Optimus Prime Isn't a Psychopath
In the distant year of 2005…
On the planet Cybertron, in a cafe.
How could that line be so long?
No, it wasn't. It was the trick of the light, that's all. Look at it go, spindling into the horizon like a fucking metal snake that chattered and talked.
Was he exaggerating? He was told he was extra drama sometimes. No, no, he was just stating facts. He found that that helped most, to keep his inner central processing unit to shut up. Just state the facts. It allowed him to look at situations objectively and calmly.
Main case in point: that queue was fucking never-ending.
Optimus Prime ran his hand along his head. He was trying to not focus on the line of bots in front of him, queuing for energon coffee, but apparently every fucking cybernetic dipshit wanted it the same time he did. Its not like he had much else to focus on. The interior of the cafe was bland. Metal orange walls, intricate triangles and lines engraved in them. The shop itself was box shaped.
He'd told his second in command Ironhide he'd be back to base before the end of lunch break, but in the face of this he'd be late.
God, what then? He'd be responsible, for sure. Everyone would be waiting for him. Ironhide would have no idea how to run the office without him, obviously.
The thought alone throbbed deep in the cables in his head painfully.
There was always the option of leaving the queue now. But after waiting this long? Yes? No? He leaned out. The robot behind him, a young pretty looking triple changer, expressed suppressed glee, but he thought better of it and sank back into position.
The fembot scowled and made a sound like chalk in a grinder.
At the counter, the barista took one look at him at handed him a tablet.
"Mark yourself as a leader."
"Excuse me?"
"You're the Autobot resistance leader. Mark it down on the tablet."
"Why?" Optimus's head snapped back irritably.
"As a leader in a position of power, you have to pay 5% more credits. Put your name, address, registration number and ID down here."
That barista, Optimus thought. He looked so smug. So self satisfied. Fuck him. Holding him up with this pointless crap. What was the point of all that registration?
"Wow." Prime said, "What a waste of time."
Clearly, the barista's twitching left eye indicated his mock had sadly not flown over his head.
"What?"
"What?" Optimus repeated, filling in 'Optumes Pwine Pwoh' under his name on the tablet.
"You've got some nerve. What did you say? Waste of time?" The barista was raising his voice now, challenging him.
"Yeah, oops, my bad."
"Humph! I can't believe-"
That was honestly enough for Optimus Prime.
He swung out his energon axe and swung up. In a burst of heat, the barista's head fell cloven in two on the counter.
The Autobot leader grabbed his coffee and speed walked out, not out of shame, just anger.
Fuck, that was wrong of him. Still, fuck that barista. Eugh. Questions of morality flashed through his optics, but not properly. Each question - that was badly handled, what is wrong with you? - made him more anxious, so he didn't consider them properly. Instead, he thought about each quickly like reading the preview of a book instead of the book itself. Shut up, shut up.
Deep breaths. He checked the time on the holographic projector on his wrist. He was late.