Orion Pax cautiously walked through the forge; out of the pod he had been forged from. Around him, dozens of other pods filled with liquid metal, slowly forming and shaping around a spark hummed softly. The walls were highlighted with soft blue strips of light and the glyphs of their language.

The newspark moved through the seemingly never-ending rows of pods until he saw the opening, warm, bright light streamed into the dim, dark walls of the forge. Orion cautiously stopped out of the building, optics widening as he took in the world for the first time.

Everything was so... big. Tall buildings, forged of golden-hued alloy and expensive glass, reached up to touch the heavens. The sun brilliantly shone, reflecting a golden light off the towering spires. A mass of color surrounded him, various mechs and femmes going about their lives, carrying out their assigned roles in the grand machine of Cybertronian society.

"Wow..." He had been alive for mere kliks and already felt overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of Cybertron's society. His optics wandered, taking everything. It was beautiful yet intimidating.

"Enjoying the view, newspark?"

Orion whirled around to see a towering mech. He had a broad frame clad in crimson and cobalt armor, shone to perfection. He had white plating around his faceplate that reached his chassis, and he held a datapad and quill-like stylus in one servo. Warm cerulean optics holding great wisdom in them bore into him.

The red and blue mech's spark leapt. This mech looked important. Too important. Should he bow? Greet him? Run?

"It's so... so big. And, uh, and pretty. And—and grand. I mean, I've never seen anything like it. Not that I'd, uh, seen anything before. Since I—I just, uh—"

"No need to be frightened, young one," the large mech said.

"I-I'm not f-frightened!" Orion stammered, though his quivering voice betrayed him. He immediately regretted speaking, optics darting down to the ground.

"Of course not," he replied, humoring him. "And what is your name?"

"Orion Pax," he managed. His optics remained fixed on the floor, too shy to meet his gaze directly. "Orion," the mech repeated, testing the name on his vocalizer. "A good name. Strong and bright, like the stars."

The newspark dared to glance up at him, unsure of how to response. "T-thank you, sir."

"I am Alpha Trion. I've been assigned to guide you to the Hall of Records and help you settle into your role. You will remain under my mentorship until you are ready to operate independently."

Alpha Trion's words sank in slowly, and Orion stared dumbly. This mech—this important-looking mech—was going to be his mentor? R-right. Data clerk. Alpha Trion was the head of the Hall of Records. So he probably mentored everybody there.

"I... I understand," he stammered. "Thank you, sir. I'll, uh, I'll do my best."

The Master Archivist gestured for Orion to follow him, and the young mech hurried to keep pace. As they walked, Orion couldn't help but let his gaze wander again. The city seemed alive, with streams of energy weaving through its structures and mechs of all shapes and sizes moving purposefully through the streets.

"Cybertron is a wondrous place," Alpha Trion remarked, noticing the youngling's wide-opticed curiosity. "But it is also vast and complex. There is much for you to learn about our society, and even more for you to contribute."

Orion hesitated, then asked timidly, "Do you... do you think I'll be good at it? Being a data clerk, I mean? I... I d-don't really know what t-to do."

"Every spark has potential, but it is their choices that define them," the elder mech responded. "The role of a data clerk is not simply to catalog information, but to understand it, preserve it, and learn from it. A noble role, though it may not seem so at first."

Orion blinked at him. "Learn from it?"

Alpha Trion nodded sagely. "Indeed. Knowledge is the foundation of our society. Without it, we would be lost, wandering aimlessly in the dark. Your task, Orion, is not merely to preserve the past but to illuminate the future."

Orion stared at him. It sounded... important. Far more important than he had initially thought. What if he wasn't good enough? What if he made mistakes?

"Every great journey begins with a single step, Orion," the sage stated, as if he could read his neural net. Could he read his neural net?! "Even the most towering of Cybertronians was once a newspark, uncertain and untested. The Hall will teach you, as will I."

They continued the rest of their journey in silence, until they reached the Hall of Records through the rings of a bridge to the grand building itself. It was a large circular building, covered in intricate designs that formed a pattern that looked like a constellation, hued golden with pillars jutting up to the roof.

A circular door with a pathway of light awaited them. Alpha Trion stepped forward and a scanner came out, searching for the identity of the Master Archivist. Orion knew that the Hall of Records was forbidden to the public, it had been programmed in him among numerous other things.

Inside, they reached the lobby and turned down a hall, into the first room. His intake dropped as he took it all in, overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the Hall. Rows upon rows of data terminals and holographic displays filled the space, casting a soft, bluish glow. And to think that there were multiple floors like this!

There were data clerks sitting in each space, sorting through information. Some were bustling about, holding energon cubes on their breaks.

"This," Alpha Trion said, leading Orion to a terminal that he assumed was his, "is where you will work. From this terminal, you will catalog, sort, and archive the records of Cybertron's history, communications, and discoveries. It is a great responsibility, as the Hall of Records holds the collective memory of our world. In doing so, you will contribute to the foundation of our society."

Orion nodded, his optics darting nervously from one terminal to another. "I-I'll try, sir. I mean, I w-want to do well. It's just, um, a lot to take in. All these records and, um, the mechs here... they all look so... sure of themselves."

The Master Archivist merely replied, "You will learn in due time. If you have questions or need assistance, my office is nearby. For now, familiarize yourself with the system and begin your work."

With that, the elder mech turned away, leaving the newspark alone. Orion turned back to the terminal, his spark fluttering nervously as he sat down in the chair. The terminal activated with a faint chime, its screen coming to life with rows of glyphs and icons. The newspark studied the interface, tentatively pressing a few buttons until a list of tasks appeared.

The data clerk's journey had just begun, and though Orion did not yet know it, the path he had embarked upon would one solar cycle reshape the fate of their world.

The Hall of Records gleamed softly in the early light of Cybertron's solar cycle. Orion Pax walked through the grand entrance, clutching his cherished datapad close to his chassis. He had been working here for some time now, though he still felt a sense of awe whenever he stepped into the hallowed halls.

Today, though, something was different. As the not-so-newspark rounded the corner to his section, he noticed an unfamiliar mech standing near one of the other data clerks. The mech's frame was primarily white with bold blue and red accents. An even bolder number '4' was painted on his chassis.

The mech was talking to another data clerk, a familiar one who frequently worked in the same area as Orion. Their conversation seemed animated, but it paused when the data clerk noticed Orion entering. With a bright wave and a grin, the clerk called out, "Hey, Pax! Come over here!"

The red and blue mech froze mid-step, spark fluttering nervously. He wasn't used to being called out like that, and the attention made him feel exposed. Still, he couldn't ignore the invitation, even as his optics darted from the waving clerk to the unfamiliar mech, so he shuffled forward.

"Don't be shy," the data clerk said cheerfully as Orion approached. "Orion, this is Jazz. He's a cultural investigator and was just telling me he's looking for some information for his job. I told him you'd be perfect since it's in your section."

But it's in your section too, Orion thought. The mech suspected that this data clerk was trying to get him out of his comfort zone and somehow help him make a friend. Have a social life. Social life his—

"So, you're the mech who's gonna help me out, huh? I hear you know your way around those records."

"Uh, I guess," the shy mech said, giving a small smile. "Oh, uh, h-hi," he stammered, realizing that he forgot to introduce himself. He gave Jazz a small, shy wave. "I-I'm, um, Orion Pax. It's, uh, nice to meet you."

"Hey there, Orion Pax," Jazz said with a smile. "Nice to meetcha too."

Orion glanced at the data clerk, silently wishing they hadn't dragged him into this awkward situation. The clerk only smiled and nudge him lightly.

"Don't let him fool you, Jazz," the archivist said with a grin. "Orion's got a processor like a datapad. He remembers everything he reads, and he's thorough. If you need info, he's your mech."

The shy bot ducked his helm. "I—I just try to do my job," he mumbled, rubbing his forearm.

Jazz's grin widened. "Well, sounds like you're exactly who I need. I'm diggin' through some history on Kaon and a few other city-states. Think you can point me in the right direction?"

Orion hesitated for a klik before nodding. "I... I think so. I mean, yes, I can help. Um, follow me. The records are this way."

"Sounds like a plan, little guy. Lead the way."

Little guy? He wasn't that small, was he? Still, he didn't dare protest, so he simply nodded and gestured for Jazz to follow him. Leading the upbeat mech through the Hall of Records, he couldn't help but feel self-conscious under the mech, who kept peering at him from the corner of his optic, though Orion pretended not to see.

"So, Orion, you been workin' here long?"

"Uh, not... not too long," Orion admitted, keeping his optics focused on the path ahead. "I'm still, um, still kind of new. But I-I'm learning a lot. It's, uh, it's interesting work."

"Yeah? Seems like it'd be kinda dry, though," Jazz remarked.

Orion hesitated. "It can be... repetitive," he admitted cautiously. "But the history... it's fascinating. There's so much to learn about where we came from, how we got here. I-I like that part."

The white, blue and red mech nodded. "Fair enough. Guess it's good we got mechs like you who dig that stuff, huh? Makes my job a whole lot easier."

He simply nodded and continued leading Jazz to the archives. When they arrived, he gestured to a row of glowing terminals. "This is, um, this is where we keep the records on cultural practices," he explained, feeling a bit more confident now. "I can help you search for what you need. What, um, what exactly are you looking for?"

Jazz leaned against the terminal. "Ancient ceremonies, mostly. Stuff 'bout how mechs used to mark big events, like forgin', bonds, stuff like that. Figurin' it might give me some insight into a case I'm workin' on."

Orion's optics brightened with curiosity despite himself. "Oh, that's... that's interesting. I-I think I know where to start."

He activated the terminal, swiftly moving across the controls. Within just a few nano-kliks, Orion found himself explaining the significance of various ceremonies, nervousness fading away as he delved into a subject he genuinely enjoyed. Jazz listened with genuine interest, occasionally throwing in a question or comment that encouraged him to elaborate.

For the first time, Orion felt a spark of confidence. Maybe, he thought, this solar cycle wouldn't be so bad after all.

Orion Pax's shift had ended, and though his usual routine was to return straight to his quarters, it was different this time. Before Jazz had left with his data cylinder, the mech had invited him to have a drink.

The archivist wasn't sure why. He barely knew the cultural investigator, and the idea of socializing was terrifying. Yet, something about the mech's easygoing demeanor and confident energy had persuaded him to agree. Now, he stood there, shifting his weight from pede to pede, scanning the crowd for any sign of the mech.

Then he spotted him. Jazz strode toward him, raising a servo greeting, flashing a bright grin. "Hey, Pax! Hope I didn't keep ya waitin' too long," Jazz called out as he approached.

Orion gave a small smile, clutching his datapad tighter. "N-no, not at all. I just, um, got here myself."

The mech chuckled. "Sure ya did. C'mon, let's hit the bar. You're gonna love this place."

The two mechs made their way through the bustling streets, Jazz leading the way while Orion followed a step behind. The cultural investigator chatted casually about the city's architecture and the history behind some of its landmarks. The data clerk found himself relaxing just a little, though he still felt awkward about the whole situation.

They arrived at a modest establishment tucked away in a quieter part of the city. The sign above the entrance was illuminated with soft, blue glyphs that read Maccadam's Old Oil House. The door slid open, and Jazz waited for him to enter inside.

Inside, the bar was cozy and had soft music playing in the background, rows of glowing energon bottles lining the shelves behind the counter. Jazz pointed to a corner table before he went to the counter, talking to a large orange mech, who's optics twinkled brightly.

Orion settled into his seat, optics scanning the room nervously. He had never been to a place like this before. When the Jazz returned with two glasses of shimmering, pale golden liquid, the cultural investigator slid one across the table to him, slipping into the seat across from him.

"Here ya go. First round's on me."

The archivist hesitated before picking up his own glass. "Thank you," he said softly, taking a tentative sip. The strange liquid was slightly sweet, fizzy and bubbly. It was room temperature but tasted rather nice.

Jazz leaned back in his seat; optics fixed on Orion with curiosity. "So, Pax. Ya do anything after your shift?"

"Well, um... not really," the shy mech admitted, sipping on the drink again. "I... I like reading. It's peaceful."

Jazz grinned. "Figures. You strike me as the studious type. Me? I can't sit still long enough to read through a whole archive. That's why I like my job—travelin', talkin' to folks, learnin' about their cultures. Keeps things fresh, y'know?"

The archivist tilted his helm, intrigued. "What's it like? Being a cultural investigator, I mean. It sounds... exciting."

"It is," Jazz said with a nod. "I get to visit all kinds of places, meet all kinds of mechs. Every city's got its own vibe, its own story. Kaon's rough around the edges but it's a real work of art. Vos? Elegant but strict. And Iacon? Well, you know Iacon—it's shiny, polished, but there's a lot goin' on beneath the surface."

Orion listened intently. "Do you have a favorite city?"

Jazz tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Hm... depends on the solar cycle. But if I had to pick, I'd say Kaon. Sure, it's gritty, but the mechs there are real. They don't put on airs. You know where you stand with 'em."

The data clerk nodded slowly, filing the information away in his processor. "I've never been outside Iacon," he admitted. "I've read about other cities, but... I don't think I'd fit in anywhere else."

"Why not?" Jazz asked, his tone genuinely curious.

Orion hesitated. "I'm just... not very good at talking to others. Or, um, making friends. I—I'm not like you. You're confident and outgoing, and I... I'm not."

The cultural investigator chuckled, shaking his helm. "Hey, don't sell yourself short. You've got your own thing goin'. You're smart, and you care about what you do. That's somethin' a lot of mechs don't have. Besides, confidence ain't about bein' loud—it's about bein' sure of who you are."

Orion stared at his glass, processing Jazz's words. "I... I guess. It's just hard sometimes."

"Yeah, I get that," the mech said. "But hey, you're here, ain't ya? Steppin' outta your comfort zone, havin' a drink with me. That's somethin', Pax."

The librarian glanced up, a small smile forming on his faceplate. "Thanks, Jazz. I... I appreciate that."

The two mechs continued talking, growing more comfortable with each other as the breems pass. They shared stories about their work, their interests, and even a few jokes. By the time they finished their drinks, Orion realized that he felt like he might be starting to make a friend.

The Functionists' history had always presented the caste system as a necessary and righteous structure, one that had saved Cybertron from the chaos of the past. According to their version, the Quintessons—their oppressors—had enslaved their kind, and it was the caste system that had united Cybertron, driving the Quintessons away and freeing their race from their slavers.

But the records in front of Orion told a different story.

The Quintessons had enslaved Cybertron, that much was true. They had exploited Cybertron's resources and used Cybertronians as tools for their own gain. But the caste system hadn't been a savior—it had been a continuation of that oppression. When the Quintessons were overthrown, Sentinel Prime had imposed the caste system as a means to help their world recover from the devasting Rust Plague.

Most of those who had previously been in the higher ups had agreed and came together to form the High Council, Sentinel at its helm. The rest, the Senate. Later on, another council had been formed called the Functionist Council, the one they all knew today. It made all the decisions about functionism and alt-modes, easing the "burden" off of the High Council, who focused on other things.

The archivist frowned, reading the early solar cycles of the reinstated system: the forced labor, the riots, the way entire cities had been stripped of their autonomy, the rise of the inhibitors. The Functionists had rewritten history to paint themselves as heroes, erasing the voices of those who had resisted, who had fought and died for a free Cybertron.

How could he have been so blind? He had spent vorns sorting and cataloging their records, never questioning their accuracy. Now, he felt his spark twist guiltily. Had he, in his ignorance, been helping in spreading their lies?

A soft chime from his terminal pulled him from his thoughts. It was a reminder that his shift had ended. But Orion didn't move. He couldn't—not yet.

This was more than just history. It was the foundation of their society, the justification for the suffering of millions of Cybertronians across the planet. Miners, laborers, servants—all of them trapped in a system that had been built on lies.

His world had suddenly grown small yet immeasurably vast at the same time. What would he do with this information? It wasn't right.

Orion found himself combing through old recordings stored in a private archive forbidden to all those but the Master Archivist. These files were not meant for anybot to see, hidden behind layers of access codes. But as Alpha Trion's protégé, he had more freedom than most. Trusted by the elder mech.

The archivist felt guilty that he was using his mentor's codes like this, but it was necessary. In his optics. The screen flared to life, displaying a recording file marked simply with the name D-16, a rebellious miner who had taken on the name Megatronus, in defiance to the caste system.

The name alone drew his curiosity. It was ancient, harkening back to the days of the Thirteen, a time that was mostly told in stories and myths. But this was no Prime. The file's data indicated it was a recording of a gladiator from Kaon.

Orion hesitated for a klik before pressing play.

A silver mech with broad shoulders, curling upward into pointed ends, who had red accents on his chassis, arms, legs and fusion cannon, came into view. Despite his intimidating features, he had soft blue optics, filled with passion.

"We are forged of the same alloy, with the same energon coursing through our fuel lines," the gladiator declared, carrying... something in his tone that just drew his attention. "Yet they would have us believe we are different. That we are lesser. That our sparks are somehow worth less than theirs."

"Look around you," Megatronus continued, "the caste system binds us, not to unity but to servitude. They tell us it is our purpose, that it is the natural order. But whose order is it, really? Who benefits from this lie?"

"Not us," he said. "Not the miners who toil in darkness, nor the laborers who break their frames to keep the cities shining. Not the gladiators who bleed for the entertainment of the elite. No, this order serves only those who sit atop their gilded thrones, far removed from our struggles."

"They fear us because they know what we are capable of when we stand together. They know that if we ever dared to question their authority, their power would crumble. And so they divide us, pit us against one another, tell us that this is the way it must be."

The gladiator's expression hardened. "But I refuse to accept their chains. I refuse to live in a world where a spark's worth is measured by its function. I refuse to let them dictate my purpose."

"We are more than the labels they assign us," Megatronus continued, his voice softening but losing none of its power. "We are Cybertronians. All of us. And the spark of freedom burns within us, no matter how much they try to snuff it out. We—"

The recording ended abruptly. It had probably been cut off before it could spread any further.

Orion had never heard anyone speak like this before. There was just honesty in Megatronus' words. Truth that nobody could deny. For the past few megacycles, the archivist had started noticing things that were wrong in their society but had never said anything because he couldn't, only allowing it to simmer as a quite dissatisfaction.

Now, for the first time, he felt like someone else understood—someone who had seen the same cracks in their society and refused to look away. But who was this Megatronus? The records gave little detail beyond his status as a gladiator, a fighter from the pits of Kaon.

Orion's optics drifted to the terminal's input panel. He hesitated for only a klik before beginning a search. If Megatronus had spoken these words once, perhaps he had spoken others. Perhaps there were more pieces of this puzzle waiting to be found.

In a shadowed alley, two mechs loomed over a third figure. The smaller bot was orange and white, plating scratched and dented as he struggled to push himself upright.

"Stay down, scrap," one of the larger bots sneered, shoving the smaller bot back with a servo. The other laughed at the mech's expense.

Without thinking, Orion called out. "H-Hey! L-leave him alone!"

The larger mechs turned toward him, their optics narrowing in unison. One of them, a rust-colored brute with jagged armor, sneered. "And what's this? A runt wanting to play hero?"

The archivist's servos tightened around his datapad. He stepped closer. "I—I said, l-leave him alone. H-he's done nothing to y-you."

The second mech, bulkier and painted in faded green, laughed. "Look at this one. Got a little fire in him, huh? And what are you gonna do about it, librarian? Sort us into a new category?"

Orion's anger got the better of him and without thinking, swung his datapad at the rust-colored mech. The datapad cracked against the mech's arm, leaving little more than a dent. The mech stared at the mark, then back at him. "Oh, you're gonna regret that."

The larger mech shoved the archivist hard, sending him sprawling to the ground. He scrambled back to his pedes, glaring up at them. "I-I won't let you hurt him," Orion stammered. "J-just walk away."

"J-just walk away," the green mech mimicked, sneering. "You should be the one to walk away, runt."

The green mech struck him in his midsection and a white-hot pain seared through his frame as he staggered back with a whine of pain. Orion threw himself at the mech, causing them to stumble back, only for the rust-colored mech to grab the archivist by the shoulder and toss him to the ground.

This time, Orion landed hard, plating scraping against the ground. He attempted to get up but was kicked in the side hard. Before a pede was planted on top of his chassis, pressing down hard. His cooling fans clicked on, desperately trying to war against the heat that was building up in his frame.

The faded green mech punched him in the faceplate over and over again, until Orion could only moan. He was kicked to the side when the rust-colored mech spat, "He's not worth it."

The green mech hesitated, glancing between Orion and the smaller bot they had been tormenting. With a frustrated grunt, he turned away. "Let's get out of here."

Their pedesteps faded away, much to the archivist's relief. Orion rolled onto his back, vents wheezing as he hissed in pain at the movement. Error messages were popping up all over his HUD, warning him of his extensive injuries.

"What were you thinking?" a sharp voice cut through the haze of Orion's pain.

He groaned, optics onlining to see the orange and white mech standing over him, his cerulean optics narrowed.

"You could've gotten yourself offlined," the mech said, crouching down to scan his injuries. "Primus, you're a mess."

Orion scowled, his anger bubbling to the surface again despite his pain. "I—I couldn't just w-watch! They—they were hurting you!" His voice trembled, both from pain and frustration. "S-someone had to do something!"

The orange and white mech vented, shaking his helm. "Yeah, and now look at you. They barely touched me compared to what they did to you."

Orion struggled to sit up, wincing as his frame protested the movement. "I—I don't care," he muttered, optics blazing with determination. "It—it was wrong, what they were doing. S-someone had to stand up to them!"

The mech regarded him for a klik. "You're stubborn, I'll give you that." He extended a servo to help Orion up. "Name's Ratchet, by the way. And you're coming with me—I need to patch you up before you collapse in some dark alley."

Orion hesitated, then took the offered servo, pulling himself to his pedes with Ratchet's help. His entire frame throbbed with pain, though he felt proud of himself. For once, he hadn't just stood by. He had acted, even if it had cost him a lot of pain.

Jazz, leaning casually on the edge of his seat, sipped from his energon cube while his optics stayed fixed on Orion, who fidgeted with his servos.

"So, lemme get this straight," Jazz stated. "You jumped into a fight with two mechs way bigger than you and got yourself nearly scrapped in the process?"

"W-well, I couldn't just... just stand there. They were hurting him. And no one else was doing anything. I—I had to do something."

His friend chuckled, shaking his helm. "You've got more courage than sense, Orion, but I'll give you props for tryin'. You're a better mech than most, doin' what you did."

Orion glanced up at Jazz, surprised by the compliment. "I don't know about that. I just... I couldn't watch and do nothing."

"Hey," Jazz leaned in, gesturing with his cube. "Sometimes that's all it takes, y'know? One mech standin' up when everyone else's too scared. Shows you've got somethin' special in that spark of yours."

Orion's dermas twitched into a small, shy smile, though he quickly looked down again, venting. "It's not enough, though. Things are still... wrong. Everywhere I look, it's like the world is breaking apart, and no one even notices. Or if they do, they don't care."

Jazz studied the archivist carefully. "Sounds like you've been doin' some heavy thinkin'. What brought all this on?

"There's... there's someone I've been listening to. A gladiator. He calls himself Megatronus."

His friend raised an optic ridge. "A gladiator, huh? Can't say I've heard of him. What's his deal?"

"He talks about freedom. About how we're all the same—how we're forged from the same alloy, fueled by the same energon. He says the caste system is a lie. That we could be more than what they force us to be."

Jazz let out a low whistle. 'Sounds like a bold mech. You sure this Megatronus ain't just blowin' smoke?"

Orion shook his helm firmly. "No, I don't think so. He... he believes in what he's saying. You can hear it in his voice. And it makes sense, Jazz. Everything he says—it makes sense. Why should we be trapped in roles we didn't choose? Why can't we decide who we want to be?"

The cultural investigator took a long sip of his energon, looking thoughtful. "Gotta admit, that's a dangerous way of thinkin'. But it's also the kinda thinkin' that changes things. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday."

The librarian nodded. "I don't know what I can do yet, but I want to help. Somehow. I want to be part of something bigger than just... filing data."

"Y'know," Jazz said, a grin spreading across his faceplate, "if this Megatronus guy's sayin' all the stuff you've been thinkin', maybe you oughta reach out to him."

"You—you think I should what?" Orion stammered, his optics wide with a mix of shock and incredulity. "Contact him? No! No, no, no, no, no. I—I can't do that! I wouldn't even know how to! And why would he want to talk to me?"

"Because, mech, you're practically speakin' his language already. You've got the same fire in your spark, the same drive to fix what's broken. Sounds like you and this Megatronus'd get along just fine."

Orion shook his head vehemently. "N-no, you don't understand. I'm just... I'm no one. A data clerk. A—a glitch in the system, really. And he's... he's a gladiator. He's powerful, confident, and he speaks with authority. I can't just—just waltz up and say, 'Hi, I think we're alike. Can we be friends?'"

Jazz chuckled. "Relax, Pax. I ain't sayin' you gotta march into the Pits and declare your undying admiration. But you've got thoughts—important ones. Maybe even answers to some of the questions he's askin'. Why not see if there's common ground?"

The archivist shifted uncomfortably. "Because... because what if I'm wrong? What if he thinks I'm ridiculous? What if—what if he's nothing like I think he is?"

His friend's tone turned serious. "Orion, lemme tell you somethin'. No one ever made a difference by sittin' around, wonderin' 'what if.' You're curious about this guy. You respect what he's sayin', don't you?"

"I do," Orion admitted quietly.

"Then talk to him. You don't gotta make it a big deal. Just listen, see what he's about. You might find he's got some answers to the questions burnin' in that spark of yours." Jazz leaned forward, placing a servo on Orion's shoulder. "But if you do this, be careful. Mechs like that? They ain't just talkin' to talk. They're playin' with fire. Make sure you don't get burned."

It seemed absurd—reaching out to a gladiator, of all mechs—but deep down, a tiny part of him wondered if Jazz might be right. "How would I even...?" he began, trailing off as his neural net struggled to conjure a plan.

Jazz tilted his helm, smirking. "You're a data clerk, ain't ya? You've got access to all kinds of comms and records. If anyone can find a way, it's you."

"I..." Maybe... maybe this was what he needed to do. After a long pause, Orion finally said, "I'll... I'll think about it."

"That's all I'm askin'. Just think about it. Who knows? This could be the start of somethin' big, my friend."

Orion couldn't help but smile, albeit shyly, as he took another sip of his energon. For the rest of the evening, Jazz kept the conversation light, steering them toward more casual topics, much to his relief. It wasn't until he returned to his quarters later that night that he realized just how much the idea had taken root.

As he sat at his desk, staring at his beloved datapad, Orion hesitated for a long klik. Then, with an ex-vent, he began to write.

Wow... this chapter was so hard to write. I had no idea how to write how I wanted Orion to act, but he couldn't be the same during Megatronus (who helped him with a confidence boost). Hopefully his flashbacks were alright, and I wrote him decently. It really was a struggle. I think I just sat around for a few hours just trying to figure out how I would make him act.

I'm personally not a fan of writing in Orion's perspective, which is probably why I've been doing less Orion than the other three characters. But he is a main character and deserves more. So here you are :]

In an earlier chapter, I explained a mech (or femme) that's cold constructed. Now, being forged is having a spark from the Well placed into liquid metal—protoform—that takes shape over the span of a few cycles, turning into what will ultimately become a Transformer. That is what you read at the beginning, when Orion takes his baby steps out of the forge.

Oh, and I decided to combine two halves into just one long chapter. Instead of splitting it into two. Hope you enjoyed. Let me know what you think :)