A/N: A quick shout-out to the talented Foxbear (please read this writer's works if you haven't already, and if you have, well, go read them again!) Both Bumbee and I are woefully inept at mechanical jargon, and Foxbear has been kind enough to let us borrow a few terms here and there as well as point us in the right direction for sources. Our humble thanks, Foxbear!

Also, as mentioned above, Bumbee and I are still learning our way around mechanical terminology so if you find any inconsistencies or errors, which, I am sure you will, dear reader, please forgive our ignorance; we're still learning!

Please R & R!

~~~Epsilon Pax & Bumbee

Grating the gears together in his throat in a growl of frustration, Orion pushed aside the last boulder and pulled himself free of the now unmoving rockslide. Always graceful, even for a mech of his size, as he tumbled unceremoniously forward, Orion checked his momentum by folding into a rather acrobatic roll and thus avoiding what could have been a rather clumsy drop. As soon as his peds hit the ground, he sprang up, alert and aware.

Silence greeted him, nothing in the canyon moved.

On the far side of the clearing, the canyon floor was littered with the unmoving frames of countless Decepticon miners, glittering eerily in the shade, covered with the dust of pulverized energon. Almost everything that they had mined had been ruined under MECH's assault. So many sparks extinguished, and with the energon lost, it had all been for nothing; Orion turned away in disgust at the waste, at the realization of lives so recklessly spent.

His optics settled on the unnervingly still pile of rubble and rocks, the same that he had just freed himself from. There were three Cybertronians still trapped within, who still needed help, who he could help.

I defend, I protect…

Even as he surged forward, his servos straining as he began to dig, to search, a part of his processor sought to chase down the errant thought that had surfaced unbidden.

I defend, I protect…

The phrase was incomplete, there was more to it, there had to be; how and why he knew this was beyond him at the moment, but as he silently repeated the words, over and over as he dug through rock and stone, something within his very spark seemed to click into place. That errant thought, those words, felt right. They were not apart of any mere unthinking programming that had been buried within his memory banks. No, these words resonated with deep feeling, with unshakable belief.

Yet, he felt with no less certainty as though these were not sentiments that had originated from him; he knew that he had never spoken them aloud, but rather that someone had spoken them to him, once, long ago. They had a moral weight to them, as though they had sprung from a well of wisdom and knowledge, as though these words had been spoken to him directly by one of the ancients. Perhaps even by one of the Primes?

Prime.

Just like the splinters of the previous errant phrase that chased his thoughts, the word, the time-honored title, resonated with a similar depth and poignancy.

Prime.

The very feel of the title seemed to sound in tune with his every circuit and servo, within every recess of his spark. But why? And what about the croon of ' I defend, I protect'? Where had it all come from? Back on Cybertron, Orion had been a humble archivist, certainly nothing and no one of note, and certainly not the caliber of construct that would have merited the attention of a Prime.

Utilizing but a fraction of his vast intellect, Orion rifled through his memory banks, or rather what seemed to be left of them. Once again, his spark contracted in pain as he flitted from file to file; there was so much that was missing, so much had been lost.

But how?

Try as he might, he could not pierce the soft opaque veil that had descended seamlessly over so many of his memory banks; it was all blanketed with a quiet and empty neutrality. And it frustrated Orion to no end. On Cybertron, his very programming had been to recover and restore data files that had been damaged and all but lost; yet somehow he was helpless to do the same for his own memories!

His internal interrogation came to an abrupt halt as just there, slightly to his right, a gathering of rocks shifted ever so slightly. Immediately he ceased his digging, he had to be sure that the movement had not been caused by his efforts. Just as he had hoped it was indeed no random displacement of stone and an additional lightening quick scan informed him it had been caused from within the pile rather than without. Determination surged within him again as he resumed his efforts to reach the three Cybertronians who were still trapped within the tumult of rubble.

I defend, I protect the weak…

Just as slowly and surely as his recovery algorithm was unearthing bits and pieces of that phrase, so too was Orion making head way into the stone hillside: he knew he was getting close.

I defend, I protect the weak…

Of course, how could he not strive to protect the weak?

I defend, I protect the innocent…

Again, such sentiments seemed to suggest themselves naturally to his logic processors.

I defend, I protect the weak and the innocent from…

From what?

But he was unable to follow such thoughts any further as the pile beneath his hands began to shift from within again.

"Can you hear me?" He tried calling aloud, regretting that he did not know any of their names.

When his audio receptors couldn't pick up any verbal response, he thought to try a comm. channel. Like the intricate strands of a web, he riffled impatiently though all of the lines he had access to. Each line, as romanticized as it may sound, resonated at varying frequencies, that, if one so desired, could be viewed in an array of spectrums not limited to mere audio, but that could encroach upon the visual as well. When viewed in such a way, as Orion now was, the result could be cuttingly beautiful.

But at the moment, Orion could take no heed of the vibrations of colors, and impatiently dismissed those private lines that linked him to individuals such as Megatron, Soundwave, Knockout, Breakdown, even Airachnid, and finally the open communication line that would have resounded throughout the Nemesis.

Just when he was about to abandon the attempt to contact the trapped Cybertronians through an open channel—after all the only secure one he knew of was for the Nemesis—he chanced upon another set of private lines. It was hard to believe that these had escaped his notice, even for this long, as these strands of communication resonated in such vivacious tones it made all others pale in comparison. What's more, each of these previously unused communication channels were still capable of being activated, and each were attached to a name he did not recognize, and that he wished with all of his spark he did.

Deciding that at this point anything was worth a try, he selected one at random and sent a message to someone named Ratchet. Hesitating for a moment as he considered what to say, Orion at last settled for something simply stated; after all, he had no way of knowing if this particular individual, this Ratchet, was one of the Cybertronians helplessly trapped. And even supposing that he was, Orion still had no way of knowing if this Ratchet was cognizant, or even capable of responding.

"Help is coming."