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mmmmmmmmmm papa optimus is angyyyyy (I am severely dehydrated)

I really wanna post the fic but I know I must wait or I'll fall into madness trying to finish both DeceptiBee and SecondBee at the same time...

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Somewhere, unidentifiable in source due to the echo off many walls and rooms and closed doors, but somewhere, a siren has cut loose, screaming at high frequency in an effort to reach its target (very unfortunate for the audials of those actually near the origin... but that didn't matter, because it wasn't for them, and the individual responsible was far too tired to care).

The chirps and dips of the noise are not random, they form a distinct pattern, a simple language of their own among emergency vehicles, and it's yelling, 'I am here. I will find you.'

These were the same sentiments Ratchet would give for anyone trapped beneath rubble, captured in war, and now, for someone imprisoned in this so-called new peace. @autobotmedic

The clarion call cuts through the madness.

Ratchet’s siren was a topic of hot debate among the scouts, as Optimus understood it. A lifeline, a rebuke, sometimes a warning, but Ratchet always meant it. You knew when you heard it that Ratchet meant business.

He skids to a stop down the hallway and vaults the stairway railing, landing with a thud on the second floor. His HUD is glitching, overlayed with glyphs he doesn’t bother to actually read as he shoulder-checks a door open and grabs the guard on the other side by the collar-fairing to toss them away. Orion does not stop to check whether they’re dazed or utterly unconscious, he has to keep going, he’s got to get out.

He’ll give Starscream credit where credit is due. This upgraded body is fast, faster than he has ever been, and Optimus can twist with more range and dodge more smoothly than he’s ever had to— because he does have to, now, one solid hit might down him.

He’s still got his horn. It thunders like a war cry, drowning out Soundwave’s voice on the alarms, but the guards are standing their ground, they’re not moving. They’re not going to let him make it—

Optimus pivots and slams through a window, heedless of just how high up he is. He’ll figure something out.

::CO-ORDINATES?::

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“—et g- let— let me-!”

Orion wakes abruptly when something in his fist gives an audibly distressed beep, struggling and smacking against his chassis.

“Whh,” he strains, voicebox clicking as his optics power on and he releases his hold on—

On Rung. On Rung, a thigh scraped and crumpled by- by his fingers, stained blue and dented, he did that with his servo— there’s fuel leaking on him, hot and tangy with static—

He is moving away before he can process the full extent of the damage, the energon pooling on the berth from a burst line smearing between them as Optimus tumbled off the raised platform of Megatron’s berth, a panicked “Oh, slag,” rushing out, because he’d—

Rung’s saying something, he’s trying to, to calm him down, but why, that doesn’t make sense, he hurt him, Rung, he broke him, he’s bleeding but he’s reaching for Optimus anyway, needing him, depending on him—

Orion stumbles to his feet and runs.

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“…I miss my friends.”

Optimus admits this to his knees, loosely tucked up on himself and holding onto his shins. A defensive curl was the first reflex pre-loaded onto any mech, meant to protect their spark and fuel pump in case of a collapse or quake. It covers up his open chassis and partially revealed inner workings, which is nice, but it also makes him feel a little like a startled sparkling.

And it blocks his grill, making it a little hard to pull in cool air, but it’s not like he’s really doing any exertion at the moment.

He hasn’t seen a single Autobot among the… dozens? It’s got to be in the low hundreds at this point… of Cybertronians who have come and gone from Megatron’s fortified audience chamber-slash-war room. A fair scattering of Neutrals, a warband of Junkion tribes-mecha from the asteroid wastes, Decepticons were a given, but Autobots?

None.

He cannot help but despair at the thought. Perhaps all of this was for nothing. Bluejack said they were trying to get off-planet, but how many of them were successful?

What were they planning to do with that success?

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Another round of modifications, of tampering with him to pare Optimus down, down, down.

He lost his forearm-mounted shield generators this time, the right one replaced with a grapple and winch and the left hollowed out for something to be installed later. Neither of these interfere with his ability to haul rubble and dig out shrapnel, but Shockwave blocks him out for recovery time anyway.

He'd fielded entire siege-breaks missing major organs or riddled with bullet holes. This feels like a meek excuse in comparison.

Optimus lays on his back in the dark and feels at the gap in his arm, numb to the touch. It is the same arm that supports Megatron's cannon. Briefly, he entertains the thought that Starscream and Shockwave endeavour to fortify him similarly, but, no.

His altered body would not be able to handle the recoil.

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who am I? what is my name?

perhaps it is laika: loved, so loved, but only so long to live, kissed on the head and sent heavenward

home is a long way from here

odysseus set adrift, or frost, with miles to go before I sleep

orion pulls his bowstring taut

catch and release

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all I'm saying is if I had been hamlet or macbeth or any of those guys I would've done it better and none of that bad stuff would've happened to me

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Coming to a stop in the hall, Optimus has to really rev his processor to rattle loose an answer, surprised by the subject. “Public baths weren’t common in Iacon, or at least, they were uncommon by the time I came online,” he pieces together. “Salons were more popular, partially for the broader range of maintenance and vanity services they provided and partially for discretion; salons were notoriously quiet about their clientele lists and a salon artist with a high-rating guild license could travel to tend to clients outside of the salon they contracted with, if their clients called on them. Shockwave frequented two in particular when he… when he was still a Senator.”

Yes, that about covered Optimus’ entire knowledge of the subject.

“Why do you— hm. Megatron.”

Not as accusatory or disgruntled as Optimus tended to default to, but puzzled. He’s cocked his helm to the side, finials shifting at the scent of heated oil. A washrack, a bath… He was no stranger to having to share amenities. Tight quarters were a simple fact of life aboard the Ark, and the washracks were communal. The Autobots either kept themselves politely spaced apart or quietly looked after each other, as quick and efficient as possible.

The excess of an entire pool of oil to submerge himself in was absurd. That Megatron was in the room with him brought this entire thing up from absurd to borderline obscene, an arm coming up to try and block the Matrix from view. He momentarily considers trying to run, but the bomber jet is standing in front of the only door.

“The taxes,” Optimus tries to change the subject. “We’re collecting taxes already? I didn’t think we had currency.”

He waits at the foot of the throne already, the decorative collar fixed back at his throat but not attached to the anchor point Megatron had installed. Optimus regards the mech with those cool blue optics, the end of his chain in servo.

“Do you need this?”

"I don't know- do I?" Megatron rested his cheek against his servo, watching Orion with amused optics, and then gestured with the other servo. "You've been doing so well, I hadn't felt the need- if you keep this up.." Megatron tipped his helm at the other mech and then up stood from the throne, and gestured with his helm for Orion to follow. "I have a mind to reward you for it, actually. Come- walk with me, I'd like to show you something." And then, a crooked grin. "Don't worry- nothing so terrible. I reason you'll like this one a lot."

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The slightest frown, but Optimus carefully leverages himself up on his modified pedes by leaning against the arm of the throne for a moment, the chain left to dangle. “Answering a question with another question is poor form, Megatron.”

They both know he’ll follow. It seemed inevitable, a fact of their being, as if by some fate Vector Sigma thought it funny to put magnets in them that only attuned to each other; Megatron went where he would and caused problems, and Optimus would come after him, usually too late to prevent Megatron but just in time to help.

Always forced to react or respond, never the first to act.

His obedience so far had more to do with the care he held for his Autobots than any particular loyalty to Megatron, but Optimus tilts his helm anyway, the chain momentarily jingling against the clear armor plating over his chassis. “Forgive me if I’m not quite thrilled by the thought of a surprise present from you. You’ve made a habit of surprises that kill others.”

He waits at the foot of the throne already, the decorative collar fixed back at his throat but not attached to the anchor point Megatron had installed. Optimus regards the mech with those cool blue optics, the end of his chain in servo.

“Do you need this?”

"I don't know- do I?" Megatron rested his cheek against his servo, watching Orion with amused optics, and then gestured with the other servo. "You've been doing so well, I hadn't felt the need- if you keep this up.." Megatron tipped his helm at the other mech and then up stood from the throne, and gestured with his helm for Orion to follow. "I have a mind to reward you for it, actually. Come- walk with me, I'd like to show you something." And then, a crooked grin. "Don't worry- nothing so terrible. I reason you'll like this one a lot."

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{ @honor-cxde }

“Orion,” Optimus corrects, gently, finials cocked in such innocence. “Megatron insists. I would rather not find out what will happen should… I mean, it isn’t…”

The tarnished Prime sighs, fingers drumming awkwardly at his opposite forearm.

“We both know who I am. It’s fine. Just— it keeps him happy.”

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He has grit stuck in his tires, a dull ache in his shoulder actuators and lower dorsal support structure, and mud smeared over much of his forearms and lower legs.

But it had been work. Simple, uncomplicated work, with no one’s life on the line or societal collapse as a potential outcome.

Orion dug debris free, loaded the debris into the open bed trailer, and then hauled it to the designated drop off site not too far from where he’d been put this morning. And he’d done that until it had gotten dark enough to need the overhead lights rigged up by the other workers, and then he’d still worked on clearing out his own plot until his tank pinged half-empty.

Now just to wait until someone comes ‘round to get him.

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If you’d like to talk with Optimus in regards to the event and you’re not sure where to start, please like this post and I’ll come up with a starter :>

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I dont draw them often but they are very dear to me

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Optimus qiut the prime

Maybe… he quit his job because he won the lottery:]

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If you’d like to talk with Optimus in regards to the event and you’re not sure where to start, please like this post and I’ll come up with a starter :>