Daybreak occurred approximately once every thirty-three deca-cycles on Cybertron. Night time typically lasted for a full twelve deca-cycles. As a whole, the "dead" planet was far more imbalanced time-wise than its significantly more radiant spiritual successor, Earth. The quick transitions from frigid murkiness to scorching heat exhausted newcomers, and even the locals surviving on Cybertron's titanic continents found it difficult to switch between living and recharging so frequently.

Optimus was no exception. His body was balanced precariously on the stable edge built on the top-most end of the Gate. His shining blue legs swung restlessly back and forth, banging often with the Gate's stiff varnishing. The windowed chest cut across by splotches of faded red hue rhythmically contracted and expanded. The bright sunlight that shone from Cybertron's distant star (at the later stage of its life) collapsed on the two interconnected Autobots, diverging and splurging all throughout their bodies. Both robots' reflective portions gleamed richly in the yellow, purifying warmth.

What was truly hilarious (for a silent observer, glimpsing probably 50 feet away) was that Optimus' usually dignified, somber countenance was completely reversed. In sharp contrast to his upright stance, the de facto Commander of the Autobots lay hunched over, dwarfing the small blue robot surely crushed beneath him. A jolting whirring pulsated from within his voice box, rumbling with anticipation. To describe it as "snoring" would be an improper statement... Optimus would certainly think so.

Brilliant blue retinas flickered weakly open.

"Arcee..."

Optimus's slack-jawed expression (although he was unaware of it) loosened with relief.

"Geroff..."

Optimus chuckled lightly and blinked twice. He let his heavy head droop downward and gazed fixedly at the blue dome spanning his vision.

"Geroff..."

He sniffled and wobbled the blue dome in a rocking fashion. He tried to communicate with it.

"Hello?"

"Get the fuck off of me!"

Optimus' tight, etched manner fractured like an decrepit jet exhaust port. Slowly, the tactical and imaginative mind fluttered back to working condition as he tenderly lifted his enormous arms off the quaking blue dome... and the rest of whatever was attached limply to it. He blankly stared ahead of himself as Arcee arose, rubbing her head furiously.

Thump.

Unfortunately, the motor skill required to remain poised perfectly on top of a comparatively narrow metal framework proved to be too grueling for a still-drowsy Optimus, who promptly fell painfully on his wire-framed back. He made several attempts to elevate himself by thrusting downward with both elbow joints, but capitulated to his lethargic motors immediately.

"So when they say you're a heavy sleeper..."

Optimus grinned widely as Arcee loomed over him. She appeared to be "looming" from his angled perspective, which was an unusual role reversal for him.

"I am not, I assure you," he retorted, disgusted by the poorly-concealed "awakening" slur smudging his voice, "Just heavy."

"Whatever," she casually scoffed, extending a small hand towards his right arm, still planted on the floor. Optimus's browed ridges expressed doubt in the purest form, but Arcee's steady fingers and concentrated focus convinced him. Gripping it tightly with his thick digits, Optimus delicately shrugged his arm downward, unexpectedly feeling a reciprocal force greater than his own haul him to his feet. He took a moment to hunch himself over and adjust to the replenished flow of Energon seep into his central processor.

"You really are aging," she teased, gently slapping the small of his back with a fierce but quick hit.

"And you still have not ceased your incessant profanity."

Optimus watched Arcee laugh with disdain, obviously realizing her earlier livid demand.

"It's my thing, Boss-Bot," she remarked, "It's a stress reliever."

She poked the center of his red chest, causing a slight smidgen of discomfort to arise for Optimus, who spent the entire night tragically abusing his chest framework due to his slouched slumber.

"You should try it sometime."

"No thank you," Optimus responded, "But I do appreciate your ridiculous offer."

"Well... what time is it?"

Optimus opened his mouth to answer, but Arcee was already faced away from him, surveying the passing acidic vapor formations sailing across the brown sky. Another one of her annoying habits, he reasoned, was particularly this frustrating procedure of asking a question that she did not expect an answer to. This instance was more justifiable however. The gaseous shapes traveling across the horizon mingled with the wavy streaks of light that tore through their puffy shells. The illumination provided was neither uplifting nor dismal – instead, it made Optimus shudder internally, and linger over perpetual unease.

Drifting...

"Optimus?"

He evidently forgot to look back at her timely enough to avoid arousing carefully-concocted suspicion.

"We have to tell the others," he suddenly affirmed, "is your Energon still in good fashion?"

Arcee fumbled behind her back for a while, before producing the two elusive capsules that had amazingly resisted a full recharge-cycle's worth of possible damage. He would have liked to credit this to his protective arms, but he knew the specific positioning was purely borne out of luck.

"Come," he bid the smaller blue Autobot, who strolled behind him. His first plan formulated for the day was to request Ratchet to examine his auditory faculties, as he could have sworn hearing a discrete groan emerging from Arcee as they stepped into the elevator.

. . .

"And a bottle of oil!"

"Packets of more nuts!"

"Energon!"

"Crap!"

"And then he said - "

"Buckets of junk n' garbage with a side of - "

The rest of the words were drowned out by the overpowering noise competing for Autobot attention. As Optimus had predicted, relaying the information about the secured Energon yielded many results. As an effective organizational system for responsibly dividing up supplies was not in place yet, Ratchet had re-purposed his gruff, objective medical voice to be inflected with an even higher amplitude than usual. The booming power carried far, far enough to stir Autobots from late recharge-cycles and spur the quick sharing of local supplies. Ratchet himself stood on a slightly elevated pedestal, whilst cupping his blocky fingers around his mouth. Shouting commands and orders to willing Autobots, the medical automaton had relentlessly been attacking his voice box for the past few cycles or so.

"Prime!"

Optimus heard the subverted distress buried underneath the logical pitch, and so hurriedly shoved Autobots out of his way to hone in on his target. As he towered above most he had encountered, this proved to be a simple task.

"Yes?" he shouted, noting Ratchet's descent from his higher platform.

"We need to go inside a private bunker!"

"Correct Doctor!"

Although disappointed to re-tread the exact same path he just forged, Optimus restrained his disappointed expression and again made short work of the smaller robots in front of him. Strong but pitifully stout Ratchet had significantly more trouble, receiving random knicks to the head gear as elbows, arms, and shoulders servos carelessly batted him around. It was only four nano-cycles worth of torment however, as Optimus shimmied down a nearby slope and into the specified location. He paused briefly, observing Ratchet slide roughly downward and enter the rectangular structure. Optimus snapped the metal doors shut.

"Insane... the whole lot of them," Ratchet protested, fiercely waving his arms around. Optimus smiled as Ratchet's thin mouth curved madly downward, nasal cavities flaring in anger.

"We need to organize our supplies better," Optimus suggested, "We cannot expect our fellow Autobots to behave cordially if the resources are so scarce... or the circumstances so dire."

"But madly all rushing in and trying to take as much as possible?" Ratchet questioned.

"Perhaps that is the only way it can be done for now, old friend."

Ratchet swiveled lightly towards Optimus, adjusting his large-framed spectacles to they sat comfortably on the bridge of his cuboid nose rather than the tip.

"Can you believe their crap?" Ratchet genuinely asked.

"I can," Optimus muttered, "And you should - "

He broke off. His argumentative conversation with the aged medic bot had temporarily distracted him from examining Ratchet's heath. In a show of immense irony, Ratchet was surviving with poor fitness. His visual sensors were deprived of Energon and were blinking alarmingly, while his oral gears audibly made ghastly noises as the jaw servo moved. Admittedly, Cybertronian oxygen levels had faded the previously red-white color infused with clear lightning bolt insignias, but it was not responsible for the numerous scratches, rusted portions, and blatantly rotten aspects adorning his armor. The lack of intelligence frightened Optimus. Or rather, it was not the absence of intelligence, but rather the diminishing, draining vortex Ratchet's mind had surely been through. The same intuitive wit and sharp tongue still remained, albeit greatly reduced and irreparably damaged.

"How long has it been," Optimus moved closer to scrutinize his doctor, "since you partook in the sharing process yourself, old friend?"

Optimus believed that the usage of his almost-forgotten friendly greeting terminology would reinvigorate the downtrodden Autobot. It worked momentarily.

"I - " Ratchet began, closing his visual sensors in a concentrated motion, " - probably very little time."

"Lies," Optimus softly whispered, "To this date, I have never seen you claim something for yourself."

Ratchet turned his head down and shuffled his red feet in a circular movement.

"You probably scrounged for spare supplies occasionally to keep yoursef functioning..."

The medic bot cleared his voice box abruptly, almost pleadingly.

"...Barely."

"What - " Ratchet huffed, swallowing runaway fluid rushing through his throat, "What – why are you doing this to me?"

Optimus attempted to speak before being cut off.

"You never used to be this way..."

'None of us are the same way," Optimus interrupted, feeling frustration welling up in the pit of his stomach cavity, "We're all deformed versions of ourselves."

"Cynicism," Ratchet pointed out, "with your name, sounds stupid."

Optimus chortled. Outside, Autobots trampled each other to acquire supplies, powerful footsteps echoing through the small bunker. Ratchet, hearing the same annoying clatter, walked briskly to the two metal doors and clamped them shut. Optimus coughed as a portion of liquid accumulated in his oral cavity.

"Want me to look at that?" Ratchet stated.

Optimus cleared his throat and pinched his throat lining. A sore sensation was developing, but he chose to veil this from Ratchet.

"I have to go," Optimus asserted, "Take this."

He tapped the outside of his right thigh and a minuscule compartment peeked out. Two shimmering gray packets lay motionless inside the rectangular box, and he promptly clenched both. Bringing them up to Ratchet's retinal level, he paused for several seconds before Ratchet understood and extended his open palm. Optimus dropped both packets into the rough hands. He turned around.

"Start to eat more old friend," Optimus urged, "This will restore your color, but they're not especially flavorful. Scrapped together from old nuts and low oil."

"Food is food," Ratchet argued, "And... thank you."

"It's not weak to try to enjoy yourself."

Optimus tore the two metal doors open, leaving them open in the distant wish that Ratchet would notice the yellow light pouring in. He came to the brown cliff and lengthened his stride to adjust to the change in slope. In a few short cycles, he had reached the top of the small mound. The crowd surrounding the pile of supplies (which no longer existed, spare for some broken servos and odd gears) was gone. One or two Autobots were rolling over each other to seize a large triangular container, but they quickly dispersed after seeing Optimus' grave expression.

The entire Base was silent. The courtyard where supplies typically were distributed was adorned with four tall gray walls connected to a dirt floor. The acid rain would occasionally descend through the ceiling-less Base and burn off the tender Autobot coating, but luckily today contained pleasant weather. Optimus bent down near the pile and twirled the triangular object in his hands for a while.

"Boss Bot."

Optimus turned around slowly. He knew by the higher pitched tone it was certainly not Ratchet. In fact, the nickname usage and slight static shadowing the voice served as distinctive markers to any Autobot, who would instantly recognize the mellow calling of Bumblebee.

"Yes?" he replied, noting with confusion Bumblebee's exaggerated paint job. The yellow and black highlights still streaked the metallic body, but red flames now ran jaggedly over the chest. "What is that?"

"A gift from Wheeljack," Bumblebee iterated, "I have to tell you something."

"Go on," Optimus encouraged.

"We found a new signal."

Optimus took some time to process this, flaring his nostrils dangerously.

"Where is it located?" Optimus pressed, shaking Bumblebee's shoulders vigorously.

"Um," Bumblebee blabbered, the pressure encircling his shoulders rendering discomfort, "It was on I-Alpha. About two nanoclicks from the center. About 270 degrees."

Optimus took some time to register this. The specificity of Bumblebee's directions and his anxious request had aroused some suspicion, but he had, regardless of the cynicism Ratchet was critiquing, an undefinable credulity in the scrappy young bot's work ethic. Of course his more inattentive and rash actions would occasionally seep into surface, but he could not exactly explicate why his attuning into Bumblebee's vast stories would be so numerous. No matter what the yellow bot tried, the vocal processor never seemed to lie.

Optimus released Bumblebee's quivering shoulders and rotated painfully as his hip flexor protested. He rolled his arms backward to collapse into his back. Bumblebee, perplexed, attempted to speak.

"Commander!"

The blue legs twisted outwards and folded in on themselves.

"Do you need any help to go with you?"

The silver torso gyrated inwards and squished into a compact box.

"Wait for a second Commander!"

His head crushed inside his chest before shooting out next to the engine.

"We don't know what exactly it is!"

Optimus initiated his engine. A short rumbling noise proceeded. Slowly, the truck began to pick up speed, the tires pushing through the dirt and displacing chunks of floor. Dust clouds formed behind him, shrouding Bumblebee from sight. The yellow bot grew smaller as Optimus accelerated away, heading for the large hole in the Courtyard walls to his left. As the hole expanded in size, Optimus revved up the dual cylinders and felt himself float off the ground for two cycles before rotating to face the approaching ground. He was not worried. He had leaped from the second floor of the Autobot Base to the ground many times before. Even the formidable Gate swiftly moved beneath his tires as he forced himself off the metal finishing. The shock of landing arrived painfully, but it was quickly neutralized by the huge absorbers stocked underneath the black tires.

The Autobot Base was fading quickly. The recurrent blue aura began to once again swathe its misty presence around the Base's sharp corners. Gradually, the blue mist faded into a hze, then a blurb, then nothing. Optimus engaged his navigation system so that I-Alpha appeared on his on-screen display seated in the driver-side window.

Idiot.

He made a mistake by not requesting back up. He could have alternatively chosen Arcee, or Ratchet, or perhaps even Bumblebee himself to accompany him on his long drive. Some blurring rock formations to his sides provided a fleeting comfort, but the destination was quickly approaching. I-Alpha, merely 300 nanoclicks from the Base, proved to be especially more difficult to discover. Buried deep within aged mineral forests overtaken by a combination of Cybertronian technology, I-Alpha was every bit as secretive and burrowed away as Optimus would like to believe. Of course it was a mythical place, but the probability of discovering such a distinct energy source was.. refreshing, to say the least. The blurring rocks no longer appeared, replaced by a dense jungle of towering structures. Six black tires skidded to a halt.

Optimus' motor cylinder whizzed in excitement as the blinking green dot intensified. A dusty purple sign, embossed with the Autobot logo, shone colorful letters.

I-Alpha. Intersection 44. Junction E.

His lower body contracted inward and pushed simultaneously through his chest. The dual windowed torso jettisoned on top of blue legs, quickly sprouting an oblong face.

"Coordinates."

Optimus had expected his navigation system to struggle with the process of adapting to new terrain. He had traversed I-Alpha before, except this was a lone venture, prefaced by an unusual circumstance. Not to mention, Junction E lay in uncharted territory: pinned right in the middle of an unusual system of caves. These were not ordinary brown rock formations… rather, they were constructed out of the metal shells of discarded Autobot scout ships. The blinking green dot buzzed wildly as he rotated 360 degrees, aiming to pinpoint the exact location.

Beep.

He paused mid-rotation. The direction he was currently facing led straight into the center of the wrecked ships. Unfortunately, this path was incredibly hazardous - pointed spikes were pierced randomly throughout his "walkway", and the crusty ships stretched across the horizon were jolting and hissing. The weight of an Autobot ship (even a low-level scout) would usually require the muscular efforts of twelve sturdy Autobots to move. Therefore, if it so happened that any debris detached itself, Optimus' body would not be found. He would remain crushed underneath a gargantuan metal casket, buried in his eternal coffin for eons.

Beep.

"Damn."

Optimus felt his hands quiver as he shifted his shoulder upwards. A red light, weakened from continuous disuse, shot out of an overlapping compartment. The light draped over the pathway aided him… only a little.

"Marker. Optimus Prime. Just outside I-Alpha, Junction E." His marker would be found, but his chassis would not.

Slowly, he walked forward. The spikes were easy to avoid, as they stuck out prominently and were laced with blue Energon sparkling at their pointed tips. The decayed bodies were more of a problem… sadly, the diseases that could thrive on a dead Autobot's decayed matter were as numerous as they were toxic. They, along with the spiked shoots, formed a nearly impregnable barrier. Optimus's agility reduced the tension, but only by so much.

He watched a small hole in a nearby body seep with blue Energon. He thought revoltingly of the spikes.

The rusted summits now were directly above Optimus' antennas. They could sense an impending fall, and he would be granted three seconds to dodge out of the way of the catastrophic downfall. This was difficult to visualize however, as the ships' large surface area rendered escape improbable. He was relieved then, to pass by the first four ships in a relatively stable fashion. Creaking and moaning came from above his head, but this constant fear was natural: in any case, he would admit himself to a profound bit of superstition… if anything terrible were to occur, he would know.

The walkway brought him to the steps of a small mound of garbage. It was only comparatively small when considering the grand size of the scout vehicles, for it towered several megastories above Optimus' head. It was stacked weight-wise, as per Cybertronian automatic physics. Large pistons and broken shields formed the base, while fine sprockets and bits of bolts lined the top. It resembled an Earth structure, but he felt his processor numb into static as he could not remember the specific name…

The green blinking dot was beating with an anxious compulsion. Spare generator or not, the signal that being emitted was undeniably powerful. Optimus skipped over two more rusted chassis' and leaped a third before unthinkingly plunging his hands into the center of the garbage pile. His sensory panel moaned in bitter protest; sloppy liquid gushed forward and drenched Optimus' midsection, furnishing it with a brand new moss paint finish. He was never one to lose his mental faculties over disgust, but the liquid was oozing in a highly undignified manner, wrapping around the thin depressions in his torso and filling the spaces with a pungent odor.

"Shit…" he groaned, afterward realizing Arcee's negative influence on him.

Rumbling. Moving. Silence.

He ignored the first two sounds, assuming quickly that the same scouts were misbehaving above him, but this clattering actually had physical effects: most notably, his foothold began to collapse. His antennas screamed with a fierce, piercing beeping. With his hands now graciously removing the weight bearing portions of the base, the heap of trash was left balancing itself on three flimsy spoked wheels. Optimus could see them just across his now trapped hands, methodically cracking. With a mad animation, he leaned his entire body backwards and tugged powerfully at his forearms, which were aching from the compounded tension. His hands did not move.

Crack.

He alternated to utilizing his legs, jumping lightly to place both feet next to his fingers. More pushing ensued.

Crack.

His legs were tiring. His spine tilted downwards and mushed into the floor of cosmic waste.

Crack.

Anguish. Desperation. Optimus tore at his arms, thrusting them up.

"NO!"

Thud.

His antennas returned to silence. His arms were restricted, but so was the rest of his body. The immense, squashing pressure was relieved, but now a more uniform, consistent suffocation was beginning to take hold. According to his visual input, the total brightness of his surroundings (or rather, what was surrounding him) had reached total zero. He could not even fumble in the darkness, arms cramped far away from the rest of his body. His chest was compressing gradually. Eventually the overwhelming stream of confinement would break through his ribbed plating, crush the inner protective servos, and reach his core… where he knew his spark chamber would inevitably be fated to lose its sapphire strand of generative electricity.

Screech.

A burst of intolerable pain. The load currently squeezing his back was making its way through him, eating through the armor plating, stripping the Autobot of his defensive mechanisms. After the hard outer shell, the rest of him would only be appetizing meals. The pile began to bend his spinal chain strangely, Optimus feeling his barreled chest swell with heat as the torso was visibly being ripped apart.

Arm.

One limb remained free. Optimus' right arm, freshly relieved as its load was flown seamlessly onto the Autobot's back, thrashed around. Optimus spotted a nearby hexagon only two finger lengths from his outstretched palms.

"Come on!"

No use. The bundle burrowing through his posterior was far too restrictive to allow energy to be moved. The same pungent odor filled his nostrils insultingly.

"AH!"

Another piece, probably located in his trapped leg, shattered underneath the weight. The pain was distracting, but Optimus still fought to remain fixated on the green hexagon just out of reach. A small pile of darkness rolled over, bringing the hexagon to just within his middle finger's clutch.

"That's… it…"

Although he had no conscious awareness of it, Optimus perceived his treasured chamber slowly becoming next-in-line. There was no more protective coating. It was simply a matter of time before…

And his finger touched it.

Optimus engaged his face plate. For a brief moment, the hexagon only shivered in the dark loneliness - before shrinking and promptly exploding. Chunks of the hexagon, set aflame by the colossal energy spawned, slapped Optimus distastefully across the jaw. The face protection reduced the damage, but it could not possibly prevent against the kinetic energy set in motion. The huge burden lying on top of him was elevated to a significant degree, but he also rose with it, smashing into it as he floated briefly. He remained hugged to the pile of filth for another four nanocycles as the inferno whipped around below him and shot straight up. The heated air expunged both the pile of rubble and Optimus, who flew through the comfortingly cold air before landing on the ground with a profound thud.

The fire was not over. Although he wasn't physically capable of putting his head up and looking at the now destroyed pile of garbage, he saw a massive tornado of fire emerge three paces from him, capitalizing on the lighter components in the pile. The fire beamed into the porous sky, mixing in with acid and eventually rumbling to a halt. The heat died off.

Optimus stood erect, but quickly clutched his sides and fell to his knees. The danger of the situation had temporarily postponed the sensations, but the spasms now returned in full strength. His left leg was refusing to move, while his abdominal walls were expanding in vain. Blue patches, quite colorful in aesthetics, were shining through the thickened coating.

"Internal leaking…" he coughed, unable to maintain an even current in his chest.

Beep.

Of course, the blinking green dot was still doggedly shouting itself, but the sustained damage to Optimus' body reduced its effectiveness. He bent down fully, letting the injured metal sag slightly towards the ground. Blue energon dripped from his lips and splashed across the flooring.

Squelch.

Optimus widened his eyes in surprise.

"What the - "

The sound did not come from flooring. The energon that was dancing across the "flooring" was dynamically adjusting, tilting, moving, and falling… all to accommodate the "flooring", which was muttering Cybertronian.

"3939393939393…" the floor spoke.

Optimus backed away as a slender crimson head pushed through the layering. It was attached to a triangular body backed by gunmetal wings. The rising form's legs shakily stabilized the rest of it, but was still forcing the form to crouch.

"39393939393…"

Optimus quietly reached behind his thigh for a small compartment, repeating the touching movement to spawn another compartment, this time laced with a silver dagger.

"You killed me!" the autonomous robot roared.

He leaped onto the fragile Optimus, clawing at his exposed sides with success, forcibly withdrawing blue liquid. Optimus yelped in horror.

"You killed me! You killed me!"

Shank.

Silence.

The form became motionless on top of the injured Autobot. A golden blade was pushed through its chest. Optimus blinked rapidly. The form was considerably lighter than him. Its weight was not tormenting his leaking chest, nor his leg.

"Please…" it begged, "Take me away from here."

Optimus tried to push it off himself, but the form remained clinged to his shoulders, refusing to budge.

"Please."

The larger Autobot slowed his hurried swipes. The form's crimson head, resting almost peacefully on the broad chest, whimpered.

"Help me."

Optimus retracted his blade, feeling the figure convulse violently, still somehow remaining flat on his chest.

"I knew you would help me..."

"What are you?" Optimus dared, keeping his blade still no farther than a meter close to the robot's concave torso.

"I don't know."

The blinking green dot vanished from the display.

. . .

"Just let me help..."

"And what?"

"Let me - "

"No."

"What about - "

"No..."

A feminine voice, persistent yet delicate, soothingly...

Megatron extended his arms in a smooth, unilateral movement. Tightness was flooding the shoulder sprockets, until -

Snap.

"That's better," he mentioned privately to her, relieved that the gear was gradually filling with replenishing oil. "See? I didn't need you."

She guffawed.

"You underestimate me," she retorted. "You, and that loser Star-"

"Enough."

The female paused mid-sentence. Megatron's outstretched limbs returned to his sides, obediently rotating to test functionality. Aside from isolated although recurrent twitching, the arm had successfully regained most of its' former range of motion. Originally he mused over dragging it into the kitchen, where he could procure a tissue wrap. She thwarted this however, incessantly offering her help and detaining him in his earthwood chair. She seemed greatly offended by this.

"Z..." he consolingly spoke.

"Don't call me that," she spat. "I hate that nickname."

He snorted.

"I always tell you, and your faulty audio processor never picks it up..."

"What should I call you then?"

"By my actual name."

Megatron disregarded Xenon for now. Her name was a disgraceful tribute to an Earth element, which already disgusted him. Besides, he had long ago named himself Cybertron's sole protector of culture, and therefore felt it was his duty to keep her off of Earth mentalities. This way, a key portion of Cybertronian legacy was being preserved... and he wouldn't have to vomit. This attitude was sharply different to hers, which was composed of a fiery vernacular, but also a calming mindset, eager to never refuse a request, no matter how insignificant or humil -

"It was your turn to clean!" she shouted from across the square hall.

He was better than her at this task, under normal circumstances. Today's tiring events however, forced him to plop soundly onto a recharge mat rather than spend precious time scrutinizing the residence for aesthetic deficiencies. If it was dirty, then it was dirty... nothing could be done to escape their situation.

It was an exceedingly bare living quarters anyways. The space was bordered by heated rubber stretched across their heads to double as a ceiling, while white walls teeming with foreign life forms and uneven, pronounced edges (forged from remnant limestone) circled their rooms. In stark contrast to the metallic Cybertron, the asteroids were natural, almost entirely composed of mineral substitutes, and revoltingly organic. It would stand to reason then, that their sordid "home" followed the same trend. Worst perhaps among other organizational calamities, his private oil bank had been raided.

"You drink too much," he reprimanded, sternly clasping a mug on the floor and holding it up to eye-level, as if on cue. "Seriously."

"What?" she demanded, cheek frames pressed against the bottom of her eyes.

He rattled the cup in front of her.

"In my defense," she whispered, pronouncing her eyebrow chains, "your security is complete crap."

"Got past my combination lock, apparently..."

Megatron felt this was a rather useless additive. He knew that she knew the combination, and had constructed multiple theoretical scenarios where he might be... easily persuaded to release it.

He giggled softly as she resumed her pace back to the recharging quarters. The mug he was holding was only one of various items of rubbish strewn near his feet. Just two footsteps away, a conglomeration of failed plasma cannon modifications sat dejectedly in the center of the room. His experiments with his weapon of choice were not fruitful, but against Z's wishes, he had elected to retain the broken pieces.

Hope, a microscopic voice stuffed into a corner of his subconscious stated. Stupid.

"Oil?" she offered, making her reappearance from the corner of his eye. "It would relax you."

"Yes please," he affirmed, shrugging his shoulder sprockets together to hear a satisfying crunch. "I am getting old."

"No you aren't," she responded, pacing towards him with an opaque jug brimming with murky liquid. She caressed a bit beforehand, kneading its surface to make sure it remained soft and fluid, warm enough to instill that tiny flint of content she longer sought after.

She eased it into his dense hands, watching him tip the container into his oral cavity with relish.

"Good?" she asked, perfectly aware of the answer.

Megatron stood up rather quickly. He was not exactly sure as to why he was going to sabotage himself, why the intention of spoiling such a rare moment of serenity came so aptly to him, but this particular bit of news was troubling him. He needed to divulge it, to throw his problems fully at her and wait dutifully for her inevitable help.

"No more ships," he stated, deliberately withholding the context knowingly from her. "None."

Her full lip sheets widened but she promptly used her fingers to conceal her mouth.

"Nothing?" she repeated, aghast.

"Zero."

"But," she reasoned. "They told us that the ships were just lost. Nothing like the - "

"Who's they?"

She paused, biting her lip sheet with hesitance. Megatron stepped towards her.

"Z," he used, clearly to foster communication. "Who?"

She gulped.

"Bots," she vaguely described. "Rumors, gossip, words, all going around..."

He exhaled huge bursts of vapor in relief.

"So no specific group?" he inquired.

She surveyed him beneath her curved eyelashes, strands of wire fluttering in deep melancholy.

"There has never been a specific group," she countered. "I mean, after Earth, and all of the... well, you know. All of what has happened and... there isn't an enemy anymore Orion."

A vicious, brutal clash of metal followed. Z clutched at the right side of her face in the ground, metal fiber roaring with pulsing pain. Reddening sensations... Megatron stood above her, brandishing his arm like a whip.

He looked at her for perhaps an eternity. The remorse that had come from doing the act had passed as quickly as an electromagnetic storm. His hand remained raised, vibrating with ferocious passion. His posture was forced forward, almost intended to corner her and decrease her personal space, to restrict and contain...

"Never," he muttered, hand shaking more, "utter that name again."

She whimpered, still covering her face in blatant expectation.

"I can't..." she moaned.

He stomped off, dropping the mug on the floor where it would undeniably splash and color the floor with deep shades of inky blackness. Then it would spread. And spread. And spread. The entire room would be dark.

A/N

Hello! Enjoying it? Keep in mind that the work contains a lot of subtext and implications...

I'm glad you guys enjoyed the dialogue! I love writing speech, so it's just one of my enjoyable things to do!

Answers to Q's:

1. Specific Pairing?

It's a bit too early to tell the audience right now (without spoiling it), as I want to keep the central relationships in mystery for now. But yes, there will be specific pairings, but one of them is definitely not the traditional Arcee x Optimus. I understand, they're brilliant characters but... what's wrong with platonic? If the romance part is excluded, then so much more emotionally engaging elements of their relationship can be brought to light... and trust me, it might end up being more enjoyable than conventional romance! Outside the box time!

2. How Long will it Be?

Right now, I plan to write 100 chapters, totaling about 600,000 words! As I said, it will be a loooooong fic.

3. What is the "gist" of it?

Without giving it away, it is an allegorical tale, a story mirroring the rise of the human race... except I thought the Transformers universe needed one really good, emotionally mature, dark, powerful, moving fic, so here's my best foot forward to try and deliver!

Other than that, R/R, review and enjoy the reading!

~Frax