Of Cybertron

by northpeach

Sam and alien artifacts have always mixed funny. He wakes with a Spark and in a familiar frame long ago on Cybertron before its destruction with a voice calling him 'Prime' after he fell through the Space Bridge. Megatron rules by Optimus' side, working to make his world a better place. Sam has to try to prevent the war that ruins Cybertron. No Sacrifice, No Victory. TimeTravel

7. Chapter 7

A/N And now, a note from the authors.

WRR: I just wanted to say thanks to all of you who are sticking with us. I know some of this might not make sense to you yet, but we DO have a plan, with notes and everything. (grins) I honestly cannot wait for you all to see where this ends up. I'm quite proud of North and I, and I hope you all enjoy it as much as I did.

NP: Such pride! Many feels...also the notes, Primus, there are so many notes. Pages and pages. So, we do have plans and outlines and such. Like someone much wiser than I said, it's not the destination that matters, it's the journey. So, enjoy this chapter! It's another 18,000 words for your enjoyment!

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TIME MEASUREMENTS:

Astrosecond: .5 seconds

Nano-klik: 1 second

Klik: 1 minute

Breem: 8 minutes

Cycle: 1 hour 15minutes

Solar-Cycle: One day (20 hours)

Lunar-Cycle: One night (20 hours)

Deca-cycle: 4 weeks (one month)

Mega-cycle: 96 hours (four days)

Meta-cycle: 12 months (one year)

Stellar Cycle: 6 months

Vorn: 83 years

Mega-vorn: 83,000 years (1000 vorns)

60 mega-vorns: 4,980,000 years

---

Ratchet wasn't one for dramatics.

Granted, his displays of strong emotion, such as worry, concern or irritation were shown through...somewhat excessive force. Be it blunt physical or verbal force, Ratchet was skilled in expressing his emotions without actually revealing which one he was expressing.

He was a medic, he knew how to put a bot back together just as surely as he could take one apart. While the wrenches and various other objects he threw at his Prime and the group that Janus Prime had called a pack did damage, it was barely worth mentioning. Dents, dings and scratches occurred naturally, and if some were carefully inflicted to cause maximum pain with little damage…? Well, he was a professional.

Ratchet was a politician who was a medic. Or perhaps he was a medic who happened to be a politician? Either way, Ratchet didn't like dramatics, disliked causing them, and being dragged into them even more.

It was supposed to be 'tradition' when the new ruling Prime first claimed their status that he or she looked over all the policies of their predecessor and talked over the changes they wanted to make with a select group of bots. It was considered matters of state, and as such, all comms were to be shut down in communication black out for those that sat in on the meetings.

Ratchet had been chosen to sit in on the meeting for his steady logic in matters of state, his ability to find solutions and cut through the chaos of court, for his mostly neutral views, despite leaning towards Optimus' choices. While he was glad to be there to help pave the way for a better Cybertron, Ratchet was not happy about being forced to shut down his comm.

"I am a medic," he argued sharply with the guards standing outside the room that made sure all comms were shut down and locked with a temporary code that they would hold onto so no one inside could turn their comms back on after going inside, "In the case of an emergency, I will not be cut off from any alert."

"Our apologies, but we cannot allow anyone inside that does not allow us to lockdown their comms. It is a matter of security."

Ratchet argues, but in the end he agrees. His voice is needed in that room, his rational calm needed to help lay the foundations Optimus wishes to put into place, so he allows his comms to be shut down and locked even as he ensures everyone knows he disagrees with the edict.

Vehemently.

---

Cycles after Ratchet retreats into the conference room with the others, he is glad to be leaving. He is anxious and worried, wanting his comms unlocked, and to be out of the building. He has a bad feeling, knows there's something even as his digits twitch to grab ahold of a wrench. He needs to leave, to find the source of his unease. Optimus and Megatron are steps behind him, each sending subtle glances his way. He knows they worry, as his normally calm manner had frayed to a visible degree as time had passed, but he cannot offer any reassurances because his spark twists with an unnamed worry.

As his comms boot up, unlocking and loading to full function once again, Ratchet exits the building, his stride eating up the distance with haste.

And then he stills, his spark dropping into his pedes and his vents stalling for an instant.

Primus below, there are thirty six missed pings, all of them originating from Jazz, and progressively growing in attempts until he's received a ping for every klik starting as of two breems ago .

"Slag it all!"

His voice is harsh and furious even as he hurriedly begins to ping Jazz back, whirling to face Optimus and Megatron, snarling his next words with conviction.

"I will not lockdown my comms ever again Optimus, no matter who demands it of me! Politician I may be, but I am a medic, first and foremost! I knew I should have refused such unnecessary political posturing!"

Optimus and Megatron cease their subtleties, snapping to attention, straightening and narrowing their optics. They know Ratchet well, are aware of his moods and habits, and they easily recognize that this exclamation is born from worry, from fear. There is uncertainty felt from him, the hatred born of not knowing.

"What has happened?"

Optimus' voice is even and steady, edging towards command, but calm in the midst of the storm of Ratchet's anger and fear as he speaks.

"I am trying to find out," the medic fairly growls back.

Ratchet isn't yelling anymore, his voice is tight and his frame tense as he waits anxiously for Jazz to pick up. It doesn't take long, barely a nano-second, but the moment Jazz answers, Ratchet closes his optics with short-lived relief, keeping his voice steady as he replies. He knows from experience that in situations of high stress, everyone fairs better if the one in charge is calm. If he is calm and in control, he can work efficiently to fix the problem. So that's what Jazz hears when the comm is connected. A steady voice.

He straightens at the rapid-fire report Jazz delivers, striding forward with purpose now that he has someone to help, somewhere to go. His Prime and Lord High Protector stay on his heels, following after him without interruptions, frowning sharply as they listen in to the conversation on their own channels.

Ironhide's voice is steady, but deeply worried as he begins his own report of what little they can ascertain of Janus Prime's current condition. Ratchet, Megatron and Optimus all still, their back-struts snapping straight and their armor rattling as spark damage is mentioned, even as Megatron snarls soundlessly, digits curling as his servos fist. He is the one among them that has seen many different types or spark damage, both physical...and mental. Ratchet runs through his entire repertoire of curses. Spark damage was dangerous and unpredictable. It could be crippling, or fatal and need immediate treatment, but one never knew until examined.

In every case Ratchet had dealt with, which was a great number, the damaged bot had dropped into stasis lock in an attempt to save their spark from further damage and to block out the excruciating pain. It is for that reason, that Ratchet is completely floored as Jazz's frantic voice comes over the comm, accentless and rushing as he tries to calm the Prime who is somehow still fighting despite his injury.

Fighting and winning from the sounds from both Jazz and Ironhide's lines. But when the Prime speaks, oh, how his own spark aches at the wrecked mess that he heards. Clearly, Janus Prime had not gone into stasis-lock. The High Priestess femme that accompanied him was forced to leave him behind to get help.

Ratchet cannot help but wonder, how long did the Prime scream before his systems couldn't take the sensory overload and automatically shut down as much as they could without actually entering stasis-lock?

Unfortunately he already knows some of that answer, and he would beg Primus to take the knowledge from him if it wasn't needed to aid the repair of the damage to the Prime's vocal cords.

---

Megatron absolutely loathes the events that are happening far from him and out of his control.

Spark damage? To a Prime of Janus' caliber? What the frag?!

There is not much than can cause such debilitating injuries, but Megatron has seen every dirty trick, every twist and clever move, all the brilliant ideas and cruel choices born in the chaos and desperation of the Pits. If one wishes to cause harm, one will generally find a way.

It's only when Ironhide mentions those two words, 'spark damage' that Megatron begins to suspect there was more than an enemy attack that could cause such injuries.

Keep this line open!

Ratchet is shouting even as he answers another ping, from Bumblebee.

Ratchet, where are you?! I have Songbird and Janus Prime's sparkling and she's injured!

A stream of curses leaves the medics intake, before he replies, increasing his pace.

Take her to my home, you know the way!

I'm already at your home! Your housekeeper let me in when she saw me!

I'll be there soon, how badly is she injured? The sparkling?

From what I can tell, mostly impact damage and a bit of acid burns. Nothing serious at the moment, but she traveled all the way from somewhere near Tarn to here in her condition. Ironwill isn't hurt at all- physically. anyway.

Keep her conscious, but let her relax some. Don't let her slip into recharge, understood?

Understood, Ratchet.

Megatron's spark eased a fraction when Bumblebee confirmed his safety and the superficial if painful injuries the newly appointed High Priestess sustained, but there wasn't much information regarding Janus Prime. Other than the two worst words any medic has to hear. Still. Only time would tell at this point.

The High Lord Protector glanced over to check on the state of Optimus, pulling on their brother-bond to be sure of his emotions. Optimus was worried, afraid and yet, there was a calmness to him. A belief that everything would not end in tragedy.

He himself had seen more tragedy in the meta-cycles spent in the Pits than most beings would see in their entire lives. Regardless of the lack of information, Janus Prime was of a strength of his own. Spark damage and still managing to take down Ironhide? Those with pasts like his and conviction such as Janus' didn't just lay down and die, no matter what was inflicted on them.

---

They're barely crossing the halfway point to Simfur when Janus Prime regains his functions. Ironhide might have noticed after a breem or so, Jazz sooner, but they were both alerted to the fact simultaneously when the Prime violently jerked and attempted to rip off the straps securing him. Ironhide instantly braked to a stop, the Prime screaming in pain even as he continued to pull and twist his frame in an endeavor to escape.

Jazz immediately updates Ratchet, listing all the movements Janus is executing and the medic orders Ironhide to let the mech go. Ironhide immediately releases the locks that secure the straps and retracts them back into their place.

The instant the binds were gone, Janus was on his pedes, kicking out and managing to land another hit on Ironhide, sending him sprawling in mid-transformation. The weapon's master expertly used the momentum to stay upright, breaking into a jog to reach the Prime even as the mech swayed and wavered and eventually collapsed painfully to the ground.

Thankfully, Jazz had stayed back, knowing that at the moment, Janus was beyond listening and due to his stature he wouldn't be much help. So the silver mech stayed a short distance away, still giving updates, as Ironhide approached the fallen Prime with caution. To his relief, the Prime looked up at him, his bright blueblueblue optics, meeting his own red with such emotion emanating from his damaged field, that he was forced to control the urge to flinch.

Yet when the Prime reached up imploringly even as his digits trembled, Ironhide could not deny him and knelt down to clasp his servo to the other's. He could not speak, with the damage he had avoided looking at beyond the initial confirmation so prominently displayed in the starlight. While he was no medic, he was very much a soldier and never, in all his meta-cycles, had he seen such extensive wounds.

However, his silence was filled by the wrecked voice and rasping tones of Janus himself. The Prime's optics were distant and dim as he stared up at the mech.

"(to-endure-as-a-blade-in-war) Warblade, you're here," the mech whispered with such overwhelming grief and shining joy.

Jazz jerks in shock behind him even as there's several sharp gasps from the other end of the comms and Ironhide himself falters and his intake gapes open. There was no time for any other responses as the Prime made no sign that he had seen their reactions and required no confirmation of identity.

"I could not find you, you were not by my side. Where did you go?"

Janus Prime speaks like his world was ending-had ended-and at the very sight and thought of Warblade it had stilled, frozen before the end. The designation of a mech from their legends and known by every bot living, no matter their social status, falling with such joy and familiarity from the dermas of anyone, much less this Prime, is startling.

There was no wondering or guessing as to if the Prime's spark was damaged. There was no doubt now, seeing as Janus had lost all control in reigning in his feelings and especially considering his energy field was warped and dripping with such old, old memories and immense emotions of grief, sorrow, anguish and longing. Cybertronians, one to another could transfer data that included maps, stills and even recordings of their memories. They would be altered true, but when one could see visuals generated from the energy field typically used to project emotions?

That was only possible when all the shielding was let down, when a mech or femme was the most vulnerable to mental intrusions, and went against subroutines. The sheer amount of mutilation caused by the acid must be enormous. It was beyond concerning and even though Ironhide held his doubts and worries about this Prime, he had no desire to see him laid so bare before his optics.

Beyond the shock of hearing the designation of a well-remembered mech from another age falling from Janus Prime's dermas, it's astounding because of his opinion towards the mech who most only knew as a famous poet. The mech known as (to-endure-as-a-blade-in-war) Warblade had been a soldier in service to a Prime during a truly dangerous and treacherous time in their history.

Wars and devastating battles had raged, although none knew who the enemy had been, many historian speculated that the conflict was against another species who sought to conquer their world. Some said it was territorial disputes that spiraled out of control. Others said it was the enemy that had wanted to take resources from Cybertron. The records from that time were mostly lost, save for the majority of Warblade's works.

Why they survived was actually a tragic tale. The mech's rusted frame was found surrounded on all sides by an unknown species of feline-like were obviously intelligent, as the archaeologists had found implants in the remains alongside what could be armor that engulfed their heads providing oxygen.

The beings were relatively small compared to most Cybertronians, topping seventeen feet and most thought it was strange for a mech, obviously a warrior-type, to be felled by them, no matter the numbers. However, it was discovered that the feline creatures were probably extremely fast and agile, devoting their skills to hunting other species, of varying varieties. Their armor was skin, or rather fur-tight, and decorated with 'trophies' of previous hunts, as was speculated.

The most startling find was horrifying in the fact that their claws naturally secreted a type of acid that rapidly affected Cybertronian metals in terrifying ways. Some metals would absorb it, slowly allowing the liquid to eat through the affected area over time. The material that made up most of a bot's insides, including the spark chamber, however, that was swiftly disintegrated and eventually crumbled in very little time.

Of course, that turned a new light onto a warrior who could decimate, at their last count, almost thirty of these beings before succumbing to his wounds. It wasn't until an astonishingly intact datapad was found on his remains that the story was revealed.

The datapad contained the private thoughts, opinions and dreams of a mech known as Warblade. The beginning started with a young mechling who was taken into training for a task that a passing High Priest had proclaimed to be his destiny. The Will of the AllSpark, that Priest had called it. His designation was not originally (to-endure-as-a-blade-in-war) Warblade, as when the mech was placed on a battlefield with only an old blade to defend himself with, he chose that name.

Despite his disadvantages, the mech won many victories against his enemies. His writings were full of descriptions of the costs and consequences of his every decision. Battles were won, yes, but the intelligence of enemy movements reported by scouts and spies and the effort required from the soldiers, were all necessary and they were bought and paid for in lives.

It was during this hellish experience as a commander that a famous poem was written, not with any great skill or outstanding brilliance, but honest in it's anguish and despair.

To what do I owe thee, Victory?

What price must I pay to keep thee, Freedom?

Be it in the lives of mine brothers and mine sisters?

Or of never-wilts and could-have-beens?

Primus grant them mercy, the dead who linger by mine side.

I deserve it not, for by mine words did they go.

Of honor and bonds I did speak, given as reasons to fight.

To their deaths, I lead them, yet never mine own.

The price of Victory, the cost of Freedom.

It was a meta-cycle after writing that, when Warblade's life drastically changed upon meeting an unnamed Prime who fought with his troops on the battlefield without care for his own life. The Prime was mentioned frequently throughout his memoirs, but never described and never named, despite that Warblade wrote of him in great detail amid the death, the horrors and his realizations.

To thee I call lord and master, Declared and Proclaimed,

on the battlefield we met.

I could not have known, dare not dreamt,

of one such as thee.

To fight with such sorrow and drowning grief,

Yet with longing and hope unending.

Thou art a mystery, Blessed and Chosen by Primus,

By mine side thou stand, thine blade in servo, thy gaze ahead.

Thou glances not to the right nor to the left,

Simply forward, at the enemy, at our end.

Rhisling, shining star in thine grasp

Serve thy master well.

For Cybertron and for our sparks does he risk his own.

The first poem written and perhaps even dedicated to the unnamed Prime, spoke of how a single unattended Prime threw himself into the war. How he fought and undoubtedly saved the lives of many soldiers, both directly and indirectly. Although there are several mentions of Primes fighting in war and battles, never were they by themselves. Always there were comrades, brothers or sisters, guards to keep them safe, even if the Prime in question fought alone. There are many mentions of a single Prime, one who went out with no one by his side and fought, who was unfortunately never named in any written or recorded record, but despite these various mentions, the works of Warblade are by far the most extensive collection.

A mystery, I proclaimed thee, surely as you were once Proclaimed.

Truly, I do not understand thine actions.

With kindness and compassion, weaknesses in this war,

Did thou speak without hesitation.

Thou knelt in the ruins and grime,

By the wounded and dying's side.

Songs did thee Sing, of long forgotten times.

Of beginnings and ends, past and future.

Thou spoke and Sang with a soft voice.

This is war, such things should have no place among the soldiers.

Yet there is not one who sits away from thine light.

Not even I.

For a mech who had been trained for war from a very young age, had been a soldier in a never-ending war, the kindness of this Prime was a foreign thing. Confusion and bewildered longing are clearly heard with every word spoken, as well as the resigned acceptance and bitterness when Warblade speaks of the war. Later passages speak of the guilt and the sorrow he holds for surviving for so long while so many around him perish. One in particular describes some of the moment when the mech declares his intent to protect the lone Prime, among other things.

The dead dwell at mine side, yet thine…

There is no place for thou there.

Primus guide thee, Primus aid thee, Primus with thee.

I plead not for mine spark, give it to Unicron should thou desire!

Of thy Prime, let him live, even should mine spark suffer and die.

Mine loyalty, he demands not, yet I give it freely

Nor mine axe, nor mine life, though I offer those too.

He speaks of life and of Freedom beyond this war.

I am there, he says with certainty, burning blue.

Freedom is a right, he tells me when even the stars dim.

War and death is carved on mine frame, mine destiny forevermore.

Yet this Prime at mine side, Primus willing,

For him,

I wilt

follow.

The meta-cycles that followed lead to a victory, solely by the questionable actions of the unnamed Prime. The following written works, are not the poetry Warblade is remembered for, but a chronicle of the horrors and atrocities of war. The staggering amount of brutal deaths and torture that is doled out on both sides is all honestly put into words. Some information is locked, codes untouched and left due to some form of respect, but most of it is there.

His designation was (to-shoot-with-skill-and-experience) Trickshot, and he was barely out of sparklinghood. He was like me though. He chose his designation and answered to no one. No one save for the Prime. He is gentle with the youngling, soft with his words, with his touches. This is war and we are soldiers, to endure and die for the Primes, for the sparklings. That one is a sparkling no longer.

This one was talented, Gifted, but a soldier now all the same. The cycle would come, I knew. I would have to watch as the Prime shattered and mourned for the young one as he did for us all. It was only a matter of time before the youngling would make a mistake. There was no doubt, no question. The Prime would suffer, we all knew. We tried our best, but this was war and there were armies to fight.

It was only a matter of time. When the cycle came, we all knew. But, it was unexpected, his actions. We didn't understand. How could we? Peace meant nothing to us, beyond the quiet moments spent mourning or in recharge before battle. He did not keen, no wail left his dermas and he did not fall to his knees.
He only took his sword, that shining star, and turned towards enemy lines. He did not speak beyond a parting answer to our cries, our desperate pleas.

"If I should name a weakness," he whispered as loud as a scream, "It would be I love freely even when I know it will scar my spark. And if I should name a strength, is it that love will drive me to the impossible."
He ordered us to stay. We obeyed.
Later, when our Prime had returned, there would be those who told tales of the terrifying things he did for love. Some meant it as a cautionary tale for getting too attached. Others tried to spin it in a positive light, how love conquers all.

None of us told our sparklings anything beyond that phrase in the cycles of peace we would live to see.
A forgiving, compassionate and kind mech he was, our Prime never hesitated to deliver death to his enemies. We heard the explosions first. Some of us who possessed enhanced senses beyond the norm...they spoke of the screaming in that other language. None of us spoke it, but they said our feared enemy was begging and pleading. Unmistakable in any language.

We followed orders and relayed them even when another battle-group came upon us. Our Prime had ordered us. We would obey. The lunar-cycle ended and began again before our Prime returned to us. Trickshot was cradled in his arms, wounded, but alive.

His frame was dripping, his battle-mask obscured his features, but he was not the Prime we knew as he walked into our camp. His sigils glowed with such light, his blade a star illuminating him from behind. It was as if Primus himself had come to reap vengeance on those who would take a life he had given from him.
He gave the youngling to the medic and walked off, no emotions and no words of comfort, of reassurance. Save for one action, I would believe him to be an entirely different being.

He stopped by my side and placed a servo on my shoulder plate. I could not move. The weight of his servo was unimaginable and I would have faltered, collapsed and fallen to the ground had I not seen his face. So I bore the weight and stood as tall as I could manage and he spoke my name.

"The war is won, and you will know peace."

He left that lunar-cycle and did not return until the next solar-cycle. He was...off for a time after those events. He returned to a more normal state after Trickshot recovered. Then, the whispers began. It was not us, not we who loyally followed the Prime, who told of his doings. It was our comrades from another battle-group. Some were in awe at his actions, others felt justice was done...and some were horrified and afraid. The hunters departed, those that were left to command and give orders, so there were celebrations. It wasn't until I was submitting my forms in order to follow and to serve my Prime as he pleased that I discovered the entire story.
It was an old ally, who worked as a spy. He was chosen by the same High Priest as I was and there was an unspoken and unrealized bond between us.

"In two cycles, that Prime slaughtered over five thousand, six hundred hunters and destroyed approximately twenty eight of their battle ships." He paused for a moment to let me compute that before he continued.
"Of the still intact bodies we recovered, all of them shows signs of torture. There were over a hundred bodies found, scattered over the plains where the enemy had invaded."

I accepted this. I had done terrible things in this war, as well. Not to this extent, I knew. I had killed many hunters, over the meta-cycles, yes. In the hundreds with ease. But our Prime's count would number in the tens of thousands with this.

Still, I will follow him. I care not for his guilt, his shame that brands him as it does my own self when he returns. I do not mind the wounds and dents I receive when I wake him from the terrors that haunt his recharge. I cannot bare his screams, nor his keens. If my pain will bring an end, so be it.
Trickshot follows us. I have seen several familiar frames. They gather around, follow at a distance, run into him at random times. They are like me. They follow him too.

Warblade's Chronicles covered much after his choice, including the return of the hunters many vorns later, and his last battle with the species that would eventually result in his death. Before that time, there were many poems of the positive things Warblade found in his life by his Prime's side. Sparklings and younglings joined their group and although Warblade did not sire any of his own, mech and femmes from his old battle-group would visit with theirs.

Of all his poems, his writings, his dreams and fears, the one most remembered by Cybertronians...is his dying words.

And Ironhide stood in that moment in time, staring down at this Prime, who is so injured, who speaks such a designation with such grief, such longing, suddenly understands.

That last poem had been argued over from the moment it had been read. Standing here, with an unknown Prime who appeared from out of nowhere, who spoke of a mech long dead with such familiarity, Ironhide recognizes what that last poem written by Warblade had been. A goodbye. A vow to the one who held his reason to live.

And Ironhide has no words.

But Janus isn't done speaking. The servo still holding on to his releases and reaches up to gently cup Ironhide's faceplate, startling him in it's tenderness. His voice is soft, ruined from overuse, and his emotions are a riot, some indecipherable, yet others crystal clear. His words are rough and somewhat broken, but Ironhide bears witness and hears them in place of the long dead who cannot hear at all.

"I promised you, Warblade. As you did to me. By your side, there is no place for me. But by mine, there is a place you belong to. Please, I did not ask for loyalty, nor for you life, but you gave them anyway. Please, stay with me. Not out of obligation, but because you claim me as I have you."

There is such a look of desperation marring his face, that Ironhide is speechless. He is not young, not by far, he has seen many things and he stands atop of the acclaimed weapon masters. Ironhide is the best, a Champion. There are cycles when he can beat Optimus, times when he can lay even Megatron out on the ground. Yet, in the face of this mech, in front of this Prime, he feels like a sparkling. Such words of devotion and Ironhide knows the ending, knows what comes next and Primus.

No one speaks. Not Jazz, not Ratchet, Optimus is silent, Megatron says nothing and Ironhide wildly wonders what on Cybertron is he supposed to say?!

In the end, he can't. There are no words, no reassurances, there is nothing he can say. So he just leans forward to press his forehelm to Janus'. He can't promise that- Warblade has passed- but he can't tell that to the Prime laid out possibly dying beside him either. Not like this. And as the Prime allows his optics to close, leaning his own forehelm to press back against Ironhide, he relaxes into him.

"Come Prime," Ironhide's voice is as soft as he can force it as he speaks, "We need to get you to a medic now."

Janus opens his optics, dim with pain and yet still so brightly blue, his mouth-plates tugging into a tiny smirk as he agrees with exhaustion clouding his voice,

"(One-who-compresses-life-energon) Tourniquet is going to be angry about this. It's better we get to him quickly before he ties all of us to the ceiling with his whip and leaves us there to "contemplate our life choices"."

Ironhide doesn't have time to formulate a response when the Prime starts in realization. There's a pause as the mech tries to figure out what's wrong before the Prime works himself up, but Janus just continues with some form of growing panic as he turns his helm to the left and the right.

"Where- where is (soaring-with-flames-of-blue-underwing) Azurewing?"

Shooting a look at Jazz, confusion and desperate hope clearly visible in his gaze Ironhide non-verbally asks if the silver mech knows that designation. Unfortunately Jazz did not know who Azurewing was any more than Ironhide. He jerked his helm in a gesture and the other mech immediately turns away, whispering furiously into the open comm link.

Has anyone heard anything about a mech named Azurewing who lived during the same time period as Warblade?!

It takes a breathless klik before Optimus answers him.

I read of him, in some of Alpha Triton's records, when I was still called Orion. There was much debate about the validity of the records, as the Unknown Prime is mentioned since the very beginnings of our recorded history...Azurewing was a Seeker, and the Unknown Prime's Lord High Protector, or at least, an unnamed Prime. But that fact alone caused more doubts about the validity of the records, as even then it was rare for a mech not sparked with wings to earn the respect of a Seeker. There were always those who believed those with wings should not interact with those without. Because of this, there were those that objected to Azurewing's choice, because his Prime was not a Seeker, but Azurewing was loyal and determined, as was his Trine. They were faithful to their Prime, and followed him across our world.

Optimus pauses a moment, awe and shock mixing in his spark as he voices his next thought. If Janus Prime is asking for Azurewing, speaking of Warblade with such familiarity, there is a good chance he is either simply an unnamed Prime, or the Unknown Prime himself. Regardless, Azurewing only followed one Prime in his lifetime.

Megatron is the one to interrupt the moment, his voice sharp and commanding as he speaks to Ironhide.

Tell him his Lord Protector is securing the route to the medic.

His optics drill sharply into Optimus, tugging harshly on their bond in reprimand. Wordlessly reminding Optimus, of all bots, what it would be like for a Prime so injured and weakened to not known where their Lord Protector was. The fact that Azurewing is dead, his remains either rusted beyond recognition or floating in the darkness of space, pulls at Megatron's own spark.

Ironhide obeys the command immediately, not wanting the Prime to harm himself further if he took too long in answering.

"Azurewing and his Trine are securing the route to our medic Janus Prime," he replies formally, with an edge of soldier in his voice.

Ironhide nearly vents in relief when Janus relaxes a bit, his voice fond as he rasps,

"J-just like...that...killjoy…won't let me...ride along unless... it's an e-emergency…hah."

"You'll be riding along with me, Janus Prime," the mech says, so very relieved as the Prime nods in agreement, allowing his frame to rest against the weapon's master.

Ironhide is as careful and gentle as he can manage when he scoops up the taller mech and begins the process of getting the Prime strapped in for transport a second time, motioning Jazz over with a servo as he does.

Janus goes willingly, not protesting any servos on his frame as Jazz helps him settle down and Ironhide securely straps him in again. It's worrying as the Prime's helm lolls to the side, but even then, he's not slipping into stasis-lock or forced recharge. There's still a level of consciousness and Jazz relays his observations to Ratchet, keeping the disbelief from his voice. Still, everyone on the line is thankful when the bots resume their trek to Simfur.

---

Janus is drifting, not quite offline despite the pain that burns and throbs with every beat of his spark. He is aware that they are moving, that he is being brought to a medic, but not much else pierces to his processor. He vaguely recalls a moment when he was speaking to a familiar bot, that no matter how hard he concentrates, slips away from him. Names and faces that he knows, but can't hold onto as they slip through his mind like fog.

Those thoughts are quickly put away as he's carefully released from his secure position. Janus doesn't struggle against the servos pulling him out into the open and cautiously toting his form inside a building. He is aware of being placed on a berth, a vaguely familiar- so achingly familiar he knows this voice- bot yelling commands, and then there are servos on his shoulders.

Servos he doesn't recognize. Servos that do not belong to Tourniquet- who is that why does he know that name- and therefore should not be touching him while he is vulnerable.

Janus jerks sideways, crashing to his servos and knees with a broken snarl, ignoring the sharp curses around him, and the pulse of agony he causes himself in order to scramble backwards and away from the mech in front of him. He braces his form against the wall behind him, knowing he will not be able to support his weight in a fight without it. He catalogues the weapons he has in his subspace, he distinctly remembers what he placed in the space, but there are other weapons, other supplies and things he's never seen, but that's not important.

There is a form in front of him, speaking his designation, but his audio receptors aren't picking anything up and his optics refuse to focus beyond making out a blurry shape shorter than himself and colored white and blue. A distant part of him insists there is something important about that particular shade of light blue and white as a color combination on a bot, but the rest of him is focused on survival.

His legs threaten to fold underneath him, the wall the only thing that supports him, and the shape in front of him takes and aborted step forward, their tone sharp and demanding-there's a distinct urge to duck when that tone is used by that familiar voice. Janus has no idea what they're saying, instinctively reaching up and

back, pulling the Rhisling Sword from subspace and holding it steady, as a very visible threat and warning. He is not strong enough to swing it, but he'll hold it and stabbing people works just as well.

"Janus Prime! You sit your aft down on that berth right now before I knock you into it with a wrench!"

The demand has the opposite effect that Ratchet is used to, as the Prime's snarl deepens and his armor, broken and melted as it is, attempts to bristle threateningly all the same. Ratchet startles at the response, knowing the Prime should not move his armor that way, that he should have collapsed long ago, and that he needs the Prime to be still and let him work.

So he switches gears and goes for another approach.

"Prime, please! Sit down before you fall down."

And then Janus stills, his optics shuttering, and the tip of his sword slowly lowering as something in the back of his processor stirs.

There's only one medic Sam knew that threatened people with wrenches, a mech he had never heard utter a 'please' when voicing medical demands.

Ratchet.

The Rhisling Sword lowers another inch, Janus staring hard at the blurred from standing in front of him. "R-rat-chet?"

"Primus frag it Prime! Yes, (one-who-is-perceived-to-prevent-deterioration) Ratchet! Now sit down and let me work on your spark before you extinguish it through sheer stupidity!"

Janus barely holds back a keen. It's Ratchet.

Ratchet, who kept Jazz's body in the back of his med-bay, hoping against hope one day an AllSpark shard would find it's way into their possession. Ratchet, who yelled and shouted verbal abuse day in and day out at everyone, from Optimus to Bumblebee in an attempt to dissuade them from ignoring their injuries. Ratchet, who would sit in his medbay in the quiet looking as if the weight of the world sat on his shoulders.

When supplies of energon dropped into low levels, Ratchet was the one who found a way to synthesize more, to stretch what they already had. Sam had suspected that Sunstreaker and Sideswipe had gotten into fights and dealt each other easily fixable wounds for Ratchet to repair without issues. Granted, the twins would never admit that on pain of death, but Sam sometimes saw things other missed. Not that he ever mentioned those things to anyone, not even Bee.

But the look Ratchet would sometimes get on his face, something like hopelessness and despair. Those were the days he yelled at Optimus. Those were the worst days.

The mech standing before him was so different. He was so free, unburdened. He couldn't help the keen as his injuries pulled and one of his knees gave out. Ratchet instantly lunged for him and Sam- Janus- whoever he is in his processors, lets him, subspacing the Rhisling Sword as the medic rushes to his side.

A sentence falls from his dermas, he's barely aware of the words leaving his intake, but they're significant and they need to be said.

"Where is (one-who-compresses-life-energon) Tourniquet?"

Distinctly, whoever the hell he is now, he realizes there's something that can't be said, shouldn't be known so he stops. Makes a decision that the sheer amount of emotion that stems from that one designation is too much for him to even begin to deal with at the moment. So he boxes up those maybe-memories, packing in those shattering emotions and hides it in the corner of his mind.

There is silence in the stillness caused by his question, but he can see another blurry figure stepping up so he interrupts anything anyone is going to say.

"No," he (JanusSamOther) whispers distinctly, so far away, "no, he's not here."

He sags against the wall, feeling empty and hollow and doesn't protest when Ratchet moves closer and reaches out with the intention to touch him. He can't find it in him to care anymore.

Ratchet busies himself with taking out a solvent, gently coaxing Janus to lean against the wall completely, reaching into his own subspace for sterile cloths he's going to use to clean the mess he is about to make dissolving the acid that clings to the Prime's frame. There are holes and abrasions spreading from the point of impact, the spark chamber, over the chest and shoulder plates. It appears that Janus had his battlemask down at the moment of impact, so there is very limited damage to his facial plates.

He frowns as he realizes the spark chamber was partially open when it was hit. The damage is going to be extensive, he knows that even without examination. It's purely a desire to pull Janus' away from his thoughts and distract the mech, that has Ratchet beginning to explain what he is doing. He holds out a container in front of his optics for a moment.

"This solvent will dissolve the corroded acid, removing some of the corrosion itself so that I can pull the broken plates away and get to the damage underneath."

He feels as Janus tenses underneath his servos, hazy optics focusing sharply on him for a moment as something other slithers through their depths before as he asks, softly, almost hesitant, not quite pleading.

"Do you need to get under the armor?"

Ratchet stills, little warnings going off in his helm as he wonders why Janus would even think to ask the question with such an obvious answer. He doesn't like the reasons he can think of. The chest plates are too damaged to properly examine, but there is suggestions of old scars...nevertheless…

"That is correct, Janus Prime. I must look at the damage dealt to your frame and spark chamber so that I may repair it."

Janus is still as a mountain under his servos, his gaze surprisingly sharp and piercing for barely being lucid almost a kilk ago. It's only when his gaze focuses that Ratchet feels for a moment that he is being judged. Weighed. He knows this moment is important, so he gives the mech his attention, meeting Janus' optics with his own.

For just an instant, Ratchet could swear the blue in his optics brightened and deepened into burning stars and endings and beginnings, eternity in a moment and infinity in an instant. Ratchet is motionless in the face of power such as this, but Janus closes his optics, slumping against his servos in utter exhaustion as he breaks the connection that had held him so still.

"As you will, (one-who-is-perceived-to-prevent-deterioration) Ratchet," Janus agrees, resignation and reluctance clear in his voice, in the little of body language Ratchet can read, before adding quietly, "keep calm, will you?"

The Prime's attitude is all but screaming that he doesn't want to do this, doesn't want him to see, even though he's a medic. It's deeply concerning and for an instant, Ratchet wonders if he is prepared to see whatever it is that hides beneath this ancient Prime's armor. Wars, battles, and enemies that did not survive while this Prime did. Scars that tell a story he has perhaps, never read before? Regardless, he is a medic, it is his duty and if Janus doesn't receive proper care, he'll die.

So he nods once, steeling himself as best he can as he begins to pour the solvent over the affected area, carefully catching the excess with the cloths he holds in his servo, wiping away at the damage. The sigils once so prominently displayed are burned away, the once gleaming black, rich blue and shining silver of his colors are dulled and eaten away. The dull gray of his baseform is plainly seen especially with all the damage done.

Before he can go further, Janus twitches and speaks, his words carefully measured and steel-edged.

"Where is Ironwill? Songbird?"

Ratchet recognizes the fact that should his answer...displease Janus Prime, he will not be remaining still.

"I have already treated her injuries. Ironwill was unharmed. High Priestess Songbird was sedated, Ironwill went into recharge by her side," he explains, watchful optics pinned on Janus' frame as he relaxes almost imperceptibly.

He feels the moment the armor gives under his gentle treatment, shifting just so, and he stills, lifting his optics to the exhausted form of the Prime under his servos. Janus meets his gaze, his optics dim compared to the burning stars that had pinned him in place just a klik before.

He is gentle, exceedingly careful as he pulls the broken armor free of the mech's chassis, pivoting to set the armor aside before turning his attention to the exposed protoform. His sees what Janus had wished to hide, his processors compute angles and force, size and type before it actually registers what he is looking at.

Ratchet has seen many things. He has seen injuries that do not require his expertise, ones that only a medic could repair. He's held small, clasped fuel lines in his servos, the only thing that stood between a bot and permanent offlining, as he kept the life-energon in their frames. He is intimately familiar with his servos being buried in the internal workings of many a bot, he's taken taken some beings apart and put more still back together.

But he has seen nothing like this.

He wants to scream. Some distant, functional part of him points all that the wounds are healed, but he cannot acknowledge that right now. There's an urge to scream with the horror of it, the unfairness, the despair, the disbelief and he wonders if this is what he feels, how could Janus…? But he remembers, he remembers the promise Janus has asked for just astroseconds before, and he chokes it back. Calm. He needs to be calm.

They're at his back, watching him. Optimus, Ironhide, Jazz with Megatron lurking near the front wall. The High Priestess Songbird and the Prim- Janus' sparkling are sedated in the room next door with Bumblebee while Barricade and Prowl stand guard outside.

His processor is frozen, for an instant he feels nothing.

He had not been prepared for this. Nothing could have ever prepared him for this! How can he keep calm?!

How is Janus Prime alive?

The answer is obvious, it's that he shouldn't be.

The keen of shocked despair is completely involuntary, his servos twitching with the desire to fix the damage in front of him without thought, his processor still frozen on the story told by the multitude of scars on Janus Prime's frame. Through and through of blades, Blessed Primus Below, burns, shrapnel scars, deliberate and precise lines, acid-marks and other numerous scratches and dents he cannot identify the cause for. To be quite honest, if he wasn't absolutely sure Janus would be dead, he would say something exploded in his spark chamber.

That is also not even touching on the acid damage he had just recently taken. Even though the sudden surge of emotion, Ratchet is automatically cataloguing and recording every injury, automatically moving to repair what he can. He's a medic of acclaim, highly talented and seasoned and yet this is so far from anything he's ever seen, ever even heard of, Primus.

Ratchet is aware, distantly, that none of the others have seen the damage yet. The bots in the room with them are respectful enough to avert their optics, and even if they were not, Ratchet's frame would block their sightline of the damage he can see.

Unicron above, Ratchet hasn't even removed any other armor. If Janus' spark and the area around it is so damaged...what did the rest of him look like?

Ratchet sways, a low keen choking its way out of his dermas, a servo lifting. It's shaking, a distant part of Ratchet knows. His servos have not shaken like this since his very first major surgery so many, many vorns ago.

"P-Primus," the name is hushed, despite the obvious exclamation of shock, but his voice sounds like a scream in the thick silence.

"Ratchet?" Optimus is the first that dares to break the moment, frightened by what he can feel echoing down the bond he shared with the medic as his Prime. Ratchet is a mech that felt deeply, powerfully. His emotions are a living thing, as deep as the Well. Optimus has feared the solar cycle that Ratchet feels nothing from the moment he realized this was the case. And whatever it is that Ratchet is seeing, it had caused that moment.

For an instant, Ratchet had blanked, his living thriving feelings going still and silent, like the last vent of a mech, and Optimus' had frozen, his optics jerking towards the medic and Janus Prime.

So he sees the moment Ratchet reaches forward, he can see the subtle tremors traveling through the medic's frame, and he feels his tanks churn with apprehension about what it is that Ratchet is staring so fixedly at.

He speaks Ratchet's designation anyway, knowing what questions he is implying with it, and bracing himself to bear that weight so that Ratchet will not bear it alone.

Ratchet hears Optimus speak, but he cannot pull his optics away from the sight in front of him, continuing his forward motion as he lightly, so very lightly, like handling a sparkling in its first cycles of life, brushes his digits over some of the scars, like they will shatter apart at his touch.

They remain, carved into the still and watching form of Janus Prime, marks of his survival, of his will to live. Of how many desperately wanted this mech dead. Ratchet's optics lift slowly to meet the ancient blue of the Prime, digits still pressing lightly against some of the older scars. In his optics Ratchet can see the cycles of life, and of death, eternity and an instant, everything that was and everything that could be. The weight of a being who has seen so much time pass and for a moment, Ratchet understands why it is that this mech is called (beginnings-and-endings-past-and-future-of gateways) Janus.

"What...what did they do to you?" Ratchet rasps the question, staring into the mech's optics, "How are you even alive?"

Janus shutters his optics, staring at Ratchet for a moment, before he answers the mech, his tone sardonic and weary.

"Sometimes, I'm not even sure," he rasps with just the faintest edges of bitter amusement.

But he is tired, so tired, carrying the weight of everything across his shoulders like a mantle. The memories that curl through his processors like smoke, present and real yet so far from his grasp and understanding. But still, at the devastation on Ratchet's face, he summons up a happy memory, of Earth, as Sam of Mikaela. His girlfriend who cared about the then-grumpy old medic, who encouraged his relationship with the Autobots.

"No sacrifice, no victory. I was willing to pay the price so that others had no need to."

And Optimus is moving, unable to remain standing back in the face of the mournful keen that escapes Ratchet, as he wonders what could cause the medic' loss of control, enough to sound so horrified over. He knows it is disrespectful, but he can feel Ratchet flailing, reaching for something to steady himself against, and he finds himself unable to stay away. He takes a single step, his worry growing as Ratchet doesn't even acknowledge him, before he begins to approach slowly but with purpose.

He crouches beside his old friend, who was bent over to his knees beside the Prime, almost as if he was kneeling before he leaned forward. His servo wraps around Ratchet's neck, exerting only the bare minimum amount of pressure and the medic goes willingly as Optimus presses his forehelm against his in a gesture of comfort. Ratchet keens again in response, soft and low and pained. It is then that Optimus turns his attentions to Janus, allowing his friend to lean against his frame, to use him as the grounding presence the medic needs.

His vents catch and stutter, optics widening with horrified awe as he finally sees what it is that had stopped Ratchet in his tracks. Understanding blooms, heavy and painful in its intensity. Optimus cannot help but stare, kliks passing unnoticed as his processor struggles to accept what it is he is seeing. Beyond the unbelievable number, the variety of scars, most of them lethal or very nearly, was staggering.

Slowly, he lifts his optics to meet those of Janus.

He thinks on this mech who knew so much history, who had shared so willingly with Optimus and those he called his own. A mech who had scoffed in the face of what was, making it 'what could be'.

He stares at the Prime who had looked at him and seen someone worth Declaring. He stares at the weary but powerfully determined spark shining in the Prime's optics.

At this mech who had chosen to do what was right, not what was easy both in standing up to Sentinel and in handing over the power he could have had to Optimus, in the way he had chosen to save Songbird and Ironwill when the credits were down and he had to chose...and he wonders.

How many times has someone tried to stop him? How many were so terrified of what he represented they rejected his presence entirely?

Looking at the scars on the small portion of exposed baseform, Optimus thinks the number was large.

And deep in his spark, Optimus feels the first stirrings of anger, tempered by disbelief- how could someone do this?

Anger grows to rage, rage to fury, and fury crystallizes into Will.

Megatron tugs at their bond, trying to pull his attention inwards, trying to ask what had stirred Optimus to rage, trying to soothe the turbulent emotions, but Optimus' anger remains, inevitable and unmovable.

The ex-Gladiator had never felt such a blade-sharp fury in Optimus before. His spark-brother was one of a steady temperament, order to his chaos, a born leader who knew how to make decisions even in the midst of upheaval. He was a mech with control of his emotions.

Megatron was not expecting the calm star that his brother embodied to become a supernova, bright and fierce and burning. He was not expecting the moment his brother shifted, but he is very aware of the moment Optimus becomes the 'sword' over the 'shield'.

He feels the desire to fight in his brother, the urge to step in front of those who have had no one to stand in front of them. He is no longer the nurturer, the shield, happy in defending his own, but a blade, sharp and singing as it cleaves towards its target.

Only Optimus has no target to attack, and instead Megatron can feel the sharp desires settling in his spark like a vow.

He creeps forward, pedes lightly falling, but steady, as he approaches.

"Cybertron below me…"

Gladiator fighting was a dirty, dangerous business. Every underhanded trick was used, every cheap shot, every moment sharped to kill your opponent and remain standing. Megatron had reigned over this dark pit, its reigning King, its Champion, for more vorns than he cared to count.

He had watched bots fight, and fall, some rising some not. He's witnessed mechs and femmes alike turn against each other, vicious in their desire to entertain the crowd well enough to avoid punishment while surviving their opponent. He had been present for the twisted fights between femmes who were forced to fight for their sparklings, when those femmes were desperate and willing to do anything for their sparkling's survival.

He had seen the pitfire in bot's optics as they stood across from him in the Ring, knowing who he was, but determined all the same. Be it for others, for themselves, for glory and fame, for loved ones, he had seen them all. Some won and others lost, some lived and others died. A vicious cycle, but one he endured all the same.

In all the vorns of watching the worst of Cybertron thrive and corrupt those around him, Megatron had seen nothing like this.

Janus is silent as he the bots in the room begin to gather around him, pulled close by the shocked despair and rage of their own. He watches as Ratchet leans heavily against Optimus the way he once had long before, when Ironhide brought him the frame of a fallen Jazz. He hears the keens, is aware of the storm that lights in Optimus' optics as he stares down at the marks Janus carries. He hears Megatron's shocked whisper, is aware of Jazz, and Ironhide approaching. He doesn't glance up to see their reactions, he already knows what they'll be.

He leans his helm back against the wall and speaks, trying to ease the tension in the room when he tells the group.

"Those that caused these injuries are all dead anyway. I am certain I got them all," he affirms at the vague sense of truth sliding through his thoughts and he does not think of those secrets he hides even from himself.

He is unaware that his words only succeed in stirring the feelings of the others, intensifying them as he continues, an absent truth spilling from his dermas, though he is not sure why he is so certain of it. He does not think about it.

"I wasn't expecting to survive any of them very long after receiving most them in the first place, so there was no point in going to a medic. Especially since often, a medic wasn't available."

Janus jerks in place as the tension in the room spikes at this quietly voiced truth, hissing softly as his wound is pulled, when Ratchet- who had been repairing the damage even as he keened- tightened his servos just a smidge too much, a wordless noise of mourning-horror-denial escaping him.

Janus feels very much like that moment so long ago when Sam had teetered on the edge of a building, staring into the red optics of what he was sure would be his death, certain everything was about to end. He stands on the edge of something now, unaware if someone will be there to catch him when he tilts backwards and off the ledge as Optimus from the Future-That-Never-Will-Be had once caught his human self.

The door to the room opens abruptly, all optics turning towards it as Prowl, Barricade, Bumblebee and Soundwave push their way in. Bumblebee was speaking for all of them, not bothering to stop even as everyone's attention came to rest on him.

"Optimus, what happened? I could feel your anger halfway across the temple, and Soundwave said he felt Megatron's horror, what on Cybertron? Prowl and Barricade were hovering like nervous sparklings outside the door, so don't tell me no...thing...happened…"

Bumblebee's voice slowed to a stop as he approached close enough to see what held the other's' attentions so thoroughly. The gapping spark chambers on open display were naturally the first thing the four Cybertronians saw when they cleared the entrance. Bee immediately turned his backplate and shuttered his optics.

"My apologies, Janus Prime," the Sensitive bites out in trembling tones, "It was not m-

"Bumblebee," Janus interrupted, pulling winces from the newcomers at the sound of his voice, "Your designation is Bumblebee, is it not?"

The Prime did not give the youngling time to answer before his gaze swung up and pinned the two Enforcers and Soundwave with an overwhelmingly blue fathomless stare. Both Prowl and Barricade straighten to attention at the look, snapping their optics to gaze front and center. Soundwave, however, found himself taking a small step back. This action instantly drew Janus Prime's complete focus to him and Megatron took an instinctive step forward, breaking their line of sight.

"Megatron, protective action is deemed unnecessary. I was merely surprised…"

Soundwave sidestepped the mech and quickly knelt by Janus's side. The two engaged in a staring contest, the Prime excluding an air of power and timeless strength, despite Ratchet working on his chassis while quietly keening. The telepathic Cybertronian paused a moment before bowing his head, his dermas stretching in preparation to speak.

He was interrupted though.

"My past is not to be revealed simply to satisfy your curiosity, child," Janus rumbled out, his optics drilling into the bot's helm, "Regardless of the integrity of my mental shields, or rather their glaring lack, I am a Prime. I hold secrets that would drive you into insanity."

Janus fairly hissed the last word, a servo shooting out, despite Ratchet's protests, clamping onto Soundwave's shoulder plate with astonishing force. The mech used the telepath as support to leverage himself to a crouch as to tower over the still kneeling bot even as most of the beings in the room surged forward as if to prevent the Prime from moving, to their failure.

"If you dare to intrude on my memories," he snarled, "I will step aside and let you see into the heart of me."

Sam paid no heed to the pain, brushing aside the protests of the medic still continuing to repair his injuries, even as the English word fell heavily from his dermas. He leaned forward, his digits lifting Soundwave's helm to glare straight into his blue/blue optics. In the background, Megatron stepped up, lethal grace in his movements, crossing his arms across his chestplates in a silent warning.

Sam ignored him, he was the same size and armed as well. He had faced an insane Megatron as a human, he had defied the Fallen. There was nothing that could scare him any longer and Soundwave had no right. There was a feather light brushes of retreating digits across his processors and Janus barred his dermas before making a decision.

"Look, child. Look and see," he ordered.

There was a moment of hesitation before Janus tightened his grip and Soundwave obeyed. For a klik, the two were frozen, even as Optimus and Megatron stood watch over them, wary and concerned at the happenings they were not privy to. The moment was shattered when the telepath broke optics-contact with a low cry, jerking his head in an attempt to dislodge the Prime's grip on his chin. It was unsuccessful, but Janus visibly softened as he gazed at Soundwave as the mech shuddered and trembled in his grip.

"I understand, apologies, Janus Prime," the mech said lowly, regret thick in his tones as his gaze fixed on the ground.

"No," Janus answered, agony and grief layering his vocals, "no, you do not understand and I pray that you never will."

He released Soundwave and shifted back, aggravating his injuries. With a hastily choked off keen, Janus slumped back against the wall as he released his hold on the mech, allowing him to back away. Soundwave lingered though, although Megatron quickly stepped forward and in front of Soundwave a second time, his optics narrowed and focused as he analyzed Janus Prime. His armor didn't bristle, but his stance was very much that of a protector, warning everyone around him that he was ready and able to leap into motion at the slightest signs of a threat to his bots.

---

Soundwave was surrounded by such an ancient and distinctly neutral power the instant he stepped through the door into the med-bay. It filled the room and it was emanating from the tall mech who was sitting on the floor against the back wall. Ratchet was crouched in front of him, obviously tending to the...spark damage?

The only sign of his wince at the sound of the mech's voice was the subtle shifting on his pedes. And then those bluesoblue optics turn to him, and Soundwave reacts without thought as he is pinned into place by the endless power in those optics.

He takes a step back, feeling very much like he has been weighed and found wanting. And then Megatron is in front of him, and the connection is broken.

It is then that Soundwave finds his curiosity stirs, stepping around his Lord and meeting those blue optics head on, more prepared this time for the ancient vastness he finds even as he slides into distracted thoughts.

The brief glimpse of the Prime's mind offered only a well of pain and darkened memory banks, save for a small amount. They were vast things, visualized as they were, but many were blocked and locked away far from prying optics. Still, he managed to lift recent events, such as those leading up to Janus Prime's wounds before that gaze returns to him, only edged with intent.

Soundwave had spent vorns upon vorns in the Pits Megatron had saved him from, telepathic and treated as an oddity. His Cassettes had been the chains that bound him to the Gladiator rings, and yet they had also been the beings that held him aloft in the darkness and chaos. He could not die in the Ring, not when they needed him.

He continued on that way until he worked his way up to the top, and found himself placed across from Megatron himself. The Champion of the Ring. Soundwave had lost the fight against him, found himself crouched defensively over his Cassettes, sure that was the last cycle he would ever see, and determined that if he was going to die, it would be before even one of his Cassettes did.

Instead, Megatron had called out Champion's Choice. The King of the Ring had chosen to spare him, and his Cassettes. He had agreed to the twenty matches he would have to win against some of the best, one right after another, to keep Soundwave as 'his' victory trophy.

Soundwave had been floored when Megatron went out, fought against all twenty opponents, won each match, and then allowed Soundwave what free reign he could, helping him support his Cassettes in the Ring as much as the mech could.

Soundwave had sworn eternal loyalty to him for that alone. Finding out Megatron was fighting to change the caste system had only solidified the decision.

In all the time that Soundwave had spent in the Rings, looking in on the processors of some of the darkest Cybertronian lives there were...in all the time he had walked a step behind Megatron, aware of the burning supernova that resided in his Lord's spark, all the vorns he had stood at the shoulder of the Prime his Lord protected, watching the processors of the corrupt that tried to stop them…

Soundwave had never encountered a processor, a mech, like the one called Janus Prime.

The moment he met those optics, the instant permission was given, a door opened to him, as it had with all others. He was allowed entrance into Janus' processor from the mech himself.

Only everything after that moment was different from the brief glimpses he had gleaned. The mech had nearly nothing in the way of mental walls, and yet, the moment he looked around, there was a vast sense of power, of will that forbid him from going forward, of seeing what lurked behind the star-fire that burned brightly in the deep of Janus' mind.

Soundwave had always been a curious mech. The driving need to know, to figure out the whys the hows and all the little things that make up their vast existence very present in his spark. Yet as Janus Prime crouches in front of him, demanding that he look that he see why it was that Soundwave had been barred from seeing as he always had, the Prime's grip on his faceplates strong and demanding, he thinks that he should not have poked a sleeping predacon.

And yet, he still looks, the curiosity in him an overwhelmingly powerful force, and the demand in the Prime's voice a command not to be disobeyed.

The blue star-fire that had blocked him from seeing dims. The memory banks are still darkened and unending as far as his senses extend. His view is still shuttered, he cannot see, but as the star-fire dims and compresses in on itself, feelings pour forth.

Soundwave nearly buckles under the weight of them. There are so many, so powerful and ancient, endless… his vents stall, he its being smothered. He is nothing and no one, an existence dwarfed by time, so small and helpless in the face of a god. He cannot move, here is no thought, there is no being.

And then the Prime is there, in his own processors, a gentle shield, a powerful unbending protector as he allows Soundwave to retreat, to reform, to pull away from the star-fire that had shielded him from such a vastness, like the vastness of space itself, endless and swallowing all in its path.

His physical form jerks in the Prime's hold, wanting to pull away from the thing that had nearly smothered his mental presence, his very existence, but the Prime's hold is powerful for all that he is injured, and Soundwave moves nowhere.

When he offers his apologies, shame welling in his spark and says he understands why, his gaze is set firmly on the ground, the Prime answers him, and Soundwave has a moment of clarity.

This had been a lesson, that not all things were for him to learn. That some things should remain mysteries and wonders. This had been an elder scolding a youngling, teaching in a way that would stick, that was safe for all that Soundwave had felt as if he was being slowly crushed by this mech's very thoughts. This had been a warning.

And even as Megatron shifts a second time to shield his form, as if Soundwave is the one injured and threatened, he swears to himself that he would remember this the next time he met the optics of another Cybertronian.

---

Janus leans heavily against the wall behind him, utterly spent. He should not have moved from his place when Soundwave looked into his processor. He knows he should not have, but he had been unable to stop himself, acting as a warning and a lesson in one. An attempt to prevent what the mech before him became in the time Sam had known him.

He wasn't sure what had prompted him to be so forceful in his actions with the telepath. It wasn't his experience with him on Earth as Sam- but something had stirred as Soundwave had peered into his helm, like a book with its pages flipped too fast. The anger and how-dare-he had risen up so quickly, he was startled by the orgins of it.

Janus had only gotten the gist of it, but he had found himself acting immediately on the sharp, demanding prod from the Allspark energy in his helm, that had commanded he prevent Soundwave from making this mistake again.

If he had read the glimpses right, at some point Soundwave had done this Before, to someone less kind than him, and it had caused major, catastrophic damage not only to himself, but to those around him.

The moment Soundwave had pulled away from him, trembling and awed at what he had found, the Allspark energy that had prompted his movements, not to mention given him the strength to manage it, faded leaving him emptied and hollowed at its sudden departure to collapse back against the wall.

He scanned the faces around him, taking in expressions and body language alongside any leaking emotions in their energy fields. There is shock, awe, curiosity, those are to be expected as is the edges of anger and bristling hostility born from a protective reaction. He can hear Ratchet scolding him as he rechecks his repairs, his voice strained with the stress of his emotions.

But Janus is focused on Megatron and Soundwave the most. He is happy to see Megatron shift to shield his Second. It is a comfort to see the Lord High Protector in the mech who had once been a War Lord. It is a comfort that in this moment, and from this moment forward so long as Janus has a say in it (and he does) Megatron is as he should be. As he was meant to be.

Soundwave holds his attention because the mech stays. He had seen humans on his Once-Earth, and even Cybertronians retreat in the face things as intense as Janus knows his emotions are. He had seen people break under less, watched mechs and femmes alike flee before his presence. And despite this, despite getting an up close and personal look at some of the weight he carried, despite feeling some of that same weight settle on his shoulders and almost break him, Soundwave stands, still and watchful and not running.

This is a good group before him.

A good, powerful pack with strong bonds.

Janus vents heavily, his optics closing for a moment, and his frame slowly losing the last of its tension before he opens one optic, turning it down to Ratchet as he asks, quietly, hopeful and exhausted, "I may go to sleep now?"

Ratchet does not understand the alien word, but he understands the tone, the body language the Prime uses, the way the Prime looks at him.

"Yes Janus Prime. You may recharge."

"Good," Janus breathes, allowing himself to finally let go, going limp so that the wall is the only thing to hold him up, and allowing himself to finally give into the blackness that had hovered at the edges of his processor and optics for longer than was probably healthy.

---

Ratchet slumps with relief, almost collapsing in on himself when Janus finally allows himself to fall into recharge. The mech should never have been online in the first place with such damage done to his spark chamber. It was a miracle of Primus that Janus had managed to get his sparkling chamber mostly shut before the acid had hit. If his chamber had been open completely...Ratchet didn't want to think about that.

His servos had stopped shaking as he worked to fix the damage, but he cannot quite stop the keens that escape him, especially as he discovers new scars and poorly healed wounds in his attempts to deal with this newest injury. Ratchet has been online for many, many vorns. He had worked as a Medic during them because he wanted to help people. It had been his driving force behind being a Politician as well, but Ratchet had always been a Medic first in his spark. He cannot imagine any situations in which this many wounds would be inflicted, where there would be no medic on hand to help, where the mech in question- where Janus Prime- would simply soldier on with such horrific damage. That is not even mentioning that there are no signs of even the sloppiest of first aid. No patchwork repair, no temporary measures, nothing.

What drove the mech? What could drive any bot so intensely they would continue on with this damage, even when- from his own dermas- he had not expected to survive in the first place? Or was the reason simply because...he did not want to survive.

That level of trauma to mental processors, there is no imagining the circumstances that would lead to a Prime losing the will to do anything other than fight. A Prime was a leader, a spiritual guide as much as a protector. So what, what could possibly, drive this Prime so intensely towards a fight response when he had no pack that Ratchet was aware of, no people to protect and guide? No bot that would push him towards such an offensive and yet defensive motion?

What could drive this bot who- Ratchet was sure- was the oldest mech he had ever laid servos on? The scars left on his frame laid out a painfully sad story to Ratchet's optics. He could see exactly how young the Prime was when he received his first scar, and exactly how old that would make the bot when compared to his newest marks. This bot would have forgotten more than most bots would see in their lifetimes.

He was an ancient, scarred, damaged Warrior that continued forward and kept fighting even now, when he had almost nothing, save one sparkling and a femme barely out of younglinghood, and Ratchet is a little terrified about what lay behind that drive, what lurked behind the ancient optics of this Prime, unseen and yet just as damaging at the acid he was cleaning from his frame. A driving force. A force that kept him awake and aware enough to send for help while his spark chamber was being eaten by acid, that kept him clinging to life when lesser mechs would have offlined. That pulled him back to his pedes when he should have been in stasis lock.

The silence is heavy and stifling apart from Ratchet's occasional noises of pained grief. Sounds that, frankly, pained the others to hear. But there is nothing they can do, so Optimus breaks the silence.

"I have never seen such injuries on a mech-" that survived them, is what he's not saying.

Megatron made a soft noise of agreement "Not even in the Rings have I seen scars like those. I am not sure how that mech is even alive." he is silent for a moment, before he turns to look at Soundwave. "What did you see?" he asks, curious and wary of the reactions he had seen on both their parts.

Soundwave is silent, trying to think of words to explain all that he had seen. All the impossibilities, the wonders, the sheer vastness of the mech himself.

"He is…" Soundwave pauses, staring down at the mech now in the grips of recharge, "He is the stars pulled down and shaped by Primus himself. Ancient and forever, endless and vast...a light in the darkness of space. This mech has seen things we only know as legends and myths."

Soundwave shook his helm, incomprehensive and confusing flares from his energy field lending weight to his next words.

"I do not have the words to explain his mind. He is an open datapad, no mental shields of his own, and yet star-fire shields his memories. He is loyal, fierce...and even as he lectured me, even as I was told not to question his past...he allowed me to see. He shielded me from the contents, shielded me from most of the weight...and yet he let me shoulder some of his burden to understand. I was nearly smothered, and yet he kept me from being crushed under that weight. Sheltered my mental presence when I had nothing to ground me. What he did..it was not with intent to harm me, with an intention to be painful. He forced me to see, to understand, as a lesson. This mech is a teacher, a protector, an immovable unchanging force in the face of impossibility."

The room is silent as they absorb Soundwave's words. It is the strangest description the telepath had shared about a mech, and yet…

Staring at the still form of Janus Prime, they all think that perhaps it is one of the most accurate in depth summaries of the Prime's personality, that accurately portrayed him, they had heard so far. Along with a unique perspective on his mental state.

Perhaps the conversation would have continued, but the moment was interrupted when a loud crash echoed from the next room.

Ratchet spared only a nano-klik to be thankful the noise did not jolt Janus out of recharge as he rushed from the room and to the one next door. Sure enough, Songbird had pulled herself from the floor and back onto her pedes, determined optics fixed on the door he had just entered through. "What are you doing?" Ratchet barked sharply "your legs are not ready to support your weight for any substantial time! You should not have tried to get up!"

Songbird didn't still in her movements, continuing her determined march as she answered Ratchet, her voice like the crack of an electro-whip. "My Prime. Where is he? I can sense him- he was so tired. Ratchet where is my Prime? How is he?"

Ratchet rushes forward to take the weight of her injuries, no longer as cross as he was. He remembered a time or two of his own where he had barged in on another medic looking after his Prime and taken over the entire med bay Optimus found himself in. He couldn't deny the femme the right to fight her way to her own Prime's side when he had done-would do- the same.

"Your Prime lives. He is resting now, in the room next door."

Ratchet chokes back another keen as he remembers the scars he had just discovered. He knows that if he gets emotional talking about the Prime's injuries, Songbird will panic and nothing he did or said would help after that.

"He is...damaged, there is no doubt about that, but," Ratchet meets her optics with his own, his emotion-field swelling and pulsing with his determination and promise as he swears "I will see him recovered as he can be. I will see him tended and healed. You have nothing to worry about- Janus Prime is a stubborn mech. He will live. We got to him on time."

Ratchet is thankful he already has the femme supported with his own frame as Songbird's tense frame loosens so suddenly she nearly collapses to the floor, a whisper soft "Thank Primus" reaching his audials. Ratchet is thankful the sparkling is still sleeping, as he helps the young High Priestess back to her own berth.

Once the sparkling was up, there would be no stopping Ironwill on his quest to get on his Caretaker's chassis above his spark in an attempt to soothe this most recent terror. With his injuries, that would not be a gentle nor easy task for Janus Prime, but Ratchet is not fool enough to think for even an instant that Janus will try and stop his sparkling despite the pain having a frightened, worried sparkling on his chassis will cause him.

Ratchet takes this moment to look over the femme's injuries again, checking that her actions had not damaged her frame any more than it already was, and taking another moment to calm and soothe himself with the movements of fixing injuries that are so much simpler than the ones Janus Prime carried.

---

When Janus comes back online, he is sore and sluggish. His body feels like deadweight and for an instant he has no idea what happened or where he was. Some instinct keeps his optics closed and all signs of his awakening suppressed as he tries to think through the fog of what happened.

It takes a few kliks, but then he remembers.

The subtle nearly soundless click as Songbird triggered a trap. The knowledge that jumped to the forefront of his processor screaming 'acid fog', the lightning quick calculations he made before choosing to save his Priestess and sparkling…

Agony beyond words, centered over his spark-no not again, not like this, why was it always his spark?-and collapsing. Songbird and sending her on a frantic dash for aide…

It all comes back to him, and Janus suddenly realizes he is in Ratchet's Medbay.

It is easier to relax then, opening his optics and scanning his surroundings. Ratchet is inside the room, and he turns as one of the alerts triggers and pulls the Medic's attentions his way. Janus doesn't give the Medic a moment to speak, asking,

"Are Songbird and Ironwill alright?"

Ratchet knew the query was coming, and he finds that he is not surprised it is the very first demand, the only words, to escape the Prime's dermas upon awakening. He had made sure that he has those answers before he had even entered the room, so he gives him a short summary of what he wants,

"Yes Janus Prime. Songbird is alright, and healing well from her minor injuries. Ironwill was unharmed, and despite his worry for you, he is doing well."

He sees some of the tension in the large bot's frame bleed away, and Ratchet is glad for the releasing of stress that pulls on the Prime's injuries.

"You, on the other servo," he says and lets his voice show his disapproval as he pulls Janus' attention back to him after a klik, "Are a wreck. You will be here with me for quite a while- and no you will not be allowed to leave my Medbay until you are fully functional."

Sam knows better than to argue with Ratchet when he gets that particular tone, and especially when his armor bristles just so the way it is doing now. Granted, it had never been directed at him, exactly, because Ratchet was a Cybertronian medic. That didn't stop him from worrying about his fragile human bones and even more fragile organs, but there were human doctors for that. He still recognizes Ratchet's tells all the same.

However, Janus has a vague memory of an electo-whip with a similar demand, instinctively wanting to flinch down in an attempt to dodge something unseen. But those are some of those things that he ignores, so he nods once, making no move to argue or look like he was in any way attempting to get up.

"Very well."

Ratchet nods sharply once, turning to the doors and calling over his shoulder "I will bring you your sparkling Janus Prime. I am sure he will climb the walls should I deny him another solar cycle. Songbird is, however, in recharge, and I would like to keep it that way."

Janus settles further into his berth, willing to wait patiently as he slowly opened the bond he had slammed shut so violently in an attempt to shield his sparkling from the agony of acid. He knows the exact moment Ironwill becomes aware that he is online, hearing the frantic rush of warbles, whistles and clicks from the next room, even over the low rumble of Ratchet's voice soothing the little one.

Janus finds his dermas pull up into a grin at the sound, and his arms open in welcome as Ratchet approaches with a near vibrating sparkling in his servos.

"Easy little one. Remember what I said." Ratchet's voice is soft but stern, and Janus watches as Ironwill stills and calms, his little servos reaching forward, as gentle as the mechling could be when he finally gets in his Caretaker's lap.

When the moment is interrupted by a knock on the door, Janus reacts thoughtlessly. His grip on his sparkling firms, becomes shielding, even as his armor flares as much as it can while he lays in a berth. He only calms when Ratchet reaches back to grip his shoulder, brushing reassurance-safety-promise over his emotion-field.

There's an odd moment when a memory that isn't his jumps to the forefront, of a battlefield. It's fierce and splattered with life-energon, and he can see Ratchet, coated in life-energon that doesn't belong to him, crouched defensively in front of his patients.

He knows that no one with the intent to harm him will get past the door while Ratchet stands with him, and he finds his armor flattening in response, his grip loosening on Ironwill as he tracks Ratchet's movement across the room.

Ratchet opens the door without hesitation, and Optimus is revealed to be the mech standing on the other side. Standing beside him are two bots Janus has not met, but Sam recognizes as Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. They are just as brightly red and gold as he remembers, though they lack some of their armor as well as a few scars.

They're as disconcertingly young as the other Cybertronians had been. Not yet marked by war- and if Janus can prevent it, never to be marked by it.

As Optimus enters the room, the Gladiator Twins- and no matter how different they are to the hardened frontliners Sam remembered, he can still read in their gait and body language that they are still Gladiators even without the stories the Twins had told him on Earth- enter a few steps behind him, and a few bots Sam had never met are revealed.

He recognizes them all the same.

Elita-One. Cherry red with silver-blue accents, shorter than Optimus and yet still carrying a weight to her that brings her to the attention of others. And Elita's right hand, the sparkmate to Ironhide.

Chromia. The femme is a sapphire blue with chrome silver accents. The way she walks alone tells Janus she's a fighter. He can see the way she complimented Ironhide immediately, even before she spoke.

The last femme to enter the room behind Chromia is a smaller frame. Sam had seen her only after she had been altered by Shockwave, made into 'Triplets'. Here and now she is one whole being, untouched by the experiment that ripped her spark into three pieces. She is a bright boldly colored individual in the likeness of what Sam calls a 'classic cheshire cat' pink and purple.

Ironwill leans over his servos chirping curiously at the new faces, and instantly Janus finds he is the focus of every bot in the room.

Looked like it was Meet and Greet time.

As Optimus approached him, introductions spilling from his dermas, Janus makes a point to dip his helm in greeting, introducing himself and his sparkling politely.

---

Healing is a slow and time consuming process. Especially with wounds so serious as the ones he had taken. Perhaps the only good thing Janus can think of to come of his confinement to the Medbay is that Optimus and his pack- including two more bots by the names of Wheeljack and Bluestreak- come to visit him. It deepens and expands on their bonds, establishing a firm base of trust over time.

Trust he will need if he is to help them through the future battles.

Ratchet is just as much of a terror over his patients as Sam remembered, and he is exceedingly glad to see some things hadn't changed.

Optimus is much more talkative and curious then Sam remembered, and Janus finds that despite the difference, he feels fond of the questions Optimus finds to ask him every solar cycle. Megatron is the most different to what Sam had expected, and in this he is glad some things have changed from what he knew. The Lord High Protector looks at him strangely sometimes, like he has no idea what to make of him, but he is curious and polite, and Janus doesn't mind the chats they have.

He is glad to get to know the young and more innocent versions of the mechs and femmes he had known as Sam, even as it hurts to see them so changed. He is glad to see the innocence in their optics, for it gives him reasons to fight, reasons beyond what he knew as Sam, to shield and protect them from what is coming. Reasons to strive for the change he is determined to cause.

It is a bit surprising to Janus that over the time he spends in the Medbay healing from spark damage, he can feel some of the pain of leaving everything he had known, all the people- the family- not drain away, but heal. The gaping wound that was all he had lost is beginning to pull together at the edges.

It's still a gaping injury, but perhaps one day, for the first time in a while, Janus- Sam- thinks it could be a scar.

---

Optimus' pack had learned to be careful coming into the Medbay. They had learned that the Prime healing within its walls was an ancient warrior with the scars and reactions that came with that. They had all witnessed nightmares and flashbacks suffered by the Prime at one point or another and dealt with waking the mech from the terrors that haunted him.

Normally, it would have smarted at their pride to have an almost fatally injured Prime repeatedly overpower them in both a confused and terror-stricken state, but the things the mech had screamed out, lost in his memory banks, lingered. Commanding pleas and begging demands for so many others, repetitions of numbers and designations, even strange languages none of them had ever heard before.

Those were only the reactions of fear, the ones of rage and fury were much more violent.

Usually, the Prime could be talked down by Ratchet often calling him another designation, but there were days when Megatron or Optimus was required to restrain him. To Optimus, Janus always listened, even if he hardly spoke.

So when they come in, and found the Prime sitting up in the berth, an absent servo tracing over one of his many scars, Bumblebee doesn't hesitate, the pack having discovered that Janus reacted best if Optimus or Bumblebee were the ones to rouse him from memories.

"Are you alight Janus Prime?"

It takes a klik, but Janus' optics eventually focus on the pack before him, his voice soft, almost hesitant, as he responds.

"Yes. Yes, I am alright, it was only memories."

Looks are exchanged, worried and not missed by Janus, because that is what the bots before him were worried about.

They settle around him, silent and supportive, presences that pull Janus away from the darker memories, bringing the happier ones, ones from his versions of this pack, and the Lookout to the front.

Janus isn't sure what prompts him to speak, his voice soft, like he is sharing the secrets of the Universe with them. All he knows is that it seems right in this moment, as he turns to face the worried optics watching him and begins.

"Long ago, many, many vorns past, I visited another planet," he says, his voice warms, brightening with hints of remembrance and happiness as he continues, "It was a planet with a sentient people, so young and foolish, but brave and bright living on its surface. They were capable of love and hate, of joy and sadness...for all their differences, their organic frames, so much smaller and weaker than ours, their short lifespans...they were much like us in soul- in spark.."

Janus pauses, his optics far away in memory as the Cybertronians around him remain silent and attentive.

"Their planet was as organic as the species that called it home. It was as different from our metal planet as could be...and it was beautiful."

A touch of awe bleeds into his tones as he remembers the brilliance of his old planet.

"Their sky was a bright blue, a star, a sun, sitting in the center of their solar system, acting as their light, and life and lighting their solar cycles. They had a moon during their lunar cycle, the very ground lush and alive with greenery," another pause before he continued wistfully, "Sometimes I wish Cybertron had a sun-star of its own. The sunrise and sunset of this planet are a dearly missed sight. The warmth provided, the brightness…"

He pulled his optics back to focus on the pack in front of him "They had weather patterns there. It rained, but it was not like our rain. It was not acid rain that fell from their sky, but water. Their storms were a force of nature, clouds swirling around their sky, the light and sounds fleeting, and perhaps all the more beautiful for it." his dermas lift into a smile tinged with saudade.

"I hope one day you will be able to see it. To understand the beauty in the differences. Not even stills or video files can compare to the actual sight of a sunrise, sunset or even a storm of this planet."

Bumblebee is the one to break the almost sacred feeling silence "What was that planet called?"

Janus' voice is warm as he answers, his tones soft and almost loving "Earth. The planet's name was Earth."

The name is committed to memory banks without a shared word amongst them, each of the bots curious about the organic planet that brought such a bright expression to the Prime's faceplates.

---

If Janus had to pick one thing he wasn't too happy about thanks to the spark damage he had taken, it would be the physical therapy that came after the actual healing. The work that went into making sure everything was working properly, and the time it took to ensure it.

Three deca-cycles. Three long deca-cycles of work. He was glad for the time offering him the opportunity to bond with Optimus and his pack despite being confined to Ratchet Approved spaces.

And maybe he had been pushing himself, rushing through the exercises Ratchet had given him, but he hadn't expected Megatron to be the one to call him out on it. He had so much he had to do, so much he needed to prepare for. He had no time to stand around doing exercises.

His optics are fixed on Megatron as the Champion Gladiator tries to lecture him about taking it easy, slowing down. He listens as Megatron tries to help, sharing stories about a mech he knew from the rings, who had suffered extensive damage and survived by following the Medic's orders. He listens as Megatron goes on to explain how another mech, one who suffered a less dangerous injury, but rushed through the Medic's orders, and ended up offlining in his next fight due to complications.

"I admire your strength Janus Prime, but if you continue to rush through your therapy I am afraid you will offline yourself."

The laugh that escapes Janus is bitter, weary and resigned.

"Oh, Megatron," he sighs in tired amusement, "I should already be offline."

The room is silent, shock swelling off Megatron's emotion-field for a moment in uncomprehending shock.

"What?" His voice is almost a whisper, the edges of blank horror underneath the flat tones.

"I should not be here." Janus repeats patiently and so matter-of-factly, "I should be offline."

He knows there's something like a smile on his face, amusement in his field, but his death is an accepted part of his life and he knows he's supposed to be dead, several times over. This doesn't bother him, he's still alive after all, but Megatron looks like someone just bashed him over the helm. But as Janus studies him a bit closer, he finds that there is the smallest flares of...betrayal? Or disappointment?

And then, to his surprise, Megatron rears up, his dermas twisting into a snarl with his optics blazing red and growls.

"You would give up so easily, Janus Prime?"

Oh, that's what this is.

To Megatron, Janus is this figure of towering strength and unwavering determination with an iron will to live. A Prime, a warrior with a sparkling in his care.

Janus shakes his helm firmly, his voice powerful and fierce as he answers the Lord Protector with a single word.

"No," he denies strongly.

Janus can see as Megatron pulls back a bit, the mech's dermas loosening and his emotion field filling with confused surprise before the mech recovers and leans forward again to growl, "What?"

"I would not choose death Megatron. I could not- I have too much to do, a sparkling in my care, and a High Priestess that follows me. I have Optimus, you and your pack that are looking to me for answers and the stories, the knowledge of the past, that which has been lost. I am here, and I will stay here so long as Primus wills it."

The almost aggressive determination that had coated both Janus' words and emotional field remains, but amused remembrance manages to overwhelm it for a klik as he continues, "I may even fight Primus to remain beyond my time."

His optics narrow onto the confused form of Megatron, allowing his tone and emotional field to flood the room with his honesty as he bluntly reiterates and expands on his meaning.

"When I say 'I should not be here' it is not that I am giving up, rather a simple fact. I should be dead. I should not have survived the injuries I retained. I should be offline, but I am not. I am not offline by the Will of the Ancient Primes and Primus, by the Will of the Allspark alone."

Megatron looks and feels so disbelieving that Janus almost wants to laugh. Instead he begins to explain.

"The Original…" Sam paused a moment, wondering if he should mention that there were actually fourteen, technically, though the designations escaped his memory, "Thirteen weren't that special. They were- they are- important, both in expanding our planet, in helping us to advance as a people, and in our history. They should not be forgotten nor their roles diminished, but the Thirteen were not special in life, they were important. It is in death that the Thirteen became more.

"They left pieces of themselves throughout Cybertron, meant to be found in times of great need, a link connected to their consciousnesses in the Matrix so that in death, they could offer their guidance and council," he explained, giving no mention of their tomb on Earth as he was almost certain nothing would be there, since he held the Matrix that had once resided in their servos here and now, stored and safe in his chamber.

"In times of great upheaval, the Ancient Primes are pulled to these objects, and they watch those around them. In this, they learn about the situations, and the people in those situations." Janus paused optics dimming in memory for a klik "And they Judge. The first time I should have died, I was a youngling, not yet a Prime, but I had a Prime of my own. He was killed before his time, and I moved to save him. I died for him. Shrapnel pierced my chassis, and I passed, but the Thirteen had been pulled to one of their objects. The Matrix of Leadership, and they had been watching my pack and my Prime for many vorns. Had been watching me.

"When I passed towards the Well, they stepped in my way, stopped me. Explained to me that I had earned the right to use the Matrix for my actions in a hopeless situation. They offered me a choice, and I chose to go back. I climbed to my pedes in the middle of that battlefield, where I had already died once, and by the Will of the Thirteen had come back; I marched to my Prime, The Matrix bright and shining in my servos, and I revived him."

Janus is silent for a klik, allowing Megatron to absorb that knowledge before he continues with something like resigned acceptance layering his tones.

"It is by the Will of Primus that I stand here today. I do not remember how I arrived here, only a sense of anguished vicious fighting, agonizing pain, and the desperate need to be the last one standing. I remember I was horrifically injured, that I fell, pressed my helm to the ground, and begged for...something. I know I should have died. I know in my spark that I had suffered too much to be alive...and yet here I am. I woke up, I stood again where a lifeless frame should be."

Janus shakes his helm in weary, resigned amusement.

"The Allspark...It is by the Allspark's Will that any of this, that all of this happened. The Allspark worked and flowed between Primus and the Thirteen, connecting myself to them. Perhaps I have failed to explain this adequately, but my point remains. I should not be here. Not that I do not wish to be- I very much want to be where I am- but that it is a miracle my spark still beats at all."

He ignored the blatant emotion twisting Megatron's being as his optics dimmed and he lost himself in memories of times long past and which would never come to pass.

"I wished for ignorance and normality, which I was granted for a time," he said so wistful, his tone hoarse with longing and grief. "But as someone once said, some are created great, some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them. When I was young and foolish, I considered myself great for the footsteps I followed and the bonds I held. When I grew older and wiser, I realized that it was not I who was anything extraordinary, but others around me who shone with their brilliance."

With fading memories of a Megatron consumed by lust for power and driven mad to the point where this one in the here and now was reduced to a bot who wouldn't hesitate to kill Optimus, his spark-brother, Janus turned his full gaze onto him.

If he were still human, still on Earth and if he had witnessed the end that he still did not know, he knew he would have wept at the look on Megatron's too human face.

He knew as Sam-the-human, when he had nightmares of Megatron, screaming and searching for him in the destruction of Mission City, Optimus never minded sitting and talking with him in the early hours of the morning. The stories he told were of a talented and powerful warrior who loved as fiercely as a burning flame and was as dangerous as a wildfire to those he labeled 'enemy'. Megatron was a Gladiator, Sam knew. He didn't know the whole story, but he knew the basics.

My brother, Optimus had said, staring at the star with longing, and a wrecked grief of such depth that Sam could not help but cry for him.

Optimus's brother who only wanted to do right by those he cared about. To put an end to the senseless violence and the social classes that judged a bot's existence by letters and bloodlines, that was the dream of Megatron, the freedom-fighter.

The bot that now sat across from, not from Sam-the-human, but Janus-the-Cybertron, who felt for him at the thought of his death. Who cared enough about him, a being he scarcely knew, that the mentions of giving up outrages him. Offends him. And that human part of himself that grows quieter with each passing cycle sobs. Because this is what the Fallen broke and shattered in Megatron. His compassion, his mercy, yes, but his spirit and his reason. That raging husk of a puppet on Earth was nothing like this being before him now- save for his power and fighting strength.

"The things you have done, Megatron, were great, none can deny. Terrible, perhaps, brutal and necessary for your survival, yes, but they were great nonetheless. You brought change and here you are, with Optimus by your side, along with those you saved for an unjust and undeserved ending." Janus tilted his head, his expression losing the nostalgia and gaining a sharp edge.

"Here you stand, having risen above your past, with your optics fixated on a brighter, shining future. And it is here, seeing the changes that you and your Prime have brought, will bring, that what I said shines the brightest. It is not in myself that I find something extraordinary, but those around me."

There was a terrible understanding in Megatron's gaze. A twisted edge of dermas and a solemnity to his expression. Not quite shame and not quite regret.

"For all the lives taken, by your servos or another's, for all that you wish the actions you took were not necessary, you do not regret and you are not ashamed, because it was worth it, for them." and understanding of his own shines in Janus' optics as he meets Megatron's stare head on.

---

So the poems are mine. All mine, my precioussss. So don't use them without permission. Because they're mine. But you can always ask, even if you wish to use bits of them and not the whole thing. I probably won't mind, as long as you make sure to credit me, but seriously, ask.