glow of purple on his plating.

He forgot about Airachnid.

When he looks down, one of her blade-like legs is piercing through his back kibble and through his chassis. The end of it is sticking out of his front, and he can see Prima’s cog.

Orion gasps, choking on static, his vision tunneling. It hurts it—her touch against his spark, it stings and it burns and—

Somewhere in the background, Airachnid is blown off of him but all he can focus on is the burning pain spreading throughout his entire frame. He could still feel her touch on his spark. He could still feel her touch on his spark.

“Dee—” He chokes on a sob and has to spit out energon, (when did he start crying?) and he panics further when he falls onto his knees and feels his joints lock. Please. Please, no. No, no, no, he doesn’t want to die again, he can’t—

D-16 was crouched above Orion, cradling his face in his hands. Orion can’t hear what he’s saying, his facial expression is twisted in something sharp and despaired and Orion can't move and the only thing he can only focus on the way the glow of D-16’s optics are slowly deepening—

Orion shut his optics. He didn't want to see it happen. He was so scared.

He didn't want to die.

Orion Pax Awoke. 

His optics snapped open with a gasp, servos clawing at his throat and chassis. His vision blurred, and he heaved, his optics burnt with the afterimages of red, red, and red—

Why—please—

He barely registered his surroundings at first, processor spiraling. But then—

SYSTEM QUERY:

REPLAY MEMORY FILE:

[ [ AIRACHNID'S ] LEG THROUGH HIS CHASSIS , TOUCHING YOUR SPARK, SPEARING YOUR [ HIS ] COG , PAIN SPLINTERING AND FRACTURING THROUGH YOUR FRAME . ]

[ [ D-16 ] HOLDING YOU CLOSE , LIKE YOU [ ORION ] WERE SOMETHING PRECIOUS , SOMETHING BELOVED . ]

He flinched back, and his back kibble hit one of the shelves. The quiet hum of security drones grew louder, activating at the noise.

No.

He was back.

He had gone back and he was in the Archives again.

“What the frag?” Orion whispered, horrified, and looked down at his servos. No way. If—then—what kind of implication was this?? That everything would just go back in time whenever he dies??

Orion forced himself to take a shuddering vent, but—Primus. Primus had forsaken him he—please no. 

No, it’s okay it's fine it's—he could fix this he could—he had another chance, this was before everything. Before he had ever known the weight of a blade in his servos, before he had ever—

SYSTEM QUERY:

REPLAY MEMORY FILE:

[ [ YOU ] ORION , BEHEADING [ SENTINEL PRIME ] ]

[ [[ YOU ]] ORION , WHO HAD SMILED AT HIS DOOM ] .

A broken, hitched sound forced its way out of his vocalizer.

Oh Primus. He’d killed a mech. And he felt happy about it.

He laughed deliriously. Guess Megatron had to be recreated in one way or another. 

Orion’s dermas twitched downward, and he keened, pedes giving out beneath him.

He slid down the nearest shelf, his entire frame shaking as he buried his helm into his arms, curling into himself.

He had thought—frag, he had hoped that maybe this time, it would be different. That maybe, just once, he wouldn’t have to watch everything fall apart. That maybe he’d actually be able to have his happy ending with Dee but he thought that the first time too and he died he thought that the second time and he still died and it'll happen again it—

SYSTEM QUERY:

[ [ IT ] MEANING , YOUR DEATH ? ]

Stop.

SYSTEM QUERY:

[ [ IT ] MEANING , HIS DEATH ? ]

[ [ HIS DEATH ] : [ SENTINEL’S ] BEHEADING , OR [ D-16’S ] DESCENT INTO MEGATRON ? ]

Please

SYSTEM QUERY:

[ WHO ARE [ YOU ] TO GRIEVE EITHER’S DEATH SO EXCEEDINGLY WHEN [ YOU ] FAILED AGAIN ? ]

[ WHO WERE [ YOU ] TO ALLOW YOURSELF THE MINDSET OF A BELIEF IN [ A LACK OF FAULTS , A LACK OF WRONGS ] ? ]

INTERNAL COMMUNICATIONS LINE

status : open

corresponder desg. : D-16

:: Pax. Where are you??? ::

:: The train's arriving soon. I'm not waiting til after it's gone for you to get back you know. ::

:: Orion? ::

:: This ain't funny Pax. ::

:: Seriously dude where are you? ::

:: Comm me when you get back from wherever. Be safe, alr? ::

SYSTEM QUERY:

REPLAY MEMORY FILE:

[ ARCHIVAL DATAPAD , AUTHORED BY AXION PRAXIS : 0647 ]

[ YOU BELIEVE YOURSELF TO BE A SAVIOR / APOLOGETIC / SELF RIGHTEOUS / YOU ARE A FALSE PROPHET BEHIND A MINEFIELD / YOU ARE A LURE . ]

[ [ YOUR ] GUILT WILL NOT PURIFY YOU . ]

His vents hitched, and he whimpered, a hissed exhale between clenched dentae. His optics stung, his entire frame trembling. It felt like he was unraveling.

He sat there, curled into himself, silent and shaking while the weight of it all crashed down around him.

He barely noticed the sound of approaching pedesteps.

“Hey! It’s that defective mining bot, Oreon Pix!” A voice rang out. It was one of the guards. “Hey! We told you not to—”

The words cut off.

There was a beat of silence.

Then, the same voice, suddenly hesitant:

“Oh. Oh, uh. Ohhhh, slag. Uh. Oh, no. Are—are you crying?? Oh, uh. Oh, slag. Uh—”

“Dude,” the other hissed, just as panicked, “Just kick him out already.”

“He is crying. I’m not gonna do that! You do it!”

“Why the frag would I do it? You are the one who called him out first!”

Orion sniffled and he resisted the urge to bash his helm against the wall. Both guards immediately flinched, and turned to stare at Orion, banter awkwardly petering out into silence.

The barracks were quieter than usual. The only sounds filling the space were the occasional hum of machinery, the faint shuffle of pedesteps, and the awkward patting of servos against Orion’s back.

The guards had no idea what they were doing. That much was clear.

One of them—Orion wasn’t sure which, he hadn’t been paying attention—had suggested bringing him back here instead of just throwing him out into the streets. Something about “not wanting the guilt” if he got himself into more trouble. The other had grumbled but reluctantly agreed. Now, they were stuck in this weird, uncomfortable limbo, one awkwardly rubbing circles into his plating while the other did a horrible job at pretending not to look concerned.

Orion wanted to curl in on himself. He had stopped crying at some point, but his frame still trembled with the weight of everything. He hated feeling this fragile. Ugh. He wondered if it was obvious he cried.

But at least they weren’t pushing him for answers or prodding him with questions.

Yet.

Because then, pedesteps echoed from further in the barracks, growing closer. A familiar voice—

“Oh, hello, fine sirs! What’s up—”

Jazz’s tone was as bright as ever, casual and smooth. Then—

“Orion?!”

Orion stiffened at the sheer alarm in Jazz’s voice, his helm snapping up despite himself. His optics met Jazz’s, wide and startled, and oh, frag, he was still kind of crying, wasn’t he? He clenched his jaw, trying not to cringe. He really hoped he didn’t look too bad.

Jazz’s optics weren’t visible behind his visor but his frame tensed like he was about to do something. Orion held back a snort. Was he planning to jump on them??

One of the guards held up his servos hastily. “Whoa, easy, mech. We found your friend like this.”

Jazz’s optics brightened with alarm, visible through the visor. “You found him—?”

“In the archives,” the guard continued, shifting uncomfortably. “He was, uh. Crying.”

The other one, still standing behind Orion, awkwardly cleared his vents. “And, uh. Mmn.  Don’t break in again, yeah?” Normally, the tone would have been gruff, even aggressive, but now it was… hesitant and kind of awkwardly muted. Like even he wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to say.

Then, before Jazz could ask any more questions, the two guards promptly turned on their pedes and made a hasty retreat.

That left just the two of them.

Jazz immediately stepped forward, grip firm as he grasped Orion’s shoulders.

“What happened?!” Jazz demanded, his usual easygoing drawl laced with genuine worry. “Are you okay? Did they—?”

Orion tried to answer, tried to force out something coherent, but the moment he opened his mouth, his vents hitched and—

A stilted, watery laugh escaped instead.

His entire frame shook. The words crashing down came to mind—slag. Slag it all. He couldn't—everything felt like it was sifting through his servos.

He squeezed his optics shut, shaking his helm as he forced out, “Don’t. I’m—I’m good, just—” He sucked in a vent, voice cracking with a bite of static. “Just—give me a few kliks. Everything feels like it’s—I can't tell you but everything's crashing down right now, so like—uhm—sorry. Sorry dude.”

Jazz stiffened. Orion could see the panic zap through him as he glanced around, probably searching for someone else who could help. But they were alone.

“Okay, buddy,” Jazz said, forcibly light, but Orion could hear the underlying worry beneath and oh Primus this was embarrassing. “I’m gonna go give Elita a heads-up, alright? You just hang out here for a klik.”

Orion nodded, ex-venting shakily.

Jazz lingered for a second, optics scanning Orion’s face before he finally pulled away and hurried off.

Orion let out a slow, exhausted vent.

He sat there for a while, letting his processor spin in circles, drowning in too many thoughts and emotions he didn’t know how to process.

He must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew, there was a servo gently shaking his shoulder.

Orion stirred, optics flickering online to see Jazz crouched beside him.

“Hey, sorry for takin’ so long,” Jazz said, sounding almost sheepish. “Had to wait ‘til the shift was over, but Elita says you can take a few off.”

Orion barely had the energy to react, only nodding in acknowledgment.

The barracks were slowly filling up again as the other miners returned from their shifts. Most of them didn’t even spare Orion a glance. But when Elita walked in, she did pause—just slightly—to glance at him. She didn’t say anything, her expression is knitted slightly in concern before the walked off.

Jazz stood, stretching. “So, you wan' me to go grab your buddy Dee so you can tell him about—”

“No!”

The answer came out too fast, too panicked. Score zero for Orion Pax. Again. His personal high score was a five. Orion quickly cleared his vocalizer.

“Sorry,” he amended, forcing his tone to be more even. “No.”

Jazz didn’t seem perturbed, just tilted his helm. “Cool.” He shrugged, easy as ever. “I’ll go grab my stuff, then. We can head up to the roof for some quiet. Gimme a sec.”

Another nod.

Jazz jogged off toward his recharge station.

Orion ex-vented again, staring blankly at the ceiling before finally pushing himself to his pedes. He figured he might as well grab some energon rations while waiting.

INTERNAL COMMUNICATIONS LINE

Status: Open

Corresponder Designation: Jazz

:: Hey Jazz. Have you seen Pax anywhere?? ::

:: yo, dee. :: 

:: sorry, man, haven’t seen ‘em. thought he was with you, homeslice? :: 

:: oh slag :: 

:: ??? :: 

:: Jazz? :: 

D-16 sighed, a flicker of annoyance sparking in his frame when Jazz abruptly stopped responding.

Whatever.

He shoved the feeling aside and focused back on his shift, already moving to pick up his drill.

A little while later, out of the corner of his optic, he noticed something strange.

Jazz was talking to Elita.

And Jazz looked worried.

Elita listened in silence before finally ex-venting, her response slow and hesitant. She looked worried, too.

D-16 frowned.

He couldn’t hear them from where he was, and he didn’t exactly have time to ask—but something about it didn’t sit right.

Then, a few minutes later, Jazz left.

Mid-shift.

That wasn’t normal.

D-16’s frown deepened, processor spinning.

And then, a few kliks later—

INTERNAL COMMUNICATIONS LINE

Status: Open

Corresponder Designation: Jazz

:: dude, what the frag did you do to Orion??? :: 

:: What??? :: 

:: You found him? Is he okay?? What the frag do you mean, what did I do??? :: 

:: Uh-uh, I ain’t spillin’ zilch nada and nuthin. :: 

D-16 stared at the response, his optic ridge twitching downward with irritation.

:: afk. We talkin’ ‘bout this later, homeslice.:: 

:: ??????? ::

Eventually, Elita called an end to the shift, and they all started making their way back to the barracks.

D-16 was one of the last to enter, optics immediately scanning the room.

And then—he saw him.

Orion.

He was sitting there on the floor of his recharge station idly. He looked fine. Why was Jazz acting like—

D-16’s optics narrowed.

Then, as if nothing had happened, Orion turned, caught his gaze, and—

D-16's processor halted.

Orion just waved at him and walked toward Jazz, the two immediately going into chatter and disappearing from around the wall.

What.

Jazz.

Toward Jazz.

Toward Jazz???

D-16 stood there, rigid, staring after them. There is a prick of something violent crackling through his frame.

What.

His optics narrowed but before he could move—

“Yo, Dee!”

Wheeljack grabbed his arm, grinning wide. “You gotta help me with this experiment—c’mon!”

D-16 barely registered it, still stuck on the image of Orion walking away—smiling at Jazz.

INTERNAL COMMUNICATIONS LINE

Status: Open

Corresponder Designation: Orion Pax

:: DON'T THINK YOURE GETTING OUT OF EXPLAINING THIS PAX ::

Chapter Text

INTERNAL COMMUNICATIONS LINE

Status: Open

Corresponder Designation: D-16

:: WE’RE TALKING THE MOMENT I FIND YOU, PAX. ::

:: okay ::

Not enough.

:: sorry ::

Still not enough.

: i’ll be : 

Delete.

: i won’t be lo : 

Delete.

: Just give me a klik and : 

Delete.

: im sorry look i just need some time please dont be : 

Delete.

Orion grimaced. Primus. He really couldn’t come up with a better apology? He was so—ugh. He waited for a few moments for a response, but it didn't seem like Dee was gonna say anything else. 

Orion muted his commlink. It’s fine. It’s cool. No biggie. He didn’t think he could handle a response right now anyway.

Jazz led them both up to the roof, their pedesteps quiet against the metal. The distant shine of Iacon’s lights stretched before them in the dark of the low-light shift, and Orion smiled. It was pretty. 

Orion accidentally stumbled, needing to lean his weight onto Jazz. “Ope—sorry.” He muttered, feeling a little disjointed. Thankfully Jazz didn’t say anything and just shifted wordlessly, adjusting so he had his arm around Orion’s shoulder pauldrons and was able to support him in a way that kept them both moving forward without a hitch. 

They found a place to sit, a ledge far enough from the edge that neither had to worry about any accidental missteps, but close enough All to see the distant glow of Iacon. Orion stared at the lights detachedly, optics slightly unfocused. The bright lights blurred together, and it felt like his processor couldn’t decide whether to make sense of them or let them dissolve into nothing.

He half-mindedly checked his memory files. No discrepancies so far. Wait, no, one discrepancy: Darkwing wasn't as bad as he usually was. Is? Ori shut his optics and dismissed his memory files, rubbing a servo down his face. Who cares.

It seemed that Orion still had the files for his previous time-lines but he didn’t want to go over them. He knew how they ended already: with Megatron looming over him, and himself, dead.

It didn’t matter if he was shot at. Or dropped. Or kicked at. Or shot at again. Or stabbed. He still died. And it all hurt.

And each time he died, he was scared. He wasn’t sure if it was because, well, he was dying, or if he was still there to see D-16 turn into Megatron.

Orion frowned. Was that why time kept repeating? Because Dee kept turning into—agh. It was getting real repetitive saying that... He flexed his digits. It could be, though. Each time he went back in time, the last thing he sees is D-16’s slowly reddening optics. 

Then again, he also died each time, so. It could be that. That, as in, he went back in time each time he died. It actually seemed more likely, because what kind of cruel god would reverse time only based on the factor of his best friend turning evil? Didn’t make sense.

SYSTEM QUERY:

REGARDLESS OF WHICH IT IS , BOTH ARE YOUR FAULTS .

Orion exhaled unevenly, quickly dismissing his system query. He couldn’t spiral again, he needed to—a distraction—

“Jazz?” His own voice startled him, raw and scratchy from earlier. He cleared his vocalizer. Whoops.

Jazz hummed in response, his tone easy. “Mhm? You doin’ okay, buddy?”

Orion opened his mouth to answer but paused. He swallowed, his vocalizer clicking dryly. “What… what do you do if someone you—” His breath hitched and he quickly shoved down roiling memories of being shot by a fusion cannon before trying again.

“If someone you’re..uh close with keeps…changing. In a bad way. Like, uh.” He gestured weakly, servos hovering uselessly in the air before falling back into his lap. “No matter what you do, it always ends up the same. But you know they have, uh, good in them and you’re able to bring that good back but it’s like it really don’t matter.” He grimaced at the redundancy of his phrasing. Primus, he really hoped this made sense. “And you just—you can’t just stop tryna help. You have to. ‘Cause if you don’t, then bad things will happen and. And it’ll be your fault since you’re able to help but chose not to. Uh. Yeah.”

Okay. There it was. He got his thoughts out somewhat coherently, what an achievement! He sighed shakily, and curled up, resting his chin on his knee joints. “What could you do, at that point?”

Orion resolutely refused to meet Jazz’s gaze. It was stupid, but even the thought of facing Jazz directly made his throat tighten. And he didn’t really feel like crying any more than he already did.

Jazz didn’t answer. The silence stretched between them, thin and taut. Orion briefly began to wonder if he just imagined what he said. He’d already begun seeing things, so audial hallucinations wouldn’t be too surprising, probably..

“Orion...”

Orion blinked and turned his helm, optic ridges drawn together in confusion. It was still dark, dark enough where he couldn’t see the other mech’s facial features well, but Jazz sounded particularly strangled. Before he could ask, Jazz ex-vented softly and continued.

“Did… did somethin’ happen? Between you and D-16?”

Orion stiffened.

Yes.

No. No! No. 

Not yyyyyet?

(If something did happen, it would be Orion’s fault.)

“No,” he replied firmly, pulling himself back to reality. “No. Nuthin. ‘S all just a hypothetical.”

From the corner of his optics, despite the visor, Orion could tell that Jazz was staring at him. “That’s a.. uh,” he started reproachfully, and Orion refused the urge to cringe, “that’s a real loaded hypothetical, man.”

Orion groaned and shoved his helm deeper into his arms. “I know, I know, sorry.” Primus almighty he’s pretty sure he was at least slightly more charismatic than this! Nope. Nope, nope, it’s cool. His response was met with silence and Orion wondered if it meant that the conversation was over and if Jazz would just let the subject drop, but then Jazz shifted, rubbing the back of his helm before he spoke again.

“…Well, I feel like if—” He paused, and Orion sat up attentively. “There’s a point where it changes from caring or like an obligation as a friend to just bein’ a burden on your shoulders. Like, obviously it’s good to care, but if it’s getting to a point where you’re havin’ a breakdown over it, then I’m pretty sure it’s outta your control.”

Orion flinched. Sure he’s had maybe one or two breakdowns but it was just those few times! Jazz made it sound like it was a daily occurrence. Which. it Wasn't. Because Orion wasn’t a squealer. He was a grown mech who was perfectly capable of handling himself.

And, not to mention...was it really out of his control when he had the ability to—

Jazz interrupted his train of thought, voice quieter. “‘Specially if whoever it is you’re talkin’ about keeps doing it. Feels more like an active choice they choose to make, y’know? That sorta thing ain’t your fault. Sometimes y’just can’t fix someone. And those kinda people—they usually don’t wanna be fixed.”

…Did D-16 not want to be—’fixed’? Orion furrowed his ridges and pressed his dermas into a thin line. Did he want to fix Dee? It didn’t—no, he wanted to SAVE him. Not fix him. He wouldn't need fixing if Orion was able to stop his seeming inevitability.

“And I know you said ‘twas a hypothetical,” Jazz hummed, “but maybe you should, er, hypothetically take a break and, I dunno, think about yourself for a bit. Hi-poe-theti-cally, of course.”

Orion’s first instinct was to defend Dee. It wasn’t Dee’s fault, really! D-16 wasn’t doing any of this on purpose. He’s not really changing into something bad. It was all just apparently how the universe was forcing things to go, no matter what Orion did to stop it.

And despite all of this, Orion couldn’t find the spark to say anything. There was nothing Dee had done (yet) that Orion needed to defend him of, after all.

‘Jazz,’ he imagined saying, ‘I’d usually agree with your advice but I’m actually from the future and I died every single time before I came back. Only one of those times was from Dee, but it doesn’t really count ‘cause I got revived by Primus himself and I got the Matrix and turned into a Prime. It’s not his fault for being angry. It was NEVER his fault.’

“...You enunciated ‘hypothetically’ weird.” Is what comes out of Orion’s mouth, instead. Jazz startled and gave him a sidelong glance. “Hey now,” he said lightheartedly, and thank Primus he was going along with Orion’s not-very-smooth subject change, “Ah’m sayin’ it perfectly fine. Maybe yer the outlier ‘ere.”

This dumb mech—Orion was able to push away a locked mental box full of repressed thoughts and felt an exasperated smile tug at the corner of his dermas. Why’d Jazz change accents? “Dude, why’re you saying it like that???”

“Dunno what ‘cher talkin’ ‘bout,” Jazz sniffed, tilting his helm and raising his chin up at nothing. The humorously-defensive tone in his voice made Orion snicker. “Yes you do. Why’d you thicken your accent?”

Jazz crossed his arms. “This is jus’ how Ah talk. And yew said it was weird. That’s hurtful, y’know. Real hurtful to me”

Orion turned away strategically.

From behind him, he could hear Jazz grumble. “Ah can hear ya laughin’ at me.”

Hah.

“Yer so mean to me, man.” Jazz whined from behind him, “First it’s mah pruh-nun-seeyay-tion, and now y’keep laughin’ at me? I might die. Of sadness.” Jazz sniffed haughtily, except instead of continuing his monologue, he choked and immediately started hacking. “GHK—KHAK—slag—”

Orion whipped his helm around, optics darting to glance at—oh. Ohah. HAha. Oh, this idiot—“HhaH—” 

Jazz had rolled off the ledge and onto the floor in a low crouch, his helm bowed. His forearms prevented him from falling face-flat onto the concrete, but with his frame shaking with each cough, it felt like he’d fall anyway. 

Orion snickered impishly. “Imagine. Couldn’t be me.” Jazz tilted his helm up to look at Orion, his visor was askew, and the narrowed teal optics just made Orion laugh more. Jazz glared harder, but the effect was muted slightly by his coughs. “Ey—HRKJ—leave me ALONE. That is NOT ni—AJFH. HKOHFF—KAHGK AUGH OWWww ow ow!”

Jazz’s arms gave in and he let his upper body flop onto the floor, groaning. “Eugh. That last one hurt.” There is a small (tiny) sense of pity that Orion felt at the sight. Alright, alright, fine, he’ll help. Orion got up and crouched nearby, gently patting the mech on the back. “You got that, homeslice.”

The downed mech turned his helm and gave him a look. “Koff—I’m literally dying—ghahk—and you call me homeslice. Nice. Real smooth, bro, real smooth.” He coughed again near Orion’s face and Orion scrunched his olfactory ridge, pulling Jazz up and away from the floor. Jazz stretched, sighing petulantly. “This is all your fault. Maybe if you hadn’t called my articulation weird in the first place…”

“I did not?!” Orion frowned, exasperated, “I said you enunciated it weird, not articulated. So you wouldn’t change your accent, you just needed to change how you pronounced the one word you said weird. Ergo, this is all your doing."

Jazz stared at him.

Orion stared back.

Jazz shook his helm slowly. “Primus. You’re a nerd.” 

Orion narrowed his optics at the mech. “Nuh uh.”

“You literally know the difference between articulation and annunciation.”

“Nuh uh.”

“............................Did you or did you not tell me—”

“Did not.”

“Yo don’t interru—”

“Am not.”

“You—!”

Jazz stood there for a moment, struggling, before he aggressively jabbed his middle digit toward Orion. Orion just stuck his glossa out but couldn’t stop himself from snickering, and the both of them lapsed into silence again.

He looked down and traced his digits along the dips and seams of the ledge. The bubbliness of laughter ebbed slightly, and he frowned distantly.

Primus, what was he gonna do?

 “You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”

Orion blinked, and glanced at Jazz. The mech wasn't looking at him and it made the words feel light and casual, as if they were spoken more like an afterthought.

He hesitated. His vents stilled for just a moment. “Yeah,” he nodded, slow. “Yeah. I know.”

If Jazz noticed the hesitation in his voice, he didn’t indicate it.

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Orion let his optics wander over Iacon’s skyline, tracing the faint glow of the city lights in the distance. It almost felt peaceful. For just a moment, his thoughts drifted—he wondered what the conversation would be like if it were him and Dee sitting there instead, but. 

At the thought of Dee, his processor threatened to bring up more unpleasant memories and Orion shut his optics and pushed it all away. No. No, not now. Not when his mind was still in shambles. He took a deep vent and manually onlined his cooling fans. It’s okay. Everything’s fine.

Orion swallowed thickly, glancing at Jazz. Maybe… he knew it was selfish, but maybe he could tell at least one mech about all of it.. Just to get the weight off his shoulders. Just to ease the pressure, even for just a little bit.

“Jazz,” he hedged out, feeling his spark flare and making his plating tremor nervously. “I’m actually—”

The door behind them opened and Orion flinched, glancing back at—ah. Ahah! Hah. Dee. D-16 whose gaze was deadlocked onto Orion. What a great sense of humor Primus had!

In his peripheral vision, Jazz shifted quickly and, with a fortunate stroke of serendipity, stood in front of him in a way where he couldn’t see Dee’s face.

Orion took his chance, turned, and swiftly threw himself off the ledge of the roof.

Jazz was a simple mech.

He had his work, his friends, all his daily routines—the mines weren’t exactly a dream job, but he was good at it, good enough that Darkwing didn’t nag him as much like he did the others for being inadequate at mining energon. And he had mechs like Wheeljack and Arcee and Ratchet and Prowl. And Orion.

Sure, maybe there was something else there—something small and quiet, something that made his spark flare just a little brighter when Orion specifically smiled at him, but it didn’t need to be acknowledged. He was good like this.

Even if that happiness was because of D-16, and not him.

That part stung a little—after all, a dark corner of his processor whispered, wasn’t Jazz better than Dee?

Jazz would go with Orion on his every excursion to the archives if he asked. Jazz would cover for him whenever he got in trouble, without complaint or question. He’d take the blame for Orion, if he had to. Jazz would give him his stash of energon rations any cycle if he was hungry. 

What did D-16 have that Jazz didn’t, for Orion’s happiness to constantly stem from his interactions with the mech?

What did D-16 have that Jazz didn't for Orion to choose him as his Amica?

The same mech who, at many points, seemed like he barely tolerated Orion—not even calling him Orion, and just sticking with saying Pax most of the time! What kind of best friend did that?? But it’s cool. Fine. Wasn’t a big deal. Orion didn’t seem bothered even when Dee was acting a little standoffish. Not to mention, he couldn’t (and wouldn’t) control who Orion hung out with. He himself got along with D-16 well ‘nuff. Orion was happy, and that was all Jazz really cared about. He was content like this.

But right now, Orion didn’t look very happy.

For all Jazz claimed he would do for the mech, he still had to admit (begrudgingly and painfully) that he still didn’t really know Orion personally. This was the first time he’d seen Orion so...downcast. Was this the first time Orion cried? Was this a slip over the usual control and self-confidence he had over himself? What happened? Why didn’t he wanna see Dee? What did D-16 do? 

Jazz had only ever seen him happy. And maybe that was the one thing D-16 had that he himself didn’t—the privilege of seeing Orion Pax for all that he was without any masks or walls.

And yet. 

Orion was here, with him, and not Dee. Orion had broken down, and let himself be vulnerable, with HIM. Not D-16. Him.

Which could mean nothing.

But the fact that Orion had denied having Jazz get Dee so quickly, though—something happened between them. Jazz didn’t know what, but he knew that much. He wasn’t stupid. He exhaled softly through his vents, tilting his helm back to look up at Iacon’s sky that was the subsoil of the surface.

Alright, time to theorize. No, he was not jumping to conclusions! Just making logical and educated guesses. Based on one side of the story. Mhm. Yep. A perfectly okay logical and educated guess.

Maybe they had an argument? Jazz immediately dismissed the thought. Nah. The two mechs always bantered, and even when their arguments got a little heated, nothin’ said was really taken too seriously. 

‘Even if they had an argument,’ a sudden thought piped up, ‘it’s not like you’d know. Remember?’

He frowned and pushed the thought away. No use in thinking like that. He thought of Orion’s quote-unquote hypothetical and swiftly shook his helm. Was Dee..? No. It couldn’t be like that. He might be a little headstrong, but that’s mostly in the form of exasperated humor. Dee’d never hurt Orion. Or maybe it WAS like that, but it went too far? Honestly it seemed—

“Jazz,” Orion suddenly spoke out, and Jazz startled out his thoughts and glanced at him, plating flaring slightly. “I’m actually—”

The creak of the rooftop door interrupted him. Orion flinched as Jazz twisted around. It felt as if all the warmth of their conversation was vacuumed away.

And then he grimaced. Ah, scrap.

D-16 stood in the doorway, framed by dim light, expression kept carefully neutral. His plating was streaked with light oxidation, a little more scuffed than usual, but nothing fresh. There were new suspiciously dark oxidation marks visible on the lighter areas of his frame. Was he hanging out with Wheeljack? His gaze flicked briefly to Jazz, offering a curt acknowledgment. “…Jazz.”

Jazz dipped his helm slightly in return, but it was obvious that Dee’s focus wasn’t on him. His optics had already settled past him and onto Orion, who had gone eerily still.

Ahah. Nuh uh.

In one fluid motion, Jazz pushed himself up to his pedes and shifted subtly, deliberately placing himself in the direct line of Dee’s sight.

D-16’s optics locked onto him and narrowed. “...D’you mind moving?”

Jazz crossed his arms, tilting his chin up at the other. “Orion doesn’t really wanna see you right now, actually.”

D-16’s helm tilted slightly, something hurt briefly flashing through his expression before it settled back on careful evenness. “Oh? And he told you this?”

Jazz squared his pauldrons, staving off a weird few remnants of guilt that tried to poke at his processor. “Yeah, actually!” Sort of. Kind of. Not really. It was more nuanced and kind of implied, but still—

He turned slightly behind him, intending to get at least a confirmation out of him. “Right, Ori—”

Orion wasn’t there.

Jazz blinked. Ahaha what. What?? He blinked again. Then he spun in circles, and began scanning his surroundings rapidly, feeling his spark fizzing anxiously in his chassis. “Orion.???????? ORION?????????”

Behind him, he could hear D-16 stepped closer. “What the frag—why are you—where’s Pax??”

Jazz ignored him in favor of turning around in another full circle, trying to make sense of the sudden lack of Orion Pax in his immediate vicinity. ‘Alright, Jazz,’ he thought, somewhat panickedly, ‘time to put on your thinkin’ cap! Where could a bot of his frame and paintjob be able to quickly and quietly escape, undetected, from either of them?’

Orion obviously hadn’t moved past him, Jazz would’ve seen or heard him shift to either the left or right. There wasn’t any sort of cover on the rooftop broad enough to obscure a whole frame, and the only thing behind them was that ledge—

The ledge.

Oh. Ohh slag.

Slowly, Jazz turned back toward Dee, expression blank. “Hey, uh. Hypothetically,” he started carefully, “does Orion make it a habit to jump off of things?”

D-16’s frown deepened, optics flicking to Jazz and then upwards, likely accessing his memory files. “Yeah, he’s done that a lot whenever he’s chased out of the Archives…and he’s landed on me one too many—”

Then his expression shifted in real-time, something between deadpan realization and absolute horror overtaking his features.

It was almost comical how the both of them immediately scrambled toward the edge of the ridge. It was less so when they caught sight of Orion’s red-and-blue frame disappearing into the shadows.

Dee cursed quietly, nearly tripping over his pedes and turning around toward the door, and Jazz made the split-nanoklik decision to grab him by the arm. “Don’t—!”

D-16 stopped in his tracks and turned to face him, expression twisted. “Dude, what is your problem?!”

Jazz felt indignation flare up at Dee’s stupidly confused and angry tone. His problem? HIS problem?? As if Orion hadn’t implied that D-16 was hurting him??!?

“MY problem,” Jazz started while yanking Dee closer, “is that Orion seemed pretty averse at just the thought of even speaking to you! Wanna tell me why that is, mech?!”

D-16 looked inappropriately flabbergasted. “Just because he went ahead and fragging jumped down doesn’t mean—”

“Oh Primus above, I’m not talkin’ about that!” Jazz griped, shaking him back and forth—which was, admittedly, not very successful since Dee was forged with much weightier metal and alloy.

D-16 glowered at him, gripping Jazz’s right servo. “Maybe, if you stopped JIGGLING me and told me what—”

“I am NOT jiggling you!”

“Well, what the frag d’you want me to describe this as then??? Because this sure as frag feels like I’m being—”

“I’m talkin’,” Jazz interrupted the stupid man, “about how Orion came back from the Archives cryin’!” He shoved at D-16, the force making Dee stumble back slightly. “I’m talkin’ about how fast Orion said no when I offered to go get you! I’m talkin’ about how when he told about what happened, Orion looked so—so—” He cut himself off. He couldn’t tell Dee what happened! That wasn’t— That was personal! Jazz-Exclusive! He shook his helm snappishly. “UGH—IT DOESN’T MATTER! Obviously, you did somethin’!”

Dee looked stricken. “What do you mean he was crying?! What did he say to you??!”

Jazz shoved away another stab of guilt and contorted his face into an ugly expression. “I. Ain’t. Tellin’.” he punctuated, “But the questions he asked me made it pretty clear he’s like this ‘cause of you!”

“You keep sayin’ that,” Dee scowled, taking a few steps toward him, “but I didn’t DO anything! Why do you care so much anyway?? You don’t even talk to him!”

Jazz flushed, the corner of his mouth twitching downward. “That ain’t your business! Maybe I’m just a normal mech! A normal mech with empathy!”

Dee gestured between the two of them, incredulous. “Dude, this seems a lil too MUCH for just empathy—you ain’t his protector!”

“Oh, and YOU are?!”

“Yes—no?! It doesn’t matter! What, you like him or something?!”

Doesn’t matter, his aft! Jazz crossed his arms, chin tilted upward defiantly. “Again, ain’t your business, but so what if I do?!”

D-16 paused and stared at him. “What.”

‘NOOOOOO,’ Jazz wailed internally, though determinedly kept his steely expression, ‘holy primus im stupid why did i SAY THAT?!’

When Orion replied, D-16 got a little worried.

Actually—scratch that.

He got very worried.

Orion never apologized like. That. Not without some kind of lighthearted deflection and the reassurance that he wasn’t really upset! At least..his spark flared painfully. At least not with Dee. He’d usually add in the occasional keyboard smash. Or the word spam. Or maybe—if it was something really serious—the rare but genuine explanation, long paragraphs of overthought syntax and overused academic phrasing stolen from datapads he'd read in the Archives.

D-16 could deal with an Orion who lightened banter with awful jokes and too-big words. He could deal with awkward but authentic conversations about feelings, because he was a mature mech! And despite the way he flailed and fussed, so was Orion!…Most of the time.

However, therein lies the problem—none of these unspoken labels are properly able to categorize what his Orion had sent next.

:: okay ::

:: im sorry ::

im sorry.

im sorry????

No explanation. No further context. No spam of follow-up messages with unnecessary clarification. Just a dead silence.

At first, D-16 stared at the messages, rereading them in his HuD like there was some kind of hidden code embedded in the text. Something he had missed. A clue or two to decode the…weird flatness of it. But the longer he looked, the more uncomfortable he got.

So he did what any normal mech would do in a situation like that: he waited.

He waited a few moments.

Then a lot of moments.

Then even more moments.

He checked his comms once. Then again. Then, when he thought he got a ping from Orion, he checked again so fast that his systems warned him he was risking optical strain from excessive flicker.

It's fine. No, really. He just needed a distraction. So what if Pax had sent him a weirdly flat and cryptic apology? Maybe he was tired. Maybe he was busy!

Busy with Jazz...

Nope. Nope, nope, nopenopenope he's cool. Again, he was probably just overthinking it

So when Wheeljack dragged him off to help, he let himself be distracted. Because it would distract. Probably.

The pseudo-lab was loud. There were sparks flying from somewhere. Wheeljack had forgotten to mute the volume on his personal playlist again, which meant D-16 was currently trying to focus while Mr. Saxobeat blared from a makeshift speaker.

“Dee—hand me that stabilizer clamp!”

D-16 blinked. “Which one?”

“The one that’s buzzing and—waitwaitwaitWAIT NO NOT THE SPARKY ONE—"

Too late. D-16 grabbed the one with the mild static pulse, and when he passed it over, it gave him a tiny shock. He hissed through his dentae, shaking his servo out.

“Oops. My bad,” Wheeljack muttered with a completely unapologetic grin. “Coulda been worse! One of ‘em turns you green.”

“That’s not a stabilizer clamp, that’s a paint calibrator!”

“I said don’t grab the sparky one!”

Dee growled under his breath and hunched over the table again. He tried to focus on the half-disassembled invention in front of them. Tried being the operative word.

But his processor kept pulling up his comms channel. Again and again. Nothing. No response.

He checked it again less than a klik later. Still nothing. Then five kliks after that. Still nothing.

Wheeljack noticed something was off after he checked again for the twenty-third time. “You glitching out or something? You look like you’re waiting for someone to blow up.”

“What? No, no, I’m cool.”

“Uh huh. Want me to try rerouting your internal clock? It might reset whatever neurotic fragging loop you’re stuck in.”

“I said I’m fine.”

He wasn’t fine.

He wasn’t even a little bit fine.

Because Orion still hadn’t elaborated. Because Orion had sent that message and then seemingly dropped off the face of Cybertron. With Jazz. Because there was a screaming anxiety in D-16’s spark chamber, chewing through his wiring, and it only had one name: Orion Pax.

D-16 rubbed at his face with both servos, muttering something halfway between a curse and a prayer to Primus. Then he stared back at the comm message again. Still no follow-up.

And now, every time he reread it, he couldn’t help but hear it in Pax’s voice. unnaturally quiet and distant.

Was Orion really mad? At him?

D-16 worried his digits on the ridges on his plating anxiously. No. No, he was just overthinking it.

But if he weren’t—what’d he do to have the other mech not even stop to say hey? Or maybe give him a fist bump? Frag, was he too rough with the mech? Did he accidentally hurt him? Dee knew he was strong for a coggless miner, but he was pretty good at managing his strength—but what if he wasn’t? What if Orion was upset because he thought Dee hurt him on purpose??

Despite the very minor fear of accidentally squashing the other mech, Dee actually prided himself on his size and strength—he’d been able to protect his Orion from dangerous things like falling debris back in the mines, after all. One good shove had saved him from a premature smelting, and Orion had laughed about it back then, telling Dee that he’s glad the mech had the ‘strength of a tank.’

So no. No, that’s—no, it’s probably because. No. Yes. Maybe??? What else would he be mad at him about?

Maybe it’s because he was too harsh-sounding with his own message? No. Pax wasn’t the type to freak out over the nonexistent tones in a comm. But what if?

Alright, so Pax was upset with him. That's. He could deal with that. 

NO HE COULDN’T, wailed an annoying pop-up at the back of his processor. He quickly beat it away with his mental fists. Nope. He’s good. He doesn’t care. No, he DOES care, but he could deal. He could deal!

Regardless of his very smooth capability with Dealing with Things, D-16 was still prone to the occasional fits of frustration (he hung out of Orion Pax—of course he was). After one too many times snapping at his friend after the mech did something stupid, he eventually grew used to it and was able to calm himself down before he said anything stupid.

“—What, you like him or something?!”

Usually.

‘NOOOOOO,’ D-16 wailed internally, though refused to show anything but angered indifference, ‘holy primus! I’m stupid! I’m stupid, why did i SAY THAT?!’

Remember those fits he mentioned? During them, he also had the (admittedly shameful) tendency to say things without thinking in an effort to dominate the argumentative conversation—a discombobulated mindset of win first, think later. Orion and most others knew this, and didn’t usually take his words to spark, always choosing to brush away his apologies and wave him off with well-meaning grins. 

Even when he didn’t deserve it. 

Even when he felt like the apologies in question should’ve come with a bag of energon treats, two datapads, and himself on his knees groveling for a consideration in forgiveness, mechs like Orion would just insistently say something like: “I know you didn’t mean it, man,” with a pat on his shoulder and maybe a reminder that next shift was starting soon, as if that fixed anything.

It didn’t, but it still made Dee feel a whole lot better about himself. Like maybe he wasn’t such a walking, talking, dumb glitch after all.

It was embarrassing, but those reassurances genuinely made him think that it meant he was “safe” with his current position of friendship. Especially when it came from Orion, because it meant that Orion knew him, and could always tell when Dee was lashing out and being unnecessarily (accidentally) hurtful. 

Dee got used to that silent understanding, because it meant he wouldn’t have to worry about attempting to swear over and over that he didn’t mean whatever he said. It meant he wouldn’t have to worry about his closest friend leaving his side, because despite what was said, everything would be okay in the end.

That innate comprehension between them both was one of the many things he liked about being Amicas with someone. So when he saw Jazz’s expression twist like he was some kind of short-fused idiot—Dee kind of. Belatedly realized that not all mechs were Orion and he sort of. Panicked.

Regardless of how weird Jazz was acting, it wasn’t like he wanted to fight him or something! But Jazz wouldn’t know that because again, JAZZ WASN’T ORION. Dee really did say the wrong thing at the worst time in front of the most worrisome mech he could be facing right now and there definitely wasn’t an “I know you don’t mean it” waiting for him! 

The wiring beneath Dee’s plating prickled uncomfortably. He scrubbed a servo down his face and tugged at one of the seams in his wrist, a nervous tic he’d never grown out of. No no no—he could fix this. He just had to explain. And apologize right this time. No snapping or knee-jerk reactions. He just needed to—

Jazz crossed his arms, and instead of literally anything else that Dee was expecting, like maybe denial, he tilted his chin up at Dee defiantly. “Again, ain’t your business, but so what if I do?!”

What. “What.” What???

Jazz wore a steely expression. “Y’heard me.”

D-16 grit his dentae. If he were cogged, his engines would be rumbling something fierce. “You can’t.”

Jazz snorted. “Why? ‘Cause you like him too? I ain’t stupid, it’s pretty obvious.”

Dee scowled. What the frag. What the frag was this?? Where was this all coming from?? “That’s—That’s not what this is about!”

Jazz gave him a look. “It so is.”

Dee growled, frustration mounting. “I don’t get why you’re makin’ this about that! Pax and I—he’s—”

Jazz tilted his helm. “He’s what? Yours?”

Yes, Dee refused to say, and instead clenched his servos. “He’s important to me!”

The other mech scoffed. “I know that.” Then he flared his plating aggressively. “The difference between us, though,” Jazz continued coolly, “is that I’d be satisfied if we were just friends. Y’know. ‘Cause I care ‘bout Orion. Dunno what your issue is, but it seems pretty selfish—”

D-16 marched forward and tackled Jazz onto the ground.

The impact sent them skidding across the floor in a tangled mess of limbs and marred plating. Jazz twisted instinctively, sparing himself from a helm-first collision with the concrete by jerking to the side mid-fall. The ground scraped harshly against his shoulder, sparks flying from the friction. Dee’s own unyielding mass bore down on him like a falling support beam.

Selfish?! D-16 was selfish for—for what, wanting to know what the frag was going on??! For wanting an explanation?!? 

Jazz braced both pedes against D-16’s chassis and kicked, using the momentum to roll them over. The impact shook through both their frames with a loud clang. D-16 grunted, but twisted with the movement, refusing to be dislodged. As Jazz tried to swing a servo to shove him off, Dee caught it mid-motion and twisted again.

The mech beneath him shrieked, wrenching himself sideways enough to jam an elbow between them. He drove it into Dee’s side hard enough to jostle his balance, and in that nanoklik of slack, Jazz slipped out from under him and spun on one pede and went low, trying to sweep Dee’s legs out from under him and still his arm joints.

D-16’s optics flared with static as his shoulder joint nearly locked, the torque sending a burst of system warnings blaring in his processor. Dee ignored them and, dislocating his shoulder out of its socket with a stiffled cry of pain, yanked Jazz forward with his overextended limb. He slammed him back down into the ground again, the smaller frame impacting ground with a dull, echoing crash.

Jazz yelped and scooted back upright but Dee immediately came at him again, shoulder-first. They collided like wrecking balls, both sets of pedes dragging harsh tracks into the floor. More sparks lit up the space around them as they shoved and scrabbled for control—D-16’s optics flickered to Jazz’s pedes, which looked like they were getting ready to spring up at him. Like he’d let him have the chance! Dee grabbed him and kept him grounded with a relentless, angry momentum.

Jazz nearly managed to hook an arm around Dee’s throat cabling, but then Dee spun around and hauled him off his pedes, and slamming him down onto the ground again.

A strangled grunt punched out of Jazz as his back struts cracked against the ground.

Before he could move, Dee was on him.

The larger mech crouched over his frame, a knee planted hard into Jazz’s midsection. Jazz hissed, squirming. Dee grabbed his wrists and wrenched them down against the floor. His servos tightened just enough for something to creak beneath the strain.

Jazz’s vents fluttered and caught, his cooling fans audibly strained, and his dermas set in a tense line.

D-16 loomed over him, feeling his own optics burning. “I’m lookin’ for Orion,” he said, voice low, his own chassis heaving with exertion. “And you can’t stop me.”

"What the frag are you doing here?” came a voice of disbelief from somewhere behind Orion Pax.

Orion groaned, not bothering to look up and instead letting his helm thunk gently against the counter. “Hey, Darkwing.”

“Answer my question, Pix,” Darkwing repeated, voice low and edging toward accusatory. Orion frowned into the bar top—because, for the thousandth time, that was not how his name was pronounced—

“What in the name of Primus are you doing in an Oilhouse??”

Orion giggled a little deliriously. Ha. Haha. He wished he knew.

He made a vague attempt to reach for his third high-grade (procured, unfortunately, by sharing just enough of a discomfited sob story to earn the bartender’s pity and make him uncomfortable all at the same time) but Darkwing snatched the cube out of his servo before it made it to his lips and stared at him. Ugh. Ughhh.

Despite the scrutiny, Orion stared blankly at nothing. Occasionally, he blinked.

Darkwing rapped a clenched servo against the counter, sharp and deliberate. “I said: answer, Pix.”

Orion nodded slowly, distantly. “Well,” he started, very carefully, “I think I might be having a crisis.”

Darkwing blinked. “A crisis. Right.” He tilted his helm, a finial twitching. “What could a cogless miner like you possibly be having a crisis about?”

Orion stared at him.

Darkwing shifted in place, and cleared his vocalizer, helm briefly flicking toward the bartender—who looked like he was actively trying not to get involved. Orion imagined himself nodding. Smart. That was the only smart mech in this place. Being involved in things sucked.

“I mean—uh. I mean,” Darkwing backpedaled, lifting a servo awkwardly. “I didn’t mean it like that, alright? Just… what are you. Having a crisis about?”

Orion was still blinking slowly at the countertop like it had answers. He hummed. “Dunno. Identity?”

“Oh, for—”

Orion’s optics drifted lazily to him. “Existential?”

“Stop that!” Darkwing hissed. He dropped into the barstool beside Orion, squinting at him like he might be a bomb about to go off. Bomb. Orion giggled at the imagery and Darkwing stared at him again. “...You frag off your processor or something?”

“I think,” Orion said, very evenly, tracing the ridges of the counter with his digit, “that my entire life might be a lie.”

Darkwing stared. From the corner of his optics, Orion saw as his servo lifted, hovered for a moment, before it very slowly lowered again.

“Right.” He drummed his digits twice on the counter, like he was trying to wake up from a dream. “Okay. You—you are inebriated. That’s fine. Totally normal. Perfectly regular. Every mech goes through that when they get drunk offa high-grade. Except you're a cogless miner. Which means you shouldn't have even gotten high-grade.”

Oh yeah. High-grade. Orion turned toward the cogged mech and made a half-sparked motion to grab for the cube again.

Darkwing smacked his servo. “No. Bad. You’re gonna ruin your internals.”

“I want to forget,” Orion mumbled.

“Primus,” Darkwing muttered. “Dreadwing wasn’t lying when he said you were acting weird.”

“I want to die.”

The silence stretched. Somewhere in the background, the bartender was cleaning the same glass over and over, optics fixed on the far wall.

“…Okay,” Darkwing said slowly, rubbing the bridge of his olfactory sensor. Haha. OLFactory sensor. Factory sensor. “That explains. Nothing.” He glanced sideways at Orion again. “You wanna tell me what happened, or do I gotta guess?”

“I’m from the future,” said Orion, like an idiot, then he immediately winced. “Wait, no, I’m not—don’t listen to me. I’m a liar.”

“I see.”

Orion exhaled a sound that was either a groan or a laugh or some tragic combination of the two. “I went to the Archives. For research.”

Darkwing twitched. “You aren’t supposed to—”

“I am a nerd,” Orion interrupted accidentally. Oops. “I like being a nerd. Everyone makes—heugh—” he gagged briefly before continuing smoothly, “Everyone makes fun of me for it but I think nerds are kinda cool.”

“…Okay,” Darkwing said, “let’s backtrack. Did you find something in there? What the frag made you cry?”

Orion hesitated. “You ever get the feeling you’re being… watched?”

Darkwing leveled him with a look. “Pix, I’m security. It’s my job to DO the watching.”

“No, bro, like… like someone’s watching your whole life. Like it’s all been planned, and you’re just going through the motions.”

Darkwing made a face. “Is that not just our current caste system.”

Orion hummed noncommittedly. “…Maybe. Or a religious one.”

A beat. “What.”

Orion tried to explain but the words kind of floated away from him. Uhm. Hm. He slumped forward against the bar again, forehead thunking lightly against the counter. He stayed like that for a klik or two, venting softly, then he slowly lifted his helm.

“You ever think,” he said, voice low and raspy, “that maybe Primus is a coward?”

Darkwing paused in the midst of doing...whatever he was doing. “Uh?”

Orion waved a servo. “No, no, listen—listen.” He sat up straighter, because this was important and someone needed to hear it. “He becomes a planet and that’s great but. You know? And he leaves us a glowy disco-ball that just magically disappears!" HE stopped and scrunched his face. "And it apparently has a smell. A smelly smell that smells smelly.”

In his processor there is a mini-Orion shaking himself back and forth. Come on, Pax, string those thoughts together!

Darkwing stared at him. Heh. He was doing that a lot. “…Are you talking about the Matrix???”

“Maybe,” Orion said calmly. He jabbed a digit against the bartop. “Or maybe, this time, I’m the Matrix. Ever think of that? Maybe I am the destiny.”

“You’re a miner. You’re one of the mechs with the farthest chances to have the Matrix.”

“Who says?” Orion whined, feeling honestly affronted. “No, actually, I don’t. Want. To be the Matrix. I don't WANT the Matrix. It’s probably what got me here in this mess in the first place.”

Darkwing stared. “How many high-grades did you have.”

“…Three.” Orion blinked slowly. “Four. But one of them was just a really sad energon, so it don’t count.”

Darkwing sighed, rubbing his optics. “You cannot just drink yourself into philosophical nonsense. Go home.”

“Home is the mines!” Orion shouted. “It’s all because I’m a miner, isn’t it?! That’s—heugh—” Darkwing scooted away from him, “that’s discriminatory!”

“Stop yelling.”

“You stop yelling!”

“I’m not yelling!”

They glared at each other. Orion leaned in. “Time isn’t real.”

“No,” Darkwing said immediately. “Stop.”

“Time is a loop, and I’m stuck in it, and I keep doing the same things over and over and over again, and every time I mess it up in a different way, and I mess HIM up and I make him leave—”

Orion’s voice cracked mid-rant, and he slapped a servo over his mouth.

Darkwing stared at him again. “What thing. Who left.”

Orion let out a keening whimper. “I miss him!”

“Primus???”

“No! D—Dee!” Orion hiccupped. “My best homeslicer in the whole world!”

“Holy Fuck please shut up,"

“He’s always there for me and I keep messing it up! Or what I said in the original time's biting me in the aft and now I’m paying the emotional consequences retroactively—”

“Please. Please don't talk about things biting your aft.”

“I’m looping, Darkwing!” Orion wailed, gripping the edge of the bartop like it was all that tethered him to the planet. “I’m looping, and I keep making the same mistakes, and even when I don’t, it still falls apart, and he’s always mad, and even if I know it’s my fault I never know how to fix it—”

“Okay—okay! Breathe! Vent! Do something other than melt down on this counter like hot slag!”

Orion listened to Darkwing and slumped slowly off his seat and melted down onto the floor instead.

Darkwing awkwardly reached down and tried to rub his back, except it was more like smacking him gently in the shoulder blades with a flat palm. “There, there,” he said stiffly. “It’ll be fine.”

Orion sniffled. “No, it won’t.”

Darkwing whimpered, running a servo down his face in distress. “Okay. Okay. Then—uh—walk it off?”

Orion paused and got up, wobbling,

Darkwing's vocalizer shrieked static and grabbed his arm. “NOT literally! Not literally! Just—come here,  yeah. Sit. Sit down harder..”

Orion made a wobbly noise and dropped his face back onto the counter. “I can feel all of Cybertron looking at me.”

“Cybertron is not looking at you. The only thing looking at you is that poor bartender over there, and I think he’s more scared than anything.”

“I’m a disgrace,” Orion whimpered, cheek pressed against the countertop. “I was supposed to save the future.”

“You’re a miner, Pix.”

“DUDE. MY NAME IS PAAAAAx!” Orion wailed, spark-broken.

“OKAY, OKAY, I APOLOGIZE!” Darkwing yelped. “Just. Okay. Calm down.”

Orion didn’t move.

Darkwing leaned a little closer, hesitantly. “Come on, Pi—Pax. Use your words. Like a big mech.”

There was a long silence.

Then Orion whispered miserably, “I think I might be in love with D-16.”

Darkwing slammed his face onto the counter beside him.