In the height of Cybertron's pretentious and corrupt Golden Age, a quiet archivist begins corresponding with a bold gladiator.
They rise together and fall apart.
AN- Except for the very first section, this chapter is all flashback. References to other continuities abound. I did pull a lot of inspiration from their contradicting accounts about how the war started, but most of what's here came from what very little the show itself told us. In other words, I've taken liberties with the WFC canon.
As a side note, quintessons bleed red in this verse.
The long war could end.
It could be over.
They all thought it could be. And he really did wish he could think the same.
Orion had always been an optimist. He'd been a hopeful, trapped in a world with more ugliness at every turned up stone, thrilled into action by the words of a gladiator.
Orion would have liked to think the war could end with the revival of their home world.
But Optimus knew what had killed their world to begin with. And if the war could have started on a living planet until it drove Primus to lifelessness, then it could wage on even with Cybertron's core living again.
The one who had shone light on all the wrong of that corrupt and ailing world also drove it to its death. So long as Megatron and the decepticon cause lived on, reviving the planet meant only a new chance for it to be killed once more.
Yet in his spark, Optimus believed this was the right path.
The right path for their planet.
The right path for his people.
The right path for him.
How good it was to be determined.
Orion had traded jobs multiple times over the vorns. He'd worked in the grand library itself, filing the different maps and books. He'd worked directly under Alpha Trion as an assistant.
Currently, he worked in the Hall of Records as an indexer for the communications Grid.
Just indexing. Analyzing was up to his coworker.
He was forbidden from doing that job.
But Orion was a curious mech. He hazarded a sneak once in a while (never at the private messages- he detested the fact that such unconsenting, naive private conversations were even recorded here), hoping that Alpha Trion's favor would keep punishment away should he be caught.
It helped that his coworker supported his occasional peek rather than trying to reveal his misdemeanors.
Nothing tended to come of this back and forth until the day that Orion indexed hundreds of the same transmissions.
"Jazz."
The bigger mech glanced over with a quizzical 'hm?'.
"These transmissions. They're coming from Kaon and being broadcasted all over the planet." Orion blinked at the officer. "Why?"
"Don'tcha know?" Jazz grinned. "We got a real celeb over there. Calls himself Megatronus."
Orion turned back to the screen and frowned thoughtfully.
It was not his job to read transmissions; merely to organize and file and then send them on their way to Jazz.
It was not his job. It was not his place.
Orion Pax decoded the transmissions and read.
The pits of Kaon were a dark stain on the pretentious perfection of the golden age.
In some ways, Orion admired its brutal honesty. At least the arena played no games with what it was; it was not like the castes and councils pretending to be so wonderful while oppressing the rest.
Still, he could not help but cringe away from every act of violence on the arena floor.
As an archivist for Alpha Trion himself, Orion had been allowed a seat in one of the reserved boxes rather than being forced to stand with the poor crowds below.
He did not like the box. He did not like standing above all others.
And he did not like the show.
First there came two gladiators. Both were cybertronians. Both were dirty and stained with rust that shouldn't have been there.
His doctor friend Ratchet would be clenching his fists at the sight. He'd probably be telling Orion exactly what ailments the two cybertronians were suffering from.
But Orion had not come with Ratchet. His friend would not find any joy watching the arena fights. The archivist would not either, but he believed it important to come. He wished to see the mech who was spreading revolutionary ideas across Cybertron.
And the best way to do it was to watch.
One of the rusty cybertronians drove his axe into the spark of the other and the crowds roared in thrill. What thrill? All Orion felt was sickness. That gladiator was dead. Could they not realize that? This was no game. This was the horror Ratchet faced on the streets every cycle; the horror that drove his friend to high grade whenever he could not save a dying homeless and hopeless mech.
The victor was ushered away by two guards. The guards were clean of rusts and ailments. They were nearly pristine and wore the spiky ornaments of Kaon.
So the gladiator ring operated on a caste as well. The fighters lay at the bottom, the guards above, and whatever overseers operating the ring sat atop the mountain of pain and death basking in the riches their audiences offered; was that not so?
The next fighter was slim and faceless. On their legs and chest lay empty spots; this was a symbiote carrier. Fighting to the death? Orion fought back another wave of repulsion. At least their symbiotes were not forced into the ring. Or perhaps they were dead already- the archivist shuttered his optics to restrain himself.
He stopped watching the battles. It was too difficult, too painful, to continue witnessing the destruction all the while those around him cheered.
But he brought his attention back with the cheering changed tones. Mechs were stomping their pedes to a unified beat. Some were chanting out a name while a much smaller amount of viewers booed.
The air was electric. A thousand mechs waiting for the grand event; or, perhaps like him, waiting for the words of the mech entering the ring.
His frame was intimidating. Gray like the dead, claws bared and horrid looking, spikes rising from his plating in true kaonite style. There was little rust on this one. He was too high on the totem pole, too valuable to the bosses, to leave in the filth of disease.
The mech looked up over the crowd. There were vicious scars littered on his face plate. They should have added to his dark intimidation. But Orion thought that the face beyond those wicked looking scars was peaceful.
For a moment, he believed the gladiator would speak now. Tell the crowd of their own bloodlust.
But with a spark chilling screech, a techno-organic beast tore through the opposite gates and the gladiator was forced to spring into battle.
Orion did not watch the fight. If the other gladiators had been brutal, then Megatronus was a being of death.
But he looked back when the beast gave its last moan. The gladiator was stepping up onto its massive back, raising his arms to address the crowd. So this was where he delivered those speeches that were shared by so many anonymous citizens over the Grid? Right from the floor of the pit?
Three guards were coming forward. Their approach was brisk with urgency as they moved for Megatronus to retrieve him. To retrieve; to drag away; to silence. Orion frowned.
The crowd had gone quiet and their silence was disturbingly stark from the chanting of before. Someone shouted down to the gladiator, who laughed from the floor.
"I have your attention, it seems-" he mused from the floor.
No wonder others had listened so rabidly. That was the most commanding voice he had ever heard.
One of the guards reached up to the mech atop the monster and tried to tug at his arm. As big as the enforcer was, the task seemed futile without Megatronus's willingness to be pulled away.
"-but it also seems I am not wished to speak to you today. Alas-" the gladiator laughed again, flashing a glimpse of fangs. "And here you seem almost more willing to pay your credits for my humble speeches than to watch me fight for my life."
Judging by the captivated crowd, Megatronus was almost correct. Orion looked over the others in their seats and boxes. Some were smirking, fingering their energon globules and watching with haughty amusement. They were here to see the gladiator, not to listen. There to get entertainment watching one who thought he could break down the caste system that kept them at the top, not to be convinced to set this cruel system aside.
Some were leaning forward over the rails in captivation. A few of these even seemed to be in despair that the speech they came to see would not be delivered. Some seemed merely fascinated; a pet had learned a new party trick that almost made it look sentient, how intriguing was that? They made Orion feel almost as ill as the brutal shedding of energon had earlier.
But his sympathies joined those who wanted to hear. Some were the low class, the poor just rich enough to afford tickets. Some were nobles that looked as though they wanted to consider setting aside the title.
He was not poor nor was he a true noble. It did not matter what his class was. Orion wanted the caste system gone. He wanted this pit, with its slaves forced to fight for their energon and basic treatment, gone.
He wanted to hear the words he had read across the transmissions from Jazz's desk delivered in that commanding voice.
"My keepers are here to retrieve me because they do not see me as a mech. Not like you are seen as."
Megatronus had allowed himself to be pulled from the corpses back but had stopped still once he reached the floor. Two guards had a hold on both his arms, but it seemed Orion was correct in his earlier guess; they were not truly strong enough to tug him away. Not without resorting to weaponry. One had reached for a stasis baton from his subspace but he had not used it. Even these enforcers understood that using such weaponry would only further the gladiator's earlier arguments.
"But none of you are as free as you assume-" the gray mech called up to the crowd. "You all bow under someone or something's weight and your regrettable position has led you to live in denial of that fact. My overseers will take me now," Megatronus grinned darkly, "-and you will see each restrain and step. But you will leave without letting your blindness fall from your optics. You will leave and refuse to acknowledge who your overseers are."
Some of the earlier amused nobles were frowning now. One nearby had snapped the glass of his energon cube and not yet noticed how the drink had spilled all over his polish.
"Until you let the truth in, your masters will be able to tug you around far more than my guards can tug me."
And with that, the gladiator let himself be dragged away into the gate leading to the fighter's quarters.
Orion did not like the pits of Kaon. He did not like their brutality or their darkly accepted bloodsport.
But the archivist returned to the next fight Megatronus was scheduled in.
He went back over and over until he would watch with half shuttered optics as the gladiator fought whatever opponent the arena owners had set against him.
The sickening violence was worth the words that were always spoken afterwards.
It did not take long for the arena staff to realize what opportunity they had. Instead of trying to bar Megatronus from speaking, they sold such thoughts. Cybertronians could pay to receive tickets to a newly constructed stage outside the pits. There, the champion of Kaon was escorted to the platform to speak to all those who paid to listen.
He was just as charismatic on the stage as he had been on the floor of the arena. Though the platform was small, Megatronus prowled on top of it. The restrictions of space would not stop him from making the stage his own. Though the guards and arena staff stood nearby at the ready, his words were unfiltered.
And though he looked terrifying, there was an incredible presence about him that drew people in rather than scared them away.
Orion felt that every coin spent to attend these speeches were worth it.
Once, he had moved to do his work humming in distraction. Jazz had noticed the odd attitude and laughed at him.
"What's your glitch, mech?" he'd asked.
The archivist had answered honestly enough: he'd been seeing the talks from that kaonite revolutionary. Jazz's expression hadn't fallen.
"Oy yeah, him. He's the real deal, ain't he?"
And Orion couldn't help but feel like he was.
The lack of angry disapproval from Jazz prompted him to take the next step. Before, he had planned to do it in secret. Many of those in the Hall of Records hated the words of social change spoken by Megatronus. Orion was ashamed to admit that he feared those mech's. He did not wish to have his job taken away from him, to be thrown onto the streets like those patients Ratchet found in Rodian's Dead End. It was shameful to have such fear but he could not help it; he was meek by nature.
If only he could be as brave as Megatronus. What would it be like to have the courage to speak up against the world's problems when the government was trying to hide them? What would it be like to be bold enough to fight against this cruel caste system?
Orion wanted to know.
He wanted to help.
One cycle, instead of indexing transmissions, he crafted a message to the gladiator and sent it to the pits.
Ratchet always knew when he had gotten a note from Megatronus. Said it was something to do with a bounce in his step or a tiny smile perpetually there while Orion daydreamed absently.
His medic friend liked to tease him some cycles. On other cycles, he looked bitter.
"He's changing you, you know," the medic said over a can of high grade they'd gotten at a place called, uncreatively, Swerve's. Earlier in the cycle, Ratchet had ran across a mech who'd gotten into a fist fight with an enforcer. He'd lost an arm and a good chunk of inner machinery doing so. Try as he might, the medic had not saved the young bot.
Orion had been there to spend the cycle with his friend. He'd watched the medic working over the shivering patient.
The dirty yellow bot had patted Ratchet on the cheek and tried to shove him away at one point.
"t's okay," he'd rasped with a pained smile, "I had nothin' to live for anyway. Lived on the streets, woulda died on 'em too. Least I got to go out with a bang."
If a 'bang' could mean a slow death in a unfunded hospital.
The mech was just another precursor of the coming storm. Cybertron was breaking at the seams; it had been since the start of what they tried to call the Golden Age. Orion could see its flaws, its dark stains, its crushing regimes.
The world needed to break if that was the only way to fix it. But he still hoped that a solution could come peacefully.
Megatronus spoke of peace. He had every ability to fight, every ability to act as the street mech had and attack those who oppressed him, and yet he spoke instead.
If he was changing Orion like Ratchet proclaimed, then it was only for the better.
Later that cycle, the archivist had returned to his apartment and wrote as much to the gladiator. If he had not been overcharged, he would never have spoken so boldly. Megatronus did not seem offended. In fact, his response was excited.
Slightly too excited, a sobered Orion had to admit after reading it upon waking from recharge.
Your passion is most motivating. I wish there were more willing to stand up like you. He'd paused in writing to think on how best to phrase the next part. However, I must admit to being confused over your suggestion regarding the council. It does not seem clear to me what you were implying.
He returned to the Hall of Records and did his job without comment. None there except Jazz and Alpha Trion knew of his communique with the gladiator. None suspected him of doing what they would call conspiring.
When his shift was over, Orion was happy to see he already had a response in his private messages.
I apologize, the reply came written in amused glyphs. I am a speaker, not a writer. It is hard for me to explain my thoughts across such texts.
Perhaps we should meet in person to discuss my suggestions for a reworked government.
Orion could not contain the thrill of nervous excitement that ushered in.
Megatronus had become a bit of a hero to him since listening to his few speeches. He had become a bit of a mentor across these written conversations, shedding a light on the areas of Cybertron the archivist had not been able to see before.
But he had worried the chance to truly speak with the silver mech would not come. Either because the arena would not allow him to visit their prize fighter or because his coworkers would catch wind of his departure to speak with the one they detested of late.
Yet he had just now received confirmation that both of them were willing to move past these obstacles.
A part of him felt he should not be surprised. If Megatronus spoke against the corruption of Cybertron fearlessly, he would not be daunted by some small barrier.
If only he could be as brave
They had met one day in the small room the gladiator called his own.
Or couldn't, rather. It was the overseer's room.
"Everything in here belongs to them," Megatronus swept his arm around the ornaments and sparse comforts of the cell. "Including, of course, me."
He was watching how Orion reacted. It was a silent test. One that the archivist seemed to pass when the gladiator gave a small grunt of approval.
"You do not like that, do you?"
It was rhetorical. He gave a small nod regardless.
Megatronus smiled. His dentae were sharp, vicious, dangerous. Orion did not feel threatened.
It was not the mech's fault that he looked so frightening when trying to act amiable.
"I like you," the gladiator declared. "You aren't blinded by all the slag your fellow iaconians no doubt try to condition you into believing."
The mech looked away to stare at the wall in front of him. Or rather, to stare through it. His gaze was distant, thoughtful.
"From what I have gathered, I am reaching the populace of Kaon quickly. Vos is holding out on my words, like the entitled nobility that they are. And Iacon is similarly ignorant; though, unlike Vos, their blindness is a conscious decision."
There was a brief moment of silence. Orion had no wish to break it; he was here to learn, not to interrupt.
"Kaon is full of warriors from the Age of Wrath. They look at me and see someone like themselves. A warrior, brutal, efficient, honest. They do not see the faceless miner I was forged as." Megatronus emitted a bark of laughter. "I had no name. Neither did many of them. I took a name and made a place for myself. So did many of them. Kaon will revere me as their spokesperson soon enough. But Vos? Iacon?"
This, too, was rhetorical. Orion answered anyways.
"They see you as unruly, a rebel."
"They want to put me down," the gladiator grinned at him.
He smiled, or rather smirked, quite a lot. Orion determined it was a part of what made him so charismatic.
"Crude terminology," the archivist shuffled, "-but I am afraid it is true."
The other's blue optics narrowed down, not hostilely but analyzing. Then the large mech stepped nearer and let a large servo land on his shoulder.
"Iacon is the home of the council. It is the birthplace of the caste system. It is the origin of corruption. Convincing them to see the disease they themselves have wrought will be difficult. Especially," he added as though in afterthought, "-if the words come from someone who looks like the poster mech of Kaon."
Did he mean..?
"I have been searching for someone native to Iacon," Megatronus started up again softly. "Someone my words would reach and who would share my dreams for this planet. Our long distance conversations led me to believe that someone could be you. I needed to meet you to determine."
...he did.
"Orion Pax."
The archivist stared unblinkingly into the other mech's blue gaze.
Passion met hope.
"I could use an ally like you."
It had not taken long for Megatronus to gain the fame needed to break away from the arena. His former overseer had been furious. The former gladiator had appeased him with almost all of his credits- enough to buy his own contract off and the contract of another gladiator's.
It was this which allowed Orion the chance to meet his new companion's closest ally. A mech named Soundwave.
The carrier he'd seen on the arena floor once.
Soundwave did not have symbiotes for every docking bay on his lanky body. As Orion had feared before, most of those minibots had deactivated.
Only one had been murdered, a horridly common occurrence in the slums of Kaon. The rest had starved. Cybertron had less energon than it ever had in the past. The supplies were mined only by contracted groups and went only to those who had paid for the life fuel. While the high ranks and nobles swam in energon, the homeless were not given any. And stealing was, in most cases, a capital offense.
Despite their carrier's attempts to give them his own energon, their money-less state had eventually driven the little symbiotes one by one to their death. By the time that only two remained, Soundwave had taken a contract in the pits out of sheer desperation.
Not that Orion learned all this upon their first meeting. No, the first time they had met left the archivist knowing near nothing about the blank mech.
But later conversations, as short as they tended to be, revealed some of his story. And Megatronus shared the rest.
The first time all three had convened together had been outside the gray mech's new home. While most of his small funds had gone to buying his and Soundwave's freedom, the rest had gone into this slum apartment.
There was an assassination attempt the first night.
There were far less after that. Orion himself had not been able to look at the mauled remains of the first hired crew. Iaconian hunters, no doubt hired by a someone (perhaps even a senator), skilled but foolish; they should have watched the pitfights. Perhaps they would not have attempted battle with these two gladiators if they had.
Orion had been asked to visit soon after Megatronus had found a home. Upon arriving, he had to blink at the excuse for an apartment. Somehow, the cells of the pits seemed larger and more inviting. Megatronus had laughed at his words when he had said so. Behind him, Soundwave merely watched, peeking around the side of the larger gladiator. It was only then that Orion had even noticed the other mech.
"Oh," he piped up, "Hello."
Megatronus moved and any cover he had been providing before left.
The stranger didn't say anything. That didn't deter Orion. He may be meek himself, but he still tried his best to fight what shyness he had in order to help other mech's.
"I'm Orion," he said.
A moment later and the emaciated mech rasped out his own reply. "Designation: Soundwave."
Primus, that voice was deeper than he'd expected. Once again, Megatronus seemed to be laughing (this time far more silently) over how Orion had jumped in surprise.
Despite further attempts to engage the carrier, the self-designated Soundwave did not speak with him again. But he had not left either; understandable, since this small apartment did not exactly offer multiple rooms to retreat to for privacy.
That was likely why Megatronus determined to leave.
"Walk with me," he offered and began to stride down the cluttered street. They left Soundwave behind in the doorway, blank visor watching.
"I want to speak with you in private," the revolutionary said once they had turned the corner from the shack.
In truth, Orion did as well. But he thought it rude to say so in front of the third mech. He felt a need to defend the stranger from possible insult.
"I do not think Soundwave would interrupt us."
That earned another laugh.
"No, I don't believe he would. He is quiet," the silver mech grinned. "Rather like you, Orion."
And quiet he was. So very different from the bold volume of the mech who'd sparked so much talk of change lately.
"But that's not the entire reason I wished to leave him behind."
Was that so? Orion fell silent in curiosity and let the gladiator direct their walk.
"I have not told him of my plan yet." Megatronus led them to the edge of the street so that they could back into one of the dirty alleyways. Filthy, full of sorrow, hopelessness, and the dead- and also as private a place as they could manage. "I want to speak to you first of it."
A hint of dread rose with the excitement. Was this to be a crossroads? Was this a moment that would change his life? Or, more importantly, the world?
"What is it?" he whispered.
"Your research in Iacon has been invaluable to me," the other replied. "Thanks to your work, I have come to understand the way this planet's government and culture function now. And the ways they functioned in the past."
Just as they had many times before, the two delved into a conversation about the current structure and what changes could be made to it.
But this time, Megatronus had a new piece to add.
"The council has split its attention and grown complacent in their power. Cybertron stifles and rusts under them. We call this the Golden Age but it is far from golden or self sustaining. The quintessons were corrupt rulers. The council is little better. We must return to an earlier time; the only leaders that could truly be said to have ushered in a golden age."
He lowered his voice even more although they were still in the empty alley.
But Orion had noticed that about his companion. Megatronus was a paranoid mech. It hurt the archivist to witness, but he could not deny that the paranoia did have some grounds to it; there were many important people who wanted the revolutionary dead.
"We need a Prime," he finished.
"And..." Orion started up before his thoughts had even caught up with his voice. "...you?"
The silver mech smiled again. It was confirmation.
"Megatronus Prime," Orion tried out the name with wide optics. The other mech's optics were flickering all over his expression, waiting to see what the archivist's reaction would be. He seemingly found what he was looking for.
"Megatronus Prime!" the archivist repeated with more enthusiasm and then it was him who was grinning. "Oh how I hope to see such a thing!"
His uncommonly unfiltered glee was shared. Had they been younger, more foolish, mechs, the atmosphere may have invited them to dance around. As it was, neither were fools and this alley was still littered with those victims of starvation Kaon had. It would have been highly inappropriate to their memories.
Finally, Orion had to break the moment of excitement. "But there are connotations with that name that some will undoubtedly be uncomfortable with."
Megatronus smirked. "That may be the case, but those critics have already found issue with the name I took while still in the pits. I doubt more will be upset just by seeing the full name of The Fallen once more at the head of their planet."
"Whatever the case," the archivist said slowly, "I know who you are and it is not a figurehead from the past. You are in the present; you are our future."
The other's blue optics sparkled at such praise. Orion did not notice the hunger there or he did not yet feel reason to fear it.
"I will be the Prime, but you-" the silver mech purred, "-you will be at my side no matter how high I rise. We will rise, together. You will be my adviser no matter what power I gain."
The idea of standing beside a Prime and helping heal this planet step by step did make the archivist's spark ache with longing.
"But how will we go about this?" he asked.
Finally, their optic contact broke as Megatronus looked down with a shake of his head.
"We must inspire the people to it. And after gaining their support, we must go to the senate. That I dread doing; they may not take to mere words. Action will quite possibly be necessary."
"One step at a time," Orion set a servo on the other's arm. The action brought the scarred face up again. "First, we reach out to the public. Your speeches are already going across the Grid. Some are transcribed and others are published as raw footage itself."
It was those transcriptions that had first brought him in. Even now, he believed citizens still read them. He knew he did.
"I will be going to a public debate soon at the central platform of this sector," Megatronus said. "I was invited by the officials as soon as I cut off from the pits."
He made a note to himself to watch this debate. As reserved as he liked to be, he would still show his support.
"Iacon will not likely broadcast that," Orion frowned. "They will call it too local to this sector. You need to find another way to reach out to them all."
The gladiator flashed fangs again. "Perhaps I could convince them to let me speak there."
Seeing him lecture in Orion's home city was a thrilling thought. But no-
"Not yet. You need to make a credible name there first." The archivist went quiet with thought. Then he perked up again. "Writings! Make written compositions on your ideals and proposals. They will be just as revolutionary as your speeches in the pits were, but I can get them published to more citizens than would have access to your Grid transmissions!"
After all, his coworkers in the Grid communications hub were already being told to scrub out the anonymous uploads.
Megatronus shook his head with an almost inaudible snort. "You forget, Orion, that my writing is far less potent than my speech. I was not taught to make prose with an impact. I cannot even bring my points across clearly at all times when writing. And the words come to me when I speak aloud; they do not when I try in the silence of solitude to transcribe them down."
He wanted to protest. It was Megatronus's writings that had drawn him in, after all! The responses given, the back and forth of ideas, back before Orion had ever even met the gladiator.
But he also knew that it was, in part, true. The nobles of Iacon would laugh at Megatronus's ideas. 'You want to follow him? He does not even know proper phonetics! This fool is uneducated, a ruffian; he will not lead you to anything more glorious than we already have.' As faulty a logical argument as that was, it would still sway many of those who would otherwise sit on the fence.
And so Orion thought of another idea.
"Then give your words as speeches," he offered. "Deliver them to me and I will dictate for you."
The gray mech's lips parted in surprise.
"I swear, I will not interfere. I will only record what you say and mean; should a sentence be confusing or lack a certain impact, I will edit it- but only with your permission! It will still be yo-"
"I trust you will inscribe the words," the gladiator interrupted. Megatronus set a servo on his arm. "I trust in you."
If only he had.
After the second round of books had been published, Megatronus (or Megatron, as he had decided to go by now; it seemed the connotations relating to The Fallen had made a bigger impact on his public relations than the silver mech had wanted to admit in that alleyway) had obtained enough donations to his campaign to buy a better home. Half of this large apartment was quickly changed from a private home to an office space. That had been Orion's idea; let the public come to him. Let them see he was approachable and let them hear his answers to their questions.
So far, there had been no attempted murders in this office. Perhaps Soundwave's presence besides the door, along with two bulky seekers who had recently fallen for Megatron's persuasive rhetoric, discouraged such hostilities. Or perhaps the desire to see him killed was waning. Orion hoped it was the latter.
Certainly, there were more interested supporters these cycles.
One new face, for instance, was just leaving the office. The archivist had been waiting outside for the chance to speak with his friend. The door slid aside and a seeker walked past him, never sparing Orion a glance. It was that- the attitude of blindness towards those of no consequence- that left the archivist believing that the stranger had been a noble. The high class liked to pretend those of lower castes did not deserve optic-contact.
He had been small, like most vosian's were. His paints were flashy reds and blues, rather like Orion himself but with far more white included. And decorative accessories were draped over the lithe mech. Synthetic materials from the offworld colonies hung off the mech's back in the space between wings, fluttering like thin capes behind him.
It was another sign of nobility; especially of vosian nobility. The more important one was, the higher they were in one of the towers and the more jewels and capes they were bedecked with.
Orion stepped into the room after the seeker had disappeared through the far door. Soundwave let him enter without anything more than a nod.
Megatron was waiting behind his desk, writing something on a datapad. It made the archivist smile. Despite being his clerk still, Orion had noticed that the revolutionary was picking up the very writing he had before detested. And as someone who wrote or filed writings for a living, he felt confident in declaring that Megatron's poetry was beautiful.
So very unexpected from such an intimidating frame. But the world was starting to realize what Orion had long before: that Megatron was anything but expected.
The silver mech set aside the pad to look up at him. Orion pointed behind himself at the door he'd just entered through.
"Who was that?
"Jealous?" Megatron flashed a teasing smile. After letting the tease drop away, he answered: "That was an important energon seeker of Vos. A prospective Winglord, in fact. Goes by the name of Starscream. He holds great influence in that city state."
So they were reaching Vos then. That was good news.
And Orion needed good news. It seemed the world grew darker every cycle. Alpha Trion had begun to isolate himself in worry. Ratchet was cynical of everything, including the gladiator's good intentions. Jazz had started to disappear frequently and every time his desk was empty, Orion worried that the bright mech had been caught and killed; he had, after all, begun to heavily assume the blue mech was a spy. Megatron grew more paranoid with every new step into the spotlight.
His friends were in pain. The archivist wished he could help.
And he did believe he was helping. That his position helping the revolutionary was going to heal this dying world.
They conversed until a new subject arose.
A subject Orion had heard Ratchet rave about before.
War.
"I cannot believe that we are so far gone only war could save us," Orion shook his head.
He missed how Megatron's fist curled on the desktop and then loosened.
"Should it come to that', I said. You cannot just ignore the option."
And he couldn't- not with how Alpha Trion acted and Ratchet spoke doom and gloom. But that did not mean he had to endorse it.
"Kaon and Iacon are on the brink of hostilities," Megatron continued. "Every cycle, more and more of Iacon's oppression is revealed to the public. This city hordes the energon reserves of Cybertron for its own recreational use. If Kaon will not be allowed its share, it will have to take it by force."
Orion grimaced.
"Surely there is still a better way..."
"Of course there is," the silver mech soothed. "But if it should come down to it, I want you to be prepared. You must know how to fight, for your own protection and because...well, I'd like for you to fight by my side."
It was that last phrase, with its unhidden longing, that made the archivist waver most.
"If it comes down to it," he finally granted slowly. "But-"
"But what, Orion?" Megatron slammed his palms down and stood up.
It occurred to him that the former gladiator was quite tall. Very much taller than him. The passive mech felt himself wither in the knees; his determined will kept him upright.
"'Should we let Iacon continue to steal our fuel? Starscream did not think so. He is a primary source of this city's energon and knows better than any of us how much of his finds actually are brought back to Vos. Let alone Kaon. That is my city, Orion. Those are my people. And they starve on my streets. The young and old alike. Do you think Soundwave's symbiotes deserved to die? Do any of them?"
There was no pause in words to let Orion answer.
"I cannot allow it," the bigger mech finally seemed to calm. "If the council will not allow me to be the Prime, if they will not listen to reason, then I-we-cannot allow it to stand."
The spark in his chest was aching. He wasn't sure if it was out of fear or pain or inspiration.
"And I cannot allow this planet to fall into war. I want no part in starting hostilities. Should they arise, I will fight by your side. But I do not condone the start of such aggression."
Megatron ran a servo down his face. Orion could hear how his vents exhausted themselves. He was upset. Well, so was the archivist. But anger and hurt were a sad fact of life. He reached forward to set a calming hold on the larger mech.
"Please, do not be upset," Orion murmured. "It is inevitable that we clash on some issues. I will not try to force my ideals on you."
The silver mech's frame still shook. But Megatron put a frizzing arm around the smaller bot. It was overheated.
"What do you mean?" he asked from above the archivists head.
Such ignorant confusion seemed almost innocent. It made him smile, just a bit. Most people would already know what he had meant. But most people did not start as slaves in a mine that rose to planetary celebrities.
"People do not always have to agree," Orion reassured, looking up. "Disagreeances are a part of life; a part of individual freedom. We will not be hurt by differing our opinions on this matter anymore than we have to force our own opinions on the rest of Cybertron."
The expression on his companion's face did not visibly change and yet something in it did seem to stiffen.
"I'm afraid we'll have to disagree there," Megatron quipped back.
Orion thought it was a joke and so he laughed.
The hospital was small. It contained only three floors. Most of those on the grand streets of Iacon contained up to twenty.
But the staff here was smaller. A few were medics in training. A few had never received training, having been too poor to afford such schooling, and these medics hid from the authorities when patrols came for inspections.
Not that many inspections came. The enforcers couldn't care less about this hospital. Just like they did not care for its patients.
Though he had never told the mech this, Orion thought Ratchet's greatest quality was the fact that he did care. He could've been the most renowned doctor on Cybertron but he turned down fame in order to treat those mechs the planet tried to ignore.
At the moment, the medic was not working on any patients. He was busy lecturing the clerk instead.
"He's a nightmare-" Ratchet was snapping. "There are problems enough as is. But he wants to start a war! We've got enough mech's dying daily."
The archivist tried to brush the medic's pointing servo away from where it was jabbing into his chestplates.
"Please, listen to me. He's not trying-"
Ratchet interrupted him hostilely. "Oh yes, because he's such a soft, gentle mech. Don't be an idiot! He's been violent his whole life; you can't deny that!"
"I know; I have seen him in the pits," Orion replied with the slightest hint of a smile.
No, he did not like the violence. But Megatron was still inspiring to watch.
If he could fight like that...well, he'd be able to defend himself from any threat.
The admission made his friend throw up his arms in exasperation and turn away to mutter at his desk. While he waited for Ratchet to cool down, the clerk looked over the medbay. There was only one other patient in this part of the medbay. Normally there were not any.
"Who is that?" Orion pointed at a small mech laying in stasis on a medical berth. He drew the archivists' optics because of how the berth was situated closer to Ratchet's desk than it normally would be. A new coat of paint lay fresh on the unconscious mech. It would rub off on the street as soon as the patient was released into destitution again.
There were very fair reasons for the cynicism Ratchet had picked up lately.
"An addict we picked up out of the Dead End," the medic followed his digit to the patient. "Most of the homeless there fall to nuke and other stimulants."
It made Orion cringe in sympathy. He knew well enough of the condition of those who fell outside the caste, unable to ever crawl in. And he knew how his friend felt about those victims.
Ratchet took personal responsibility for all those his team pulled from the streets.
And he grieved when they returned right back to the only option they had set in front of them by the world of nobles.
"I spoke with him before you came in, actually," Ratchet spoke up again.
The archivist looked away from the patient to stare politely at his friend.
"He had quite a bit to say about the revolution; almost as obsessed with Megatron as you are. Apparently he's a big fan of your lover."
"Ratchet!" Orion protested, frame heating suddenly. While his fans picked up faster, the archivist made an unhappy frown at the victorious grin Ratchet was shooting him.
The tease. Even with the guilt racking up in the medic over those he failed to save from death, Ratchet still liked to make biting comments. Normally, Orion was too timid for that kind of banter. With Ratchet, he did not mind.
"But in all seriousness..." the medic lost his mirth.
"Don't start this again," the younger mech groaned.
Ratchet was up in his face in a moment.
"The Lesser Hall of Records in Vos," he jabbed a digit into Orion's chest. "Bombed this cycle. The culprits painted a certain purple symbol over the ruins. Do you recognize the sound of that?"
Of course he did. As archaic as The Fallen's mark was in recent cycles, Orion knew Cybertron's history in and out. He had read every file in his workspace.
"Just because Megatron took on The Fallen's name does not mean he has taken that symbol," the archivist gently pushed Ratchet's offending fingers away.
"And just because you're star struck by a celebrity doesn't mean you're stupid!"
As unused to confrontation as he was, Orion stepped back.
"Wh-"
"He's using you, Orion." Ratchet grew somber and the expression he'd level on the archivist broke the younger mech's spark. "He wants a revolution. He wants these terrorists. He wants a war."
I'd like for you to fight by my side-
Surely, it was not expected. It was a worst case scenario.
And you will be at my side-
No ifs or buts. You will
In his mind, Orion connected the two separate statements.
You will fight by my side.
"I-I do not believe that," the archivist said. "He does not want war. He wants peace."
Ratchet shook his head.
"'Peace through tyranny'. Have you missed that part?"
Megatron was not in Orion's apartment when he returned from the council meeting. Strange. He had stayed there previously. It was closer to the senate than the place Megatron had found near the border of Iacon.
But more strange was how he had disappeared in the meeting.
At the time, Orion had not thought much of it. He was far too busy reeling from their words. From Alpha Trion's pride at the suggestion.
The Primehood. The Primehood...
It was not for him. It couldn't be.
He'd felt humbled to the very ground.
Only after he'd asked for more time to think it over did Orion notice that he was alone on the floor. Megatron was gone.
The clerk searched the senate building for any sign of his companion. He searched his home.
Nothing. It was unnatural. It made his spark clench in dread.
He was not a Prime (not yet, a part of him piped up). He could not have visions or premonitions.
This dread he felt was nothing of importance.
Orion traveled to the outskirts and climbed the steps to Megatron's temporary habsuite. A part of him worried the mech would be gone.
Gone where? Perhaps back to Kaon. He did not know. He did not know why the other had disappeared in the first place.
It had been their dream to speak with the senate. It had been Megatron's dream. Why had he left it? Left Orion?
His knock received no answer but the door was not locked. Orion slipped into the dark living room.
The first sight he noticed were the optics.
They glowed in the dim room, as all optics would; but instead of the friendly blue he had grown so accustomed to, the optics looking back at him from the seat were a blazing red.
Without thinking, Orion commented on it.
"Your optics...what happened?" he stepped closer into the room until he was near the place Megatron was seated. Those massive servos with their dangerous claws flexed and he stopped short. Immediately he scolded himself. He should not feel threatened. This was his mentor, his friend. Why would Megatron threaten him?
The usual smile was absent. Megatron's optics narrowed as he addressed the clerk. "Those of us who fought off the quintessons rose up around the color red; the color of their filthy blood we aimed to shed. I am done ignoring that heritage," his answer came as a growl.
If the flexing claws were not a threat, surely the growl was not...
"All this time," Megatron looked down at his servos and shook his head, "I have tried to ignore the past. I've tried to ignore what Cybertron created me to be. I've tried to ignore how easily I was sent back into oppression after helping end the alien regime. I've tried, because it was what all good little mechs did. And my dreams could only be accepted if I played by their rules."
Half of Orion wanted to step forward and offer worried comfort.
The other half wanted to walk from this room and the dark tones within it.
"What good did that do?" Megatron snapped, looking up at the archivist. "My dreams are spat on. My ideals mocked. I became everything this planet needed and it threw me away! It threw me away- for you."
But-
But Orion had not asked for the Primehood.
"Megatron..." he said softly. "I did not accept it. It is not mine to take. Please, believe me. I never meant to-"
"To what?" the other snarled.
He couldn't help but let his words go silent as his mouth parted in shock at the tone.
"Why are you here, Orion?"
The archivist took a slight step back.
"What?" his voice was weak. It was always weak. He was weak. But that was his strength.
They were a balanced team. Orion was peaceful where Megatron was bold. They were supposed to play to each other's strengths, not-
Not this.
Megatron's lip was curling into a dangerous sneer.
"You're a pet of the council," he leered. "Run home to them. Run, Orion. Leave me."
The ache sharpened until it felt as though his mind would tear apart. This was fear. This was undeniably fear. He was not supposed to be afraid of this mech. He was supposed to be safe.
"Megatron, please listen to me! Please, do not be upse-"
The other mech jolted from the seat and kicked the table in front of him towards the archivist. Orion stumbled backwards away from the flying furniture.
"I said to run!" Megatron yelled. "Run back to your new masters. Run to your new brothers."
And this time, he did turn to flee the room.
Somewhere behind him, Megatron was laughing and the unhinged mirth was tinged with grief.
Factions were tearing the world apart.
Just as Megatron had predicted, war had come to cybertron. War over energon reserves, for now; but the hostilities broke the dam- and no doubt the hurt and anger every cybertronian held from the Golden Age would spill out.
The war had started over energon.
But Orion feared it would continue until aggression no longer had a target to let loose on.
He tried to explain his fear to the others and received mockery in return. But what choice did he have but to stay?
Megatron's forces were growing every cycle. The senate both hung onto that fact as hope for their protection and worked every cycle to build a contingency plan. The former gladiator had offered to be their protection in this brief war. The smart ones on the council did not believe it.
Orion was not naive enough to believe it anymore.
Still, he worked alongside this growing army. Despite how he feared his former friend. Despite how he feared for his friend: the silver mech seemed to have slipped away after being denied the Primehood. And Orion did not want to see how far down he was capable of slipping.
After each scuffle, Megatron rose to the tallest pile of rubble or corpses to address the survivors in his grand manner. Soundwave always flitted beside him like a shadow and the two warrior flightframes posted themselves as his bodyguards.
Many times, Orion wished he could feel that raving fire they did. But the passionate inspiration had been doused the cycle of the council meeting. It would not burn the same again.
The archivist slipped into the debriefing room. His job was merely with communications, maps, and strategies. He was not armed to fight.
He called it fighting. In the days to come, he would say he started the war by fighting alongside his friend. But Orion did not truly go into the field to cut down other cybertronians by Megatron's side. He had lost what little taste for the revolutionary's violence he'd once had.
The debriefing was being held in a building that had once been a kaonite school. There were no younglings left in this sector. Orion stepped inside as quietly and unobtrusively as he could.
His entrance still drew attention. Megatron cut off whatever he had been saying to sneer at him.
"So now you arrive."
Somehow, being belittled in public hurt so very much more than the silence they kept in private.
And it irked him. It made him angry.
Orion had never been one who felt much rage, or even mild irritation. But he was only a mortal.
Someone snickered at him as he passed to find a seat. The one normally reserved for him was occupied by a big orange mech. The stranger offered a sympathetic shrug. Orion did not demand him to rise. On his subsequent retreat to the doorway to stand in the shadows, more snickers rose. Megatron did nothing to stop them. In fact, his bright hate seemed only to feed the inappropriate actions.
It was a good sized meeting. Orion recognized the green mech Springer and the femme Windblade who ushered from a colony world; both were good bots he had met when working closely alongside Alpha Trion. He was glad to see them here. And that other femme, the sarcastic two-wheeler he had worked with while filing in the cartography portion of the library (the one who had caused a debacle not long earlier when she'd arrived to enlist but demanded to work with Orion Pax, the favored one of the council, as her commander) had snagged a seat by Springer.
But others were either strangers or those he did not feel comfortable with. The hulking Overlord was sitting from the back row. Soundwave was standing near Megatron, but the mech offered no friendly gesture to Orion. It was far cry from the quiet carrier he had shared energon with over the table of Swerve's or held shy conversation within the small apartment in Kaon. The seeker called Starscream was also back again. All bangles and bright paint and laughter at Orion's misfortune.
He had not been made Winglord after all and had come to throw in his lot with the militia.
When the debriefing was finished, Orion made his way over to the seeker.
"Starscream," he gave a nod. The greeting didn't seem to be enough for the young mech.
It wasn't a matter of bristling nobility. It was offending a youth- a mech too young to be in this war, let alone have aimed as high as Winglord. Starscream didn't know what he was doing here and he compensated by doing whatever he saw the others doing tenfold.
Which, in regards to Orion, had meant antagonizing him as much as his commander did.
"May we speak?" the archivist gestured for the door.
He didn't want to talk with the seeker. But he did feel a responsibility to check the wellbeing of all his companions. Megatron did not bother to anymore.
"Surely I haven't done anything to warrant the honor of speaking with the great librarian. Oh wait-" Starscream tapped his chin "-you're a step below a librarian, aren't you."
Very funny. Orion's expression revealed he was not impressed.
They stepped out into the smoking ruins of the town. While the archivist cringed away from every corpse he saw, the seeker danced in disgust away from anything he kept almost tripping on. How Starscream walked with such narrow pedes, Orion did not know. He was pretty sure he should not ask either.
He also didn't know if the uncaring attitude was also a part of the compensation; if the young seeker was trying to act as though the only disgust such corpses brought him was material or if he truly did not understand the severity of death. Orion would not ask on that either.
"I needed to check in with you," the clerk finally said when they'd put some distance between the debriefing center and their new location. He let a servo take hold of Starscream's thin arm; he'd always found tactile comfort natural. The seeker glared down at the offending servo, but did not seem to have any fear or distaste with being touched. "I've noticed you spending most of your time here around Me-commander Megatron."
"Lord."
Orion blinked. "What?"
Starscream let a smile crawl across his face.
"He likes to be called lord," the seeker rasped.
Listening to Ratchet's miserable disapproval.
Peace through tyranny. Did you miss that part?
Saying that 'Freedom is every sentient beings right' and hearing Megatron reply with a nod that 'No free mech should be forced to call another master'.
It felt like a slap in the face.
Starscream waved at him in impatience.
"What was it you wanted to ask me about, oh great one?"
Shaking himself back into the moment, Orion let himself frown. "I merely made that observation and felt it necessary to make sure you were-that is-...I had to see if you were unhurt."
That made the seeker sneer.
"Really? You drag me away for that?" He shook his head, vosian ornaments jangling from the movement. "Lord Megatron wouldn't hurt me. Go take your stupid concern and shove it up your tailpipe. I don't want it; not from the likes of you."
Insults just kept piling up. Orion wasn't sure he would be strong enough to resist them all.
Just because you're star struck by a celebrity doesn't mean you're stupid!
Was he stupid? Orion certainly felt so every time he walked into a debriefing only to be snickered at.
But not by all. Many of the militia mechs liked him. From the one who demanded he be her commander to those who chanted for him to find the Matrix and become their Prime-
It seemed even this army had divided into factions. But the more war crazy mechs did not want him to be their Prime; and it was mainly those who found themselves invited to debriefings and stratagems.
"Why do you detest me?" Orion asked bluntly.
It took the seeker by surprise. His mouth fluttered wordlessly for a moment.
"B-wha-" he started in confusion. "Because you're supposed to be a Prime right now. You're supposed to be holding this planet together. And instead you simper off behind a mech who will never accept you again. You're pathetic. Face that fact and stop avoiding the Primehood because of his jealousy."
He had been called pathetic before.
Orion did not believe it.
Sticking to his hope for peace and freedom to coexist was not pathetic. Trying to preserve a bond the council had accidentally broken was not pathetic.
It was strength.
He used to believe that he was weak and longed to have the bravery Megatronus of Kaon showed every time he preached against the corruption oppressing him.
Orion knew the truth now; he was strong.
His will was unflappable. That was strength. His ethics were solid despite the new war. That was strength. His drive to protect others and help them retain the freedoms they were not yet given remained untouched.
He had the strength that Megatronus of Kaon had failed to continue on with.
Megatron had burned strong enough to light a fire in them all, but his flame had burned too hot and turned cold. Still Orion hoped it was not too late for him.
It was too much of a tragedy for the one who had fought so hard against tyranny to succumb to it.
"There is far more at stake than that," Orion finally replied to the rash young mech.
Another that burned too hot.
Another very likely to burn out.
"Our current militia is too fragile to risk upsetting Megatron. We need to contain the battles before the subject should even be breached again. I-"
"Like I said: pathetic. Who'd be scared of that bot? Stop playing around and just take it."
"W-what?" Orion stammered in surprise. Starscream rolled his optics.
"Take the dumb Primehood," he spelled out slowly. "Maybe if we've got a Prime on our side, we actually could contain these battles. Or maybe I'm the one being stupid. All I know-"
Starscream leaned in close to the small archivist, drawing one blunt finger over Orion's chin.
"-is that you're not willing to find any of that out because you're scared of hurting our poor little leader's feelings. He already hates you. Get over it."
The finger finally moved away so that the seeker's servo could pat his face.
"If I had the chance to get that sort of power, I wouldn't have bothered hesitating. If the council told me where the fabled Matrix is, I would've jumped on the chance already. So why are you waiting for the whole planet to fall to pieces before finally trying?"
That cycle, Orion walked away from the militia. He approached the council at the senate hall and informed them that he would begin his search. Jazz had found him as soon as he left the hall; the normally light-sparked mech moved silently to support Orion's weight. Ratchet arrived not long after, having been hailed by the spy.
He was thankful that he had friends he could trust in.
Orion hoped that he would be able to remember that trust and affection after finding the Matrix of Leadership.
Forgetting it all, losing himself, could only be worth it if it truly meant he would be able to bring peace to his people.
Alpha Trion came to him later and listened to the concerns. The old mech assured him he would remember, although he would not retain that same emotional state. How the master archivist knew such a thing, Orion did not know.
The reassurement only answered a portion of his questions. The enigmatic idea of becoming a Prime was alienly terrifying and, just as alienly, comforting.
It was an unknown.
But as Cybertron fractured further, Orion Pax stepped forward into that unknown.
Optimus Prime had far more followers than the anxious Orion had imagined. They resurrected the idea of the 'autobot', with Alpha Trion's direction and the collective wisdom of the Primes.
With grief, he noted that naming his own army had only further divided the gap between factions.
For some time, Optimus still tried to fight alongside the decepticon leader, moving over the planet's side to free energon deposits.
But the divide grew and grew until their factions could no longer pretend to be fighting alongside each other and openly warred with each other instead.
The council was Megatron's target. Optimus moved to protect them; a futile effort, he learned later.
But Optimus was nothing if not hopeful- he fought for many futile efforts, despite the odds. He always would.
It was a quality left over from his former life.
As was another hesitation Optimus could not rid himself of:
Megatron had lost his way. But the Orion part of Optimus continued to futilely hold onto the hope that he could find it again.
They sat side by side on the balcony of Orion's apartment.
Above the hazy skyline lay the expanse of stars. Visible in a way they'd never been during the perpetual smog and low-hanging fleets of quintesson crafts in the Age of Wrath.
The sight was beautiful. Many times, Orion had just wished for Cybertron itself to be as beautiful and free as the stars above were.
And lately he had hoped for that rather than wished.
The difference was contextual. Before, it was a passing dream, a hopeless longing.
Now he believed it was possible. So much was.
"Someday, the beauty of our world will not be this perfect lie," he said into the air. Besides him, Megatron huffed in amusement.
"Poetic," he quipped.
Hidden in the night's darkness, Orion smiled.
"You have a way with words, my little archivist."
That in and of itself was poetic. Orion spoke quietly in public and with obvious nervousness. Megatron was the one who delivered eloquent, awe-inspiring speeches. But the irony felt like a compliment rather than a joke.
"It will," he spoke up again, "Cybertron will be free."
They had dreamed of that how many times over their messages or in amiable debate? How many times had they painted the picture of happy freedom in words across a table?
"We will have no masters," the retired champion of Kaon agreed. "We will be free. You and I will lead this planet to prosperity."
"You and I?" the archivist teased.
Megatron took his small servo in his own massive and dangerous claws. It did not squeeze together with any sense of danger and pain.
The others only saw Megatron as the gladiator, the freedom fighter, the inspiring brute.
But Orion saw a gentle side to him. A mentor, a leader, a companion. Someday, Megatron would not have to fight. Someday, he would not have to be seen as a brute known only for his vicious side in battle.
Cybertron did not have to be oppressive in order to flourish, as it did now. It did not have to see only titles and social status before determining a mech's worth.
They made an unlikely duo- but someday, they would help lead a world to the place they were now.
A world where both would truly be seen. Not as the quiet archivist and the brute. There was far more to both of them than their exteriors and titles proclaimed. The quiet archivist enjoyed indulging in humor. The brute was well spoken and intelligent. A caste system refused to acknowledge anything but heritage and status.
A free Cybertron would do so much more for every mech that lived on it.
"Do you doubt it?" Megatron squeezed the servo gently.
Orion stared out over the urban glow below the sky of stars and squeezed back.
"No. We will."
He could not think of any other way.
They would.
Together.
