[The Cyberverse continuity is the primary inspiration, with references made to the 2019 comic reboot and other sources of events, lore and characterisation.]

"How're you feeling, big guy?"

"…I feel… I am, uh…"

Bumblebee smiles sunnily up at Orion, utterly dwarfed by the great mech.

"…I am prepared," the former archivist eventually concludes in his calm, modest cadence, upright and at attention, expression stern, "to give this speech." Not quite answering the question.

"There ya go! It's just like we practised. And we'll be in the crowd, sending you good vibes only."

"That would be greatly appreciated."

"Also, uh… maybe loosen up just a tiny bit."

"Loosen up?"

"You're standing like you've got a solid rod stuck down your spinal seam. You wanna look smart, not stuffy. We've got the Senate for stuffy, not smart. Smart's all you."

"Mm. Should I not endear myself to their stuffy ways?"

"Now, that's just crazy talk."

"Ah-ha-ha. Very well, then." Orion relaxes his imposing frame ever so slightly. "Is this improved?" Offers an endearingly hopeful quirk of his optic ridges.

"…Yeah, that'll work."

He clears his intake, peering over an array of helms, in search of a particular face plate within the crowd.

"Trust me, Orion. You're gonna kick aft in there!"

"I do hope so." A slow, steady sigh. "So much progress towards our future benefit depends upon the success of this day. I cannot fail."

"You won't fail. You'll knock their fat helms right off, like you always do. They're bound to listen to you. I just know it." Bumblebee punctuates this point with a playful slap to Orion's mighty back plate, before wincing at the sting, servo quickly withdrawn and digits bent. "Oof, gotta remind myself, you're as solid as you look!"

"Thank you." A paternal smile, downcast. "I am grateful for your faith in my abilities, my friend. I will endeavour to make you proud."

"Aw, we're already proud!" Windblade sets her palms on her hips, nodding at Grimlock and Arcee. "Right, team?"

"The proudest! You've totally got this, Orion!" The energetic femme takes a quick selfie, sure to include her friends in the background of the shot. "Ooh, that's art!"

"Indeed! And take comfort in knowing that I will host a most glorious soirée to celebrate this momentous occasion, after the ceremony has concluded! You are all invited, of course."

"Yeah, I could do with a party."

"I love a good soirée! Yours are the best, Grim."

"Why, thank you, my dear Arcee. You have always been the Spark at the centre of the joviality."

"Aw, you keep sweet-talking me like that and I'll kiss ya!"

Orion's Spark leaps in its chamber as his optics befall Megatron, ruggedly beautiful and powerful and moving with purpose closer, ever closer.

"Here he comes," Windblade intones.

Bumblebee's smile diminishes considerably. He has lost much of his hero worship of the retired gladiator.

"Old friend!" Orion calls out, his broad palm splayed in the more respectful universal greeting. A hug and a kiss on the cheek may not be entirely appropriate, all things considered.

"Greetings," Megatron rumbles, laying his palm flat against the other mech's, their spread servos thus compressed together for a long moment.

"It is good to see you."

"Likewise. How are you feeling?"

"A little nervous, to be honest. Yet imbued with hope."

Megatron manages not to wince. He already discussed all the possibilities with Starscream. They shall succeed, regardless of what transpires today. "Very good."

"And how are you faring, old friend?"

"I am ready," Megatron rumbles, mourning Orion as the potential casualty to the betterment of Cybertron as a whole. The retired gladiator has barely managed to recharge a full cycle these past few days, and not all of this prolonged wakefulness is on account of Starscream's sheer virility demanding frequent passionate interfacing. "Shall we go inside?"

"After you."

Megatron leads the way and Orion, after smiling warmly upon Bumblebee, Windblade, Grimlock and Arcee in turn, moves to follow Megatron.

"Good luck!"

"Thank you!"

"Remember, we're sending good vibes!" Bumblebee sighs, leaning on Windblade. "Probably should grab some seats, huh. This thing's supposed to start soon."

"That would be wise." Grimlock gently finds Arcee's pauldron as she takes random pictures of anything that catches her optics. "Come. There will be plenty of snapshot opportunities later."

"One more! Go pose for me by that statue real quick. Look fierce, but heroic."

"Oh, very well, then. One more, then we shall be seated."

"Okay, team." Slipstream channels her maternal energy as best she can, regarding the Seekers with tired, stressed optics. "Captain Starscream wants us looking our best for… whatever it is we're attending to. Some sort of secret meeting, I guess? I don't know, I wasn't given any information, except we'll be seeing some important figures to the cause. Best behaviour all around, alright?"

"But we're just the security detail, aren't we?" Thundercracker cringes softly. "Wasn't the oil bath enough? We look great."

"Captain Starscream was very insistent that we be extra shiny so as not to embarrass him. But also, we are not permitted to outshine him."

Acid Storm sighs. "He's very particular, like that."

"Ugh! Easy for him to say. He loves getting all prettied up."

"Aw, Thunder, lemme do you." Nova Storm lovingly ruffles Thundercracker's helm. "I promise it won't tickle so bad when I'm holding the buffer."

"You told me that the last time."

"Did I?"

"I remember distinctly."

"Well, how long ago was that? Gimme another chance, sweet Spark."

"Yeah, bet it won't tickle this time, now we all know Nova's calling is in a chop shop, putting dents into mechs and breaking them into little pieces to sell on the parts market."

"Thrust, just shuddup before I put a dent in you and sell your parts for scrap."

"Kinky."

"You're just jealous because my combat simulator scores are the best and it's making you snippy."

"Whatever! Thunder's giggles are hilarious."

"They are not!"

"They are a little funny."

"Acid! Not helping!"

"Let me at him," Thrust drawls with a scoff, admiring his reflection before he has even gotten started with the buffer. "I'll make it extra ticklish."

"You're such an aft."

Thundercracker warily regards the buffer at rest in its charging cradle, flushed.

"I won't force you to use it if you really don't want to," Slipstream intones very gently and patiently. "We can use the textiles instead. Do it the old-fashioned way."

"Ugh, that takes so long."

"We have sufficient time to prepare."

"It's okay, Sir. I'll just soldier through it."

"C'mon, then." Nova Storm reaches for the buffer. "Let's get this over with."

Thundercracker smiles shyly at her, trusting. But despite her assurances, he is still awfully ticklish.

"Stop squirming," the femme grumbles fondly into her work, dragging the polishing buffer along the mech's squirming frame, drawing out the brilliance of his blue. "I'm barely touching you!"

He almost leaks oil when she tries to polish his wings.

Acid Storm attends to Thrust with calm focus.

He preens before his increasingly glossy reflection, evidently smirking on account of his own beauty as much as Thundercracker's giggling.

"All this posturing. You're as bad as Captain Starscream."

"Better in berth, though."

"I suppose."

"Hey, I'm your go-to mech, what d'you mean you suppose?"

Ignoring the idiotic banter, Slipstream is attempting to polish herself to moderate success. Her bulk limits her flexibility and renders certain places impossible to reach. "Would one of you attend to my back plates and behind my legs and, uh, stuff, when you're able?"

"On it," Nova Storm answers before Acid Storm can. "I'll do your aft, too, if you want."

Slipstream flushes but does not mind the flirtation. "I'm sure you will." She is so used to it, even if she is too useless with femmes to be much of a verbal sparring partner.

A grin is fired back, handsome and friendly. A grin of a loved one, on the face plate of their best close combat fighter and the Seeker most eager for action itself, and not glory. Above all others, Nova Storm will excel at simple soldiering.

That weaponisation of such a fun personality, Slipstream is not used to.

Megatron recognises how their arrogant face plates change, beholding the very same awe in their optics that his words once inspired in a young and impressionable Orion, many millions of years ago. Except now, as the retired gladiator stands on the periphery while the former archivist speaks before the Senate in a noble retelling of his vision of a peaceful future Cybertron for all as one, it is Orion who is gazed upon with this reverence by the high and mighty powers that be, and Megatron who is inspired.

So much for getting the cause formally approved, muses Shadow Striker with a sigh. She opts to admire Bumblebee, who has yet to see her in the crowded stands.

After ignoring the noble cause for so long, and then reacting to it with police presence and religious persecution, the gathered Senate have come to suddenly adore Orion. Their audials devour his speech, their optics his frame. And yet this is after they treated Megatron with disdain, discarding his words as too extreme to be tolerated.

Orion not only has the vision, but he goes as far as to describe its implementation in stages, described all in perfectly reasonable terms that any fool could understand. Only the most calloused Spark would remain untouched by this noble argument.

Indeed, Megatron misspent his only chance to persuade the Senate to see things his way. He has failed, and shall inevitably fall to Orion's counterargument.

Such beauty in masculine form. Such grace of wisdom and compassion wrapped up in modesty. A Spark so pure, it lights up the world beyond its chamber. This is the mech Orion, whom Megatron fell in love with, and he is witness to the utterance of their destruction. Their ideals are no longer the same singular dream. When did he lose his way? Can he ever return to him? Should he? Who is right, who is wrong? Would pride permit surrender?

The former archivist finally ceases his great speech and they applaud him like a hero.

The retired gladiator plays the villain of the scenario and decides for himself, with a surge of searing, aching emotion that clouds his optics but not his judgment, that he has endured too much.

Orion turns to his beloved with a smile and is met with a battle-scarred spinal strut instead of a face plate. "…Megatron?"

"We are done, here."

Shadow Striker dismisses herself with one last look at Bumblebee, then disappears into the murmuring crowd.

"That was a waste of time," Soundwave croons, following after her. He took an instant shine to the surly, handsome femme who does not fawn all over him for his charisma and can match his dancing prowess. "And I bet that team meeting's still on."

"Hooray for us."

"Indeed."

Shockwave dismisses his aerial surveillance drone, sits back in his chair in the comfort of his less social surroundings, and ponders.

"Old friend! Where are you going?"

"I go to finalise my preparations."

"They were persuaded!"

Megatron remains resolutely unbowed.

Orion follows closely.

"Quite right. You have succeeded where I have failed, again. Congratulations."

"Is that what this is about?"

"Perhaps."

"Nonsense, we are on the same side! We always have been!"

"I wish you all the best in your endeavours."

"Our endeavours." A great servo seizes a pauldron, stalling the hulking mech momentarily.

Megatron turns back to Orion, the retired gladiator's facial rigging twisted enough to make the former archivist cringe, taking a step back, removing his servo from that pauldron.

"…Why do you look at me this way?"

"I am no longer what you require."

"…What?"

"You shall do this your way. I shall do it my way. It is no longer a team effort. At least, not between the two of us."

Orion does not know the words to respond to that.

"Starscream," Megatron rumbles quietly into the open air as he turns away and puts distance between himself and the personification of his adoration and agony with mighty strides. He sounds a little strangled to his own audials, a little impassioned despite his efforts at appearing composed.

A figure simply drops from the sky, landing in an impressive crouch, then rising with a swagger and a sympathetic expression. "You called." Very impressive. "My dear?"

"It's come to pass, as I feared it would."

"Oh, darling. Let me make it right."

"Yes. I need you. Now."

"Take me, then."

Lesser frames scatter to get out of the way of the hulking brute who marches for the landed flier.

"I'm yours."

"Mine."

Confused and disheartened, Orion is about to call out again, only to be silenced as he is interceded by a truly nasty, acidic glare from Starscream.

"We proceed as planned," Megatron murmurs, touching a flawless cheek with a brush of the scuffed digit that trembles with his struggle to stay outwardly composed. "Today's meeting will commence as scheduled. But for a moment… make me forget."

"Of course." This gorgeous winged mech, whose bodywork is unique and utterly unforgettable, delicately takes the retired, far older gladiator's massive servo and kisses it reverently upon the knuckles. "It would be my pleasure to serve you."

The former archivist watches them from afar, silent and still, utterly stunned.

Something more is said between the couple that goes unheard by anyone else. They then depart together, without looking back.

Orion sags.

Drawing the slender Starscream under his arm, Megatron allows a dainty servo to grab his aft mid-step, equally possessive, without reproach.

"Wow." Bumblebee scratches his helm, scowling. "That was seriously rough. Bolt-heads."

"Bee," Windblade gently reprimands him, whilst gazing worriedly up at Orion.

Grimlock and Arcee share a sympathetic cringe.

Bumblebee moves to hug Orion about the torso, arms barely long enough to encompass his girth. "You okay, big guy?"

"…I am fine."

Windblade highly doubts that.

"I must speak more with the Senate," Orion intones, offering a distracted ruffle atop Bumblebee's horned helm as he releases the hug and steps back. "Do not wait for me. Enjoy the rest of your day. I will meet you at the soirée, later on."

"Okay, but if you need us for anything…"

"I appreciate that."

"I shall send you the particulars of said soirée!"

"Understood."

Bumblebee watches Orion go with a sigh.

Windblade takes her best friend's servo. "Wanna pop into Mac's real quick, see if our friends are around? Maybe convince them to come along?"

"Yeah. The more the merrier, right? We'll call it pre-drinks before Grim's party."

"Coming, guys?"

"We shall be so terribly trashed by the day's end. Absolutely!"

"Hey! Lemme go!"

They turn together to watch a security mech marching briskly along with Flamewar held aloft by the scruff of her frame, kicking and snarling, clawing at his impervious fist.

"I can walk, fragface!"

Arcee scowls. "Excuse me, what do you think you're doing!" Marches on over with much indignation.

She moves too quickly for Grimrock to react very much. "Errm–" He lumbers after her.

"Taking out the trash. This one's trouble." By trouble, the security mech means that Flamewar threw a fit when Megatron left in a huff on account of the Senate spurning his speech for Cybertron's future, and got caught.

"That's not how you treat a femme, or a Cybertronian citizen! Unbelievable! You'll hurt her!"

"This one threatened to, I quote, 'blow this slaghole sky high' – ahem. Her language, not mine. We gotta take violent threats seriously."

"Look at her, does she actually look dangerous, to you?"

Arcee and the security mech take a moment to admire Flamewar's handsomely rounded cheeks, her facial rigging bent with rugged frustration across her scuffed face plate, fangs bared.

"In a really cute way, kinda."

"Cute?! I'll rip out your optics and eat 'em while they're warm!"

"So, maybe she's a little feisty! She's clearly unarmed. Let her go."

"Well, yeah, but…"

"Okay, then. Put her down right now, before I submit a very unpleasant company review! I recognise that badge, you know, and I have a bustling social network!"

"Meh. Scrap this." The security mech, likely quite underpaid and overworked, simply forgets whatever protocol he is obliged to follow and neatly drops Flamewar before Arcee.

The two-wheeler lands lightly on her scuffed pedes, slumped and scowling with embarrassed fury and ill grace, gesturing rudely at his retreating back plates. "Bite my aft!"

"I'm so sorry you experienced that," Arcee intones very kindly, seeing an unfortunate, misunderstood little Spark in need of compassion where most would see an unproductive troublemaker or a fun romp in the berth. "Did he hurt you?"

"Nah, I'm used to it." Flamewar would usually hate the unintentionally patronising endearment. She rubs the back of her neck, wincing. "Thanks, anyway." She accepts it, begrudgingly, because Arcee is really hot.

"You're very welcome!"

"Guess it's not all bad." Flamewar offers a roguish wink, and a flash of her unusual fangs. "Not a lotta pretty femmes stick up for me like that."

Arcee's answering smile is warm and bright, her optics positively glowing. "Well, aren't you a charmer!"

"Uh-huh. I gotta go blow off some steam, now. See ya."

"Take care, sweet Spark! Stay outta trouble, okay?"

Flamewar makes a casual clicking sound from the corner of her intake, then simply collapses, dropping into her bike alt-mode. She even gives off an exaggerated throaty bark of her highly modified engine entirely for the onlooking femme's benefit, and then disappears with a sputtering roar before the cops likely show up and lock her away forever or something.

Arcee watches the little spitfire go with a sigh. "Wow, what a hottie."

"You neglected to request her name, by the by."

"Oh, frag it, Grim, you're right! I'm so dumb!"

"You've made quite the mess of me."

Megatron admires the way droplets of his own transfluid roll down the angles of Starscream's flawless cheeks, racing along his mandible and dripping from his chin, spattering his chassis as he remains reclined back, smiling, helm tilted forward.

"I will need to go clean myself up. Again." The Seeker's speech synthesis is especially wet. "Can't very well attend today's meeting looking like a pleasure frame you picked up in the red-headlight district, now, can I?" His optic shutters are lazily drawn low, hooding the alluring fixation of his eccentric gaze upon the flushed old gladiator.

"Pardon me. I did try to… get it all in."

"Oh, never mind. I had fun. We have time."

"Mm. Let me help clean my mess."

"Would you, dear? That'd be wonderful."

Orion almost entirely forgotten, Megatron leans in, dragging his thick, slick glossa over Starscream's face plate, catching against his smiling intake and tugging at the plush dermas, distorting that pleased expression whilst worming inside.

A subsequent oil bath and the generous reapplication of polish shall succeed in hiding most of the stink of interfacing.

"But he is the guest of honour! He must attend!"

"I mean, after what happened before? I don't blame the guy for not feeling it. Sorry, Grim. Maybe now's not the time for a party," Bumblee says this whilst flushed and wearing the holographic projection of a party hat, lopsided.

Grimlock sighs, nodding slowly. "Yes, perhaps I was insensitive. Hmm. Let us reschedule for–"

"Apologies, my friends. I know I am exceedingly late."

"Orion!" Hot Rod intones with a raised fist. "You're here! Woo-hoo!"

"We have engex," Windblade slurs a little, garnering a chuckle from Chromia, close beside and attentive despite the strength of the beverage. "S'really good!"

"Forgive me." Orion accepts a crystalline flute, filled to the brim. "The Senate kept me longer than I had anticipated." He smiles back at the party goers, glad to see they have been festive without him.

"All good tidings, I hope?"

"Yes. They wish to implement my suggestions, albeit with some… compromises."

Wheeljack quirks an optic ridge at that.

This is the first secret meeting Slipstream and her Seekers have been permitted to attend, even if merely as a handsome security detail to boast of Starscream's station in life, so that he may not be overshadowed by the other noteworthy attendees.

The participating face plates are, of course, deliberately familiar. Distinguished individuals with potential for greatness, already established as successful in their fields. Beloved or infamous among segments of the populace, these individuals make up what shall amount to the lesser leadership figures in Megatron's growing army. Their influence in various circles has already helped him gather his loyal supporters thus far whilst maintaining control over the more unruly devotees. Inevitably, more lost Sparks shall be drawn in to fight for what they believe is right – what he tells them to believe. He started the fire, and they stoke it, so he may take satisfaction in the warmth of revolution.

Shockwave busies himself at a terminal that lights the panes of his chassis an ethereal blue. He pauses to turn his featureless helm in reaction to the cacophony of incoming steps that disturb him, peering briefly at Acid Storm from over a pauldron before stoically returning to his work. One of his servos has been detached from the arm and hovers around him like a hovering worker drone, interacting with the holographic projection seemingly independently.

Acid Storm waves at his disembodied servo, smiling shyly.

His servo waves back. A technological marvel, indeed.

Soundwave intones moody music from his built-in sound system, palms on his hip joints, shielded chin lowered to accentuate his angular lens and broad pauldrons, lending a suave yet ominous air to his casual posturing. He gleams with a fresh layer of polish that smells wonderfully clean, always a mech that takes some pride in his appearance, his charisma rendering him despised by his envious competition yet very popular with femmes and mechs alike, especially those who prefer the party scene.

Nova Storm flushes when he jokingly salutes at her, silently mocking her part in this soldierly formation. Not that she minds it.

Shadow Striker scowls harshly, her powerful, sleek forearms folded over the bulk of her chassis, spinal strut propped casually against the dull grey monotone of the wall. She is the roughest of the lot, a mercenary by trade, by far the most experienced after Megatron himself. Unblinking scope burning hot and bright and sinister, it locates a target of some interest, before she offers an upward tick of the helm in brusque recognition.

Stunned to see her, Slipstream gives off a nervous nod in reply, feeling a pang for Bumblebee.

Shadow Striker actually smiles. It is not a comforting expression. She just finds this Seeker the most likeable of the lot of them.

Stationed strategically on either side of the door that seals shut and locks itself, Thrust is irritated at being forced to attend to his station outside the meeting room with Thundercracker opposite, who is also disappointed. Slipstream is with Nova Storm, permitting them the full experience within. Acid Storm goes to Shockwave when he gestures for their attendance at his terminal, after an agreeable nod of permission from Starscream, whose sheer swagger boasts that he owns the room and all within it.

"Hello, everyone," the Seeker Captain drawls, settling comfortably at Megatron's right side, indeed, Starscream's rightful place.

"Greetings," drones Shockwave, allowing Acid Storm to shake his disembodied servo.

"Hey," intones Soundwave, utterly casual.

Shadow Striker grunts. She is not here for her manners.

At the head of the meeting room, Megatron clears his intake, drawing every other optic of the assembled. "Thank you all for gathering here, as agreed. It is obvious to you all by now that Orion Pax convinced the powers that be to side against me – against us. We will not have the support of the Senate. This was the worst possible outcome. We are prepared for it."

Starscream huffs, admiring the flawless back of a dainty servo.

"Ultimately, nothing has changed." Megatron manages to sound incredibly calm, considering the hurt and rage in his optics. "Before we proceed unto the next phase, I wish to take a moment to commend your efforts. You have gathered support for the cause far and wide, without arousing suspicion worthy of any formal oversight or investigation thus far. This is no small feat. By the time those fools realise what has transpired beneath their very olfactory sensors, it shall be too late to stop us. Do not falter, and we will prevail. Such great rewards await you."

Shadow Striker peers at Slipstream, who cringes handsomely under that lens. They are both thinking about Bumblebee.

Cybertron is about to burn, and finally, Megatron shall feel that warmth he so craves.