#scrabble sensor

[fuzzyghost]

Scrabble Sensor (1979)

[thegikitiki]

The First Space-Age Word Game...

Scrabble Sensor, 1979

[drabbletron]

That was INCREDIBLE omg!! Can't wait to see what you come up with for part 2 :))

- 🐟

|| Hey, I didn't forget this ask! I just needed some time lol I still really like the self-cest stuff and will probably do more with it to other bots (Hound and Bluestreak). For now, have a part 2 (and maybe a part 3 in the future). Enjoy! ||

Two is Better Than One, But Three is Just as Fun: Swerve x reader x Holo!Swerve SMUT PART 2

PART 1

🔞 MINORS DNI 🔞

tw: self-cest??

It still makes him shudder with pleasure when he feels the ribs of his own spike against its entrance, and his own aft port tingles with the sensation, something rarely felt for cybertronians. Backdoor is exit only usually. It's not long before he's pulling back enough to catch the tip of his spike on the tight ring of muscles to poke in the tip. They're not as tightly constricted as before, but he can feel it twitch from the idea of taking himself again, being full again.

He teases the head of his spike at the entrance, prodding gently and slipping in a bit before pulling back out again repeatedly. Damn, the teasing is getting his charge up faster than before. Knows it’s because you're watching him. The feeling of something trying to make its way inside makes his holoform gasp and press back into his hips to take more. Swerve knows he's ready and slips his spike in slowly, savoring the stretch and heat that swarms his sensor net. Everything is amplified from his holomatter avatar in a dizzying feedback loop. Static undercuts his vocalizer.

After sinking in to the hilt he rests for a moment, glancing over to see you touching yourself in lazy strokes, slowly building your own heat. You notice him looking and spread yourself farther apart for him to see what you're working with. His engine revs at the look in your eyes and that rumbles right into his avatar making him whine. That sound, the feel, the look, this whole situation consumes him, and he grips the avatars hip with a servo, the other moved to the side like he’s seen in porn so you can see everything, and he's pulling back and shoving his thick cable inside. Over and over and then the yabbering starts.

"Mmm, like that, just like that!" Every word is punctuated by a deep thrust. Swerve is driving home so hard his avatar almost loses his visor. Little hands scrabble for purchase on the smooth berth, and he replies to himself.

"So huge! Filling my ass so good, fuck!"

"So tight on my spike! Better than I imagined, so hot."

His dirty talk tickles your brain just right and fresh waves of heat wash over you as you sink in the chair and add an additional hand into the mix. This is way better than any porn you’ve seen. Swerve fucks like he was made for it and does his best to put on a show of all the features he knows you like.

"Hey, maybe if --frag! -- if you like what you see we can try it like this sometime?"

He turns to see you 3 fingers deep in yourself and desperately trying to keep a straight face as you watch. Excitement washes over him and an idea springs to his processor, but you’re quick to catch onto what he’s thinking and make the offer first.

“How about right now?”

Swerve’s hips stutter and his engine rumbles in response.

“I can do right now.”

PART 1

[therocketeer0501]

Emptiness Machine

Starscream X Reader (mech pilot au)

Author note: little tw for choking but that’s it! Sorry it’s a short chapter but I wanted to get it out.

Chapter 6

“Lazerbeak eject.” Soundwave sent his cassette after you with subdue only orders. No lethal force was to be used on the prisoner. The agile cassette kept up with ease as you darted around the hallways of the nemesis. You were expending Energon at a high rate using your jump jets like this, but you couldn’t think of anything else to do. You passed several stunned mechs who hollered after you or dropped what they were doing in pursuit. Klaxon rang in your auditory sensors and flashing red lights threatened to short out your visual circuits. Holding the pieces of your chest plate together with one hand, you stagger down a hallway and use one last boost.

No matter what you did you couldn’t shake that damn bird who was following just a bit behind you. No doubt reporting your position to the others. You turn to look at it as you activate your jets. You hear it squawk in alarm and see it dart in the opposite direction. Looking at it was a huge mistake it seemed as you slam straight into a clawed metallic hand. It closes around the throat of your mech, squeezing until you choke. A strangled sound coming from your intake as your optics flicker and malfunction. Trying your best to see your captor around the mess of warnings and error messages on your HUD, you stare completely dumbstruck. Your free hand scrabbles at the hand around your throat. This moment would surely be your last as your blue optics meet deep crimson ones.

The pounding of peds behind the two of you announces the arrival of several other Decepticons. You can’t turn your head but you remember the voice of the boxy blue mech that you pushed past earlier. Hearing his voice translated into your language once more as the Cybertronian translation program within your mech works its magic.

“Lord Megatron. Apologies. The prisoner is under control.”

A deep voice spoke. Commanding but calm. Deadly calm. It sent ice down your spinal strut as you struggled again. His grip was so tight you were sure if you tried to speak your vocal modulator would short out.

“Soundwave, old friend, what is this injured creature doing on my ship?”

He continued to hold you by your throat. Lifted about a ped length off the ground suspended by his one hand. He was powerful and that was enough to send panic through you. This was the mech that killed hundreds of thousands, the mech who incited a millennia long war, a monster who would rather see his own world burn than leave even one of his enemies alive. That was the only word you managed to grate out of your intake as he held you there.

“M…monster…”

He growled at you but didn’t respond as he was interrupted by the sound of calm ped steps arriving on scene. You recognize the voice of Shockwave immediately, a fresh wave of panic surging through you to make your chest ache. You were barely conscious as it was, but you were starting to see white at the edge of your vision.

“Lord Megatron that would be my doing. I have reason to believe that the humans have been able to create an artificial spark. I took this ‘thing’ to study it. See if perhaps it might prove useful.”

There was murmuring from the small gathered crowd of Decepticons as you felt many optics on your damaged form. One servo holding the plates of your chest together and the other digging into Megatron’s massive digits.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t crush your little science project and be done with it. I told you the humans are of no consequence and to leave them be. We have no proof that they are even sentient creatures. The only thing we should be concerning ourselves with is mining Energon.”

He shakes your near limp form, a soft noise of pain escapes you and you feel his servo tighten. Your mech doesn’t need to breathe air, but he could easily crush your spinal strut and sever your head clean from your body. If you received a life threatening wound to your mech, your real body was adversely affected. If you didn’t die, you would be terribly close to it. Behind you, you hear Soundwave start to speak again but another familiar voice pipes up from the crowd. It was the winged mech from earlier who had spoken to you.

“My lord! Please let me take care of this horrible mess that Shockwave has created. I spoke with the creature and I believe it may have valuable information about the location of the Autobot base. Perhaps even the locations of their Energon mines. You needn’t bother yourself with such a pitiful excuse for a distraction.”

You scrunch your nose as you listen to him. Whoever this bot was, he was a suck up. Megatron visibly rolled his eyes and dropped your limp form to the floor. He growled in the direction of the mech.

“You spoke to it? Take care of it Starscream. Before I decide to let you take the blame for this inconvenience. As second in command you are responsible for the actions of those under you. Deal with it.”

With that, the crowd dispersed leaving the three of them with you. You don’t move, too exhausted and drained of Energon to muster any fight. Pain seared through every fiber of your being as you gaze blearily up at their frames. You hear Starscream mumble something about getting you to the brig before Megatron changed his mind. The boxy blue bot whom Megatron had called Soundwave, stepped forward and gently lifted you into his arms. He was warm just like the other one. Why did this surprise you? You had been held by most of the Autobots back at the base. Why would these Cybertronians be any different? Perhaps the image of the Decepticons that the autobots created? Like dark cryptids, or something altogether evil and sinister. You expected cold, calculating, monsters. But as you gaze up into the visor of the one carrying you, you swear you see pity in the optics you find there.

[nowimjustastranger]

Fic request...lets see...

How about stcmo!ford experience meeting the eldest Stanley and/or the youngest Stanley he had saved?

Ford had just drifted off into a light and restless slumber when the notification came in, his helmet beeping urgently from where it sat on his makeshift workbench, the surface cluttered with electronic scraps and soldering tools. Ford heaved himself up with a grunt of effort, striding over to the helmet to pull it on and access the data to pinpoint where the emergency was and the severity of the situation.

D – G/727 | 12 yo | COD: Self-Inflicted Injury

Ford’s hands fumbled to clip the helmet underneath his chin, blindly reaching for his trenchcoat and dimension hopping gun from the backrest of his desk chair and nightstand respectively. The coordinates were already pulled up on the screen, having been uploaded from his helmet, so all he had to do was pull the trigger and step through the swirling gateway to reach his destination.

Even with the upgrades and adjustments, his radar still struggled to get an exact location, but the multiverse was a big place and wormholes were notoriously complex so Ford couldn’t fault the technology for not quite being up to par. After all, Ford could deal with a bit of searching. He was always dropped within a certain radius of the event, so he simply had to travel toward the epicenter to find what he was looking for.

His boots crunched as he stepped on glass and he snapped out of his single-minded focus to look down, his ribcage tightening at the sight of a distant memory brought into startling clarity. Glass Shard Beach. At least now he had an idea of where he was going, there was really only one spot that Stan would be drawn to, and Ford found his feet briskly carrying him toward a familiar silhouette in the distance.

There was a soft light emanating from the ship’s interior, the hole that Stan had made in the hull upon discovering the wreck not yet repaired. Ford had to crouch in order to carefully crawl inside, not wanting to alert the child to his presence before he was able to properly assess the situation, each movement slow and calculated as he prowled into the cramped space.

Ford saw Stan almost immediately, his stomach swooping in a nauseating fashion as the golden glow illuminated the alarmingly large red puddle around Stan’s left arm. He lunged forward with a wounded sound, scrabbling toward the boy in an entirely undignified manner, his black pants soaking up the still warm blood when he kneeled beside Stan. Ford checked his pulse the old fashioned way, the sensors in his gloves easily picking up the boy’s slightly weakened heartbeat.

He hasn’t lost too much blood then. Good.

Ford took Stan’s left arm in a gentle grip and turned it to examine the gash, his narrowed eyes cataloging every mark that marred the boy’s scrawny arms. Some were fresher than others, layers upon layers of wounds healed only to be carved open again. This was what hatred looked like. This was the kind of self-loathing that burrowed into you with harsh words and even harsher fists, wearing you down until death looked like the better option.

Ford’s throat clicked dryly when he swallowed, retrieving his collapsible med kit from his utility belt. He gave the boy a mild numbing agent before reattaching the vein that Stan had accidentally severed, sealing the wound with a small red penlight that increased the rate of repair. He didn’t heal it all the way, leaving it a tender pink scar to hopefully deter Stan from carving himself up in the future.

Ford sat back on his haunches with a full-body shudder when he was finished, dragging his helmet up and off his head to gasp for air, his bloodied hands shaking. He sloppily set the helmet down beside his soaked knees, gaze honed in on the steady rise of Stan’s chest until his vision began to blur; hot tears spilled down his face, dripping off his trembling chin as he silently wept.

Stan was so young. Too young to be out this late by himself, slicing himself open with a jagged piece of glass. Where the fuck was his brother? Where was Stanford when Stan was punishing himself for simply existing? Ford had to take a deep, shuddering breath and remind himself that his counterpart here was a child and he couldn’t use his usual methods to make Stanford see the error of his ways.

The most he could do was point Stanford in the right direction and hope that the workaholic brat didn’t just ignore the signs until it was far too late. This was undoubtedly the youngest and most self-destructive Stan that Ford had come into contact with up to date, so the chances of him making it to highschool were slim to none unless his brother noticed Stan’s desperate cry for help.

Ford wiped his face with the sleeve of his trench coat, grimacing at the mess that he left on the dark fabric. Honestly, he would probably end up burning this outfit, he had a sneaking suspicion that the smell of blood would linger no matter how many times he washed the articles of clothing. It was suffocating even now, filling the small space with the nauseating stench of copper.

Ford swiped the bloodied shard of glass from the sand and tucked it away before he gathered the unconscious boy into his arms, cradling the small body close to his chest. Ford pulled the pin on a sanitation grenade and tossed it into the blood before grabbing his helmet and swiftly ducking out of the hole, greedily inhaling fresh air until the fog of panic and despair lifted from his mind.

He only got a few steps away before the grenade went off with a loud hiss, white smoke rolling out of the hole in the hull, cleansing the boat’s interior of blood as well as a laundry list of other harmful substances on a microscopic level. Ford adjusted his grip on Stan as he plucked a syringe from the small black case on his utility belt, injecting Stan in the upper arm with a serum that would eliminate any illness that he could’ve given himself.

Stan began to stir as Ford put the emptied syringe away, reluctantly depositing the boy onto the sand beside the hull’s opening so he could pull his helmet back on, buckling the strap beneath his jaw just as Stan’s eyes cracked open. The boy sluggishly scanned his surroundings, his brows furrowing in blatant confusion before his squinted gaze came to a shrieking halt on Ford.

Stan’s eyes widened as he sat up straight, his owlish stare briefly darting to his arm, face blanching of color when he saw the pink scar. Ford was careful to keep his body language relaxed and open, arms limply hanging at his sides. Still, the boy was visibly distressed, scooting back an inch or two before the hull of the ship prevented him from putting any more distance between them.

“Please don’t tell my parents!” Stan blurted, his shoulders hunching as he drew his legs up, his left arm tucked between his thighs and his stomach to hide the evidence of his dangerous and unhealthy coping mechanism from view. The boy couldn’t seem to maintain eye contact anymore either, his gaze dropping to stare at his knees with alarmingly wet eyes. Ford’s heart lurched in his chest, aching to draw the boy into his arms and just hold him.

It suddenly struck Ford that the boy was ashamed. But not of what he had done, just of getting caught.

“I won’t.” Ford assured as he raised his hands in a placating manner, relieved when Stan’s defensive posture relaxed some. Ford would rather volunteer to be Bill’s plaything for eternity than set Stan up for the backlash that he would receive from his useless brute of a father. So it was safe to say that Filbrick Pines wouldn’t be involved in this delicate matter.

“Really?” Stan timidly asked, his narrowed eyes briefly flicking to Ford, most likely looking for some sign of deceit. Ford had nothing to offer other than truth though, and it seemed that Stan had reached the same conclusion because the tightness that his body held melted away as he slumped back against the hull with an explosive breath of relief.

“So long as you promise me something.” Ford hedged, keeping his hands raised when Stan’ gaze cut to him, the beginnings of suspicion and something uncomfortably close to fear brewing in his eyes. Ford slowly lowered himself to sit, legs crossing as he gracefully settled on the sand approximately four and a half feet from Stan.

“Right… uh, what is it?” Stan grumbled, lazily draping his unmarred arm onto his knees before propping his chin on it. Ford’s back ached from simply watching the boy practically fold himself in half, bewildered as to how such a compact position could possibly be comfortable to maintain for any length of time. Ah, the joys of youth, a time long past for Ford.

“Whenever you want to hurt yourself, go to someone you trust.” Ford said firmly, pointedly dipping his head in a pointed nod at Stan’s hidden arm. The boy made a sound that was somewhere between an incredulous bark of laughter and an annoyed scoff, mulishly turning his head away to stare at the ocean. Ford let Stan silently stare at the waves for a moment, the boy clearly collecting his thoughts.

“Can’t. He’s always busy with school stuff.” Stan said at last, his tone flat and matter-of-fact as that bottomless well of sadness returned to his eyes. How such a small body could hold so much pain was beyond Ford. However, it wasn’t exactly out of the ordinary for a Stan, it just wasn’t usually seen in one so young. “He doesn't have time for me or my stupid feelings.”

“How you feel isn’t stupid, Stanley.” Ford objected, and the vehemence in which he spoke startled the poor boy, who flinched as if he were expecting a physical blow to accompany the outburst. Ford felt something molten stir in his chest even as he made a conscious effort to soften his voice, his hands primly folded in his lap to keep them out of sight. “Just tell him that you need him.”

“Why bother? He won’t care.” Stan retorted hotly, anger overtaking the sorrow as he fixed Ford with a fierce glare. It was quite impressive, how someone so little could manage to look so intimidating. It’s no wonder that the bullies stuck to name-calling when Stan took to looking at them like this when they harassed his brother.

“He will. Stanley please, he will.” Ford was very nearly begging, body instinctively leaning forward, straining toward the boy like a flower seeking sunlight. Nevertheless, Stan’s lips pressed into a thin line of uncertainty; yet there was an undeniable flicker of hope in his gaze that Ford immediately latched onto. “Just give him a chance to prove it.”

“Guess it can’t hurt to try…” Stan haltingly conceded, his contemplative stare drifting down to his left arm. Ford could see the boy’s thoughts written all over his face as clear as day, though it was hardly a secret that Stan wore his heart on his sleeve. The boy desperately wanted to believe him, to let what appeared to be a random stranger convince him that someone cared.

The knowledge that Stan thought himself so insignificant broke Ford’s heart.

[redyarns]

caught in the undertow

Chapter: 6/?

Part: 1/5

Rating: E

Relationship(s): Orion Pax/Megatron, Optimus Prime/Megatron, Sentinel Prime/Bumblebee

Summary:

When Megatron, leader of the rebellion, escaped from prison, everybot knew one thing, and one thing only: he stole an innocent with him.

---

"I'm not a sheep, how dare you!" Orion hissed, bristling at the insult.

"Oh, really?" Megatron drawled. His red optics glanced up again, and Orion's glossa went dry.

Scrap.

Who knew the cruel and ruthless leader of the blasphemous rebellion was so... handsome?

Special note: This is a ROUGH DRAFT. It will go through some changes before it is officially posted on AO3. The majority of the themes will remain the same, but please don't be alarmed if the final draft on AO3 reads differently.

Scene: START!

Act I, Scene XIV: Atropa belladonna

It took Sentinel several kliks of lying completely still in unfamiliar sheets before his processor began to urge him to at least open his optics. He groaned lightly, his voicebox hoarse and crackling with static. He winced at both the sound and the sensation of his throat clicking in pain, and he tried to raise a servo to rub at it, wondering why the hell he was so - 

His servo caught on something. He froze, feeling a bit dumbfounded when he realized that the prickling sensation of his arm wasn’t because of some residual injury from training, but instead because it had spent the last - he checked his chronometer - four joors tucked tightly underneath Elita’s frame. 

The aristocratic femme was recharging silently beside him, her spinal strut curled slightly inwards with her facial plates towards him. If he listened carefully, he could pick up on the soft, whirling pattern of her slow vents. She was snuggled close so that her nose was pressed to his chassis as his servo curled up and over her dorsal plate to touch her hip. 

The light of Helios streamed in gently through the two windows of the room, and Sentinel felt his helm hit the pillow again as he sniffed the air and his cheeks burned at the lingering scent of ozone and transfluid. The lune cycle had certainly been… something, his processor provided meekly, flashes of last night (the way she arched on top of him, his frantic servos scrabbling uselessly at her sides, his spike throbbing as he choked) running across his vision in a decidedly unhelpful manner. 

That had been - uh - good. Very good. A bit too good, actually, and he felt shame as well as guilt burn through his frame as he thought about the way he had gripped her waist so desperately that bruises had almost instantly bloomed. As if to prove his dreadful thoughts right, he hesitantly lifted his helm again, his gaze roaming her figure. 

His optics lingered on her midsection, where, just like he suspected, there was a distinct pattern of five, circular bruises that lined up too easily with the length and spread of his digits. He almost brushed his servo against them, his guilt gnawing at him as he let his helm fall with no small amount of regret. 

Slag. He shouldn’t have been so rough; he was always too unaware of himself and his extremities, especially since he hit fifteen vorns and practically shot up in height, frightening his carrier into thinking he was going to end up being a roller rather than a flier. 

He lifted a servo and stared at it, clenching and unclenching his digits. These digits hurt Elita, he thought to himself. He had gotten carried away, too enthralled by her and the scent of charge, his olfactory sensors tingling with her smell of jubiline, and in his naivety and eagerness, he had allowed himself to slip out of his careful control. 

It felt awful, the more he thought about it. He hadn’t lost control like that since the first time he attempted to fly with both Bee and Orion and ended up gripping them so tightly that they both had bruises around their waists for cycles. It had horrified him to the point he refused to fly with them for vorns after that. 

Keeping control was important. Crucial. Essential. 

“Control yourself. You’re unsightly, Sentinel,” Ultra Magnus had once said to him. When was that? Sentinel’s processor whirled, and he blinked slowly as he recalled the way energon had dripped slowly down from his forehelm and how he’d tried hastily to wipe it away with a shaky wrist. 

Ultra had taken one look at his shallow breaths, cracked plating, and had made an expression of such disgust that even now, Sentinel’s processor had a hard time bringing up that particular memory file. It was distorted and filled with static, almost like he couldn’t remember properly, which was ridiculous since it only happened a sol ago. 

As if on cue, something twinged smartly in his shoulder, and he couldn’t stop himself from flinching as his neural subsystem practically shouted at him that he was pinching something. He grunted, his entire frame jolting, and his pain bled into guilt as Elita shuffled from her position on top of his arm. 

“My Prime?” She muttered, her spinal strut arching slightly as she stretched, an effortlessly seductive look on her as she slowly onlined her optics. She blinked them several times before she smiled up at him. “What are you doing?” 

He gave her a hesitant smile, feeling rather defeated as the pain reluctantly subsided and instead left him with nothing but a sense of embarrassment. His cheeks were warm and no doubt blue with energon, and he mentally groaned as he struggled to provide an answer. 

He was as eager to tell her the truth as much as he wanted to stick his bare aft over an open flame, so not at all. Instead, his sluggish processor (something he found was common around her and her beauty… urgh) simply made him smile stupidly again, and he said, “uh… good morning.” 

She laughed, a light and airy sound that made his spark jolt as she rolled over, the top half of her now draping across his chassis as she winded her arms around his neck. Like this, the top of her helm brushed alarmingly close to his dermas, and he swallowed as she smirked and said, “good morning, my Prime. Did you recharge well?” 

Sentinel shifted his gaze to the side, clearing his throat as he muttered, “of course. It was - fine. What about you?” 

Elita tilted her helm and didn’t answer as he prayed she wouldn’t see through his lie. 

Though that hadn’t been the worst sleep he had ever gotten, it still hadn’t been good. He always had trouble recharging even before Ultra took over the majority of his training, and now, well… He considered himself lucky if he only had the one nightmare or two. 

“You seem distracted,” Elita said, staring up at him with her large optics as he hastily began to try and distract himself by going through the notifications he had missed last lune. When he didn’t reply right away, she pouted, a subtle push of her full dermas as she leaned up and pressed a kiss to his chin. “Busy already? We’ve been awake for less than ten kliks, my Prime.” 

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely, already feeling like he was messing up as he hesitantly reached down to peck her forehelm. It was apparently the right move, since she smiled widely up at him and giggled as he chuckled quietly. “There’s just a lot that I have to sort through. But as soon as I’m done then maybe we can spend the… spend the… uh…” 

He mumbled something incoherent as his processor pulled up the notification that had been bothering him up until now. He had made a note a long time ago that any message from Orion or Bee was to be marked as urgent, and he felt his spark lurch as he realized that this was the first time in vorns that he hadn’t managed to write back right away. 

He sat up, leaning against the headboard and mumbling a sorry to Elita when she protested, claiming she wanted to lie on him some more.

He felt dread gnaw at him from the inside out as he quickly began to slide through Orion’s messages, which started off well enough, but quickly devolved into frustration after Sentinel completely glossed over them. 

Private Comm Link (ID: #628317): Sentinel Prime? No, Sentinel Prick

Incoming message… 

DES: Orion Pax - ID: OP-001628

:: Sentinel! :: 

:: Look, Sen, I really need your help. I'm assuming you're still at the party, so could you get me Hot Rod's private comm line if you can? ::

:: I know it's a lot to ask but I seriously need to talk to him. :: 

:: … Sentinel? :: 

:: Sen, come on. Whatever happened between you and Bee, we can fix it. Don't be too upset. I seriously need you right now, buddy. :: 

:: Sen. :: 

:: Sentinel!!! ::

“Slag.” Sentinel swore quietly, running a servo down his face, his wings stiffening as they fluttered with his anxiety before he forcefully stopped them from moving so much. Primus, would he ever learn how to control them?

“What happened?” Elita asked.

“Nothing,” he said automatically. When she continued to stare at him in an unimpressed manner, he ex-vented slowly, and tried to think of what to say. “It’s - nothing. I promise. I guess I just forgot to reply to my friend last night, and… that hasn’t happened before.” 

Elita hummed. There was a glimmer to her optics as she leaned up and kissed him, the touch soft and coaxing, and he shuddered as he parted his dermas a little too eagerly and held her close when she traced the tip of her glossa against his bottom dentae. 

“Is this the same friend that Hot Rod reminded you of?” Elita muttered curiously, her small and nimble servos cradling his helm gently, like he was the most precious thing she had ever held. It melted him, and he felt his engine start to purr quietly in his chassis as Elita smiled into their kiss. 

“Hm?” He said dreamily, feeling rather off kilter as he tried to chase her when she broke contact and gently pushed him back, her legs swinging so that she was now straddling his lap as he fell onto the pillow again with a soft oof. It took him a few micro-kliks to try and remember what she was talking about, since, oh, Primus, she was a vision. “Oh, yes, that one. He’s very close to me, and I feel bad for not being able to respond right away.” 

“There’s no need to feel bad,” she said sympathetically, her digits fluttering across his collar plates and causing him to tremble slightly. His wings in particular were practically vibrating, and he gave up any pretense of controlling them when she stroked a particularly sensitive spot. “Your friend sounds like he’s difficult, don’t you think?” 

“I wouldn’t say that,” Sentinel said rather hoarsely, his optics squeezing shut when she leaned down and bit gently at his neck cables. “Ah - he’s a great friend, he’s been there for me for vorns - oh, frag - “ 

Elita clicked her glossa gently, the sound both fond and exasperated. “If he’s really that precious of a friend, then shouldn’t he be understanding that you have your own life to live?” 

“Well… I mean…” he said, trailing off weakly as she stared at him pointedly and settled more in his lap, her wiggle pressing her interface panel right up against his as energon pumped wildly in his veins. 

It was difficult to think through the haze of charge that ran through him, though his processor did pause to whirl on what she said. It wasn’t like he was lying; Orion really was a great friend, and he and Bee had been the biggest pillars for Sentinel ever since they met as sparklings. There was very little Sentinel wouldn’t do for either of them, stuff that he wouldn’t do even for Ultra. 

But it did bother him, just the slightest bit, how Elita’s words resonated with him. Though he knew that Orion always had his reasons, sometimes those reasons were just so ridiculous that it caused him more stress or trouble than it was worth. He couldn’t think of one decent answer as to why Orion needed to speak with the newest to-be-named trailblazer, though some part of Sentinel dreaded the thought that he had an idea as to why. 

Megatron. These sols, every single thing that Orion did led to that blasted mech, and Sentinel honestly didn’t understand. Initially, he had indulged his friend because a tiny part of Sentinel had been curious, too. The names Megatron and his rebels had been more of a myth than reality at that point, and he’d feebly wondered what the real mech was like. 

After finding out, he had simply categorized Megatron as the criminal as he was. So when Orion had insisted on feeding the damn bot, and even worse, began to extend sympathy… Sentinel feared for his friend, he really did. There was only so much someone could play with a line before they fully crossed over. 

And Orion asking for the personal comm link of a mech who was about to climb the ranks and become an elite was definitely hopping over that line. Obliterating it, even. 

“I should text back, shouldn’t I?” Sentinel said in a small voice, now feeling more unsure than ever as Elita paused on top of him. 

She tilted her helm, and for a fleeting moment, her gaze sharpened. It was razor-thin and so quick that he began to doubt if it ever even happened, and when she spoke, it was still as sweet and soothing as ever. “If you want. Just tell him you were busy. He doesn’t need more than that.” 

Right. 

Right, because - because Sentinel had other things to do than just lounge around for Orion like some messed up pet waiting on its master. (Don’t you already do that? No, he didn’t. Really? Ultra only likes complete obedience from you. Because he was Sentinel’s mentor. Because you don’t deserve decency? Because you don’t deserve dignity? Fine, then. You're pathetic. Stop it. Why? Because you're ashamed? Some future Prime you are. You can't even protect yourself. How are you going to protect the world? Enough! So shameless. So selfish, stupid, nothing's ever enough - )

Private Comm Link (ID: #628317): Sentinel Prime? No, Sentinel Prick

Outgoing message… 

DES: Sentinel - ID: SN-402021

:: Sorry, I was… occupied.:: 

Almost immediately, Sentinel's communication chip pinged him that a call was coming through, and of course it was Orion. But before he even had a chance to acknowledge it properly, Elita was pressing down on him more insistently, and he felt like he was floating as she kissed him again. 

The call rang at the back of his mind, mixing into a hazy mix with the amount of notifications his charge was sending through his interface subsystem. He flailed slightly, still unused to any of this even after joors last night learning how to touch and be touched, but he had already ignored Orion for too long, he should at least pick this call up. 

… Right? 

“H - Hold on - “ Sentinel mumbled in between kisses, feeling rather disoriented and overwhelmed as Elita simply hummed and pressed closer. Already, her servo was dragging down his chassis, and he shivered at the touch, unable to stop himself from ignoring the hot, sweet sensation of her dermas, but also unable to completely snuff the comm call line, which was ringing insistently. “E-Elita, just - just one micro-klik, okay?” 

“I’m doing a bad job at this if you’re still thinking of taking that call.” Elita huffed, but her swollen intake was pulled into a smile as she let out a small, exasperated sigh and then fully draped herself over him, her arms crossed across his chassis as she tilted her helm and smirked. “Fine, then. Answer it, my Prime.” 

He gave her a shaky, nervous smile, his servos flexing with uncertainty on her warm hips as he cleared his throat, accepted the annoyingly insistent call, and hesitantly said out loud, “hello?”

“Sentinel!” Orion’s voice blasted through his processor at a decibel so high that he immediately flinched. He turned down the volume hastily, grateful that at the very least, Elita wouldn’t be able to hear Orion’s side of the conversation regardless of the noise. “Dude, why the hell didn’t you respond to my comms last lune?” 

“I do actually have a life outside of you, you know,” Sentinel said in exasperation, darting his gaze down and trying not to gulp when he saw and felt the way Elita began to trace loop shapes on his paint. Holy shit, he needed to wrap this call up yesterday. “Get on with it, O - “ 

He barely managed to bite back Orion’s name in time as Elita pressed a small, fleeting kiss to his collar. It was hard enough to keep his focus with her in the same room as him, but with her entire frame firmly on top of his, and worst of all, with her flirting… She was a temptress and knew just how weak he was for her. 

He needed to be careful. It was already a risk to accept Orion’s comm and have Elita listen to Sentinel’s part of the conversation. If he slipped up and revealed too much about who Orion actually was, then there was no doubt to Sentinel that Elita wouldn’t approve. 

Him, a high caste bot, but more than that, the future Prime, talking to a miner? And addressing him so kindly at that, as well? Dire consequences would surely follow. Sentinel still bore the marks and sting of the last time he had made that mistake in front of Ultra. His wrist twinged slightly as it rested against Elita’s waist. 

“I told you, I needed to speak with Hot Rod,” Orion said impatiently. Sentinel could practically see the way he must have looked at that moment; tilting his helm and rolling his optics because he was just that obnoxious when it came to getting what he wanted. “Please don’t tell me he’s already left.” 

“Why do you need to talk to him?” Sentinel forced out, placing a servo on the back of Elita’s helm in some poor attempt to both stop and encourage her as she began to nip at his neck cables. He coughed, a small amount of static running through his hoarse voice as he said, “you can’t just ask me for something and not tell me why. That’s not how this works. And I already told him good luck for you.” 

“Well, I was wrong. Luck has no place within the ceremony,” Orion said tightly. He sounded different, tense, and it was enough of a change that it made Sentinel frown, smile apologetically at Elita, and then sit up, gently wrapping his arm around her waist so she wouldn’t fall. 

Her optics narrowed and she was definitely displeased, but she still hooked her elbows around his shoulder plates and leaned her cheek onto one of them as he said, “what are you talking about?” 

There was no answer. 

Sentinel's face pinched as he went through a quick systems check with his processor, but everything was fine. It was already hard enough to shut Orion up over text comms, but verbal comms were a whole thing altogether. And Sentinel had known Orion since they were sparklings; maybe Sentinel even knew Orion more than he knew himself, so it was easy to pick up on the uneasiness of his tone. 

Something was wrong. 

“Hey,” Sentinel said more gently this time, allowing his previous annoyance to soften into empathy. Though he couldn't deny that maybe Elita had been right in that Orion could be pushy, that didn't take away from the fact that he was still one of Sentinel's closest friends. “Come on, talk to me. What's going on?” 

“There's more to the ceremony than we know,” Orion finally said, his voice strained. It was gruffer than usual and there was a small shuffling noise on his end, like he was climbing something. What the hell? “Just - look. Is he still there or not?” 

Sentinel squinted up at the ceiling as he tried to make sense of whatever Orion was rambling about. His weird insistence to talk to Hot Rod was already a bit strange, but the ceremony on top of that… As far as Sentinel was aware, Orion had never been that interested in the Iacon 5000 or the subsequent trailblazer ceremony that followed. 

Why was he suddenly expressing such blatant regard for it now? 

“You mean Hot Rod?” Sentinel said after a klik of silence. Elita moved slightly on top of him, and when he glanced down at her, she gave him a look of what's going on? He tried to reassure her with a smile, but she simply nudged him, which he tried to brush off. “Of course not. I don't know where he is, he and Ultra left together last night I think.” 

“Fuck.” Orion swore. “He was my only chance! Shit. Okay, it's… okay. That's fine, it just means I have to go see Megatron sooner than I thought I would.” 

Okay. That was definitely not what Sentinel had expected nor wanted to hear. 

He practically leapt up from the berth, mouthing apologies to Elita, who was left sprawled on the sheets with an indignant expression twisting her pretty face. She huffed and draped herself more elegantly across the mesh as he hissed way too urgently, “what the frag are you talking about, you bucket of bolts? No! It's been less than a sol since you last saw him, are you fragging kidding me?” 

“He has the answers that I need, Sen!” Orion pushed back. “He's the only one who can help me figure out what's actually going on!” 

Sentinel felt like ripping the paint off his helm as he buried his face into his servos and tried to vent steadily. He couldn’t fucking believe this. All this trouble and flack for, what, Megatron? Again? Why was Orion like this? Why was he so obsessed with a mech like him? What could Megatron have possibly said to sway one of the best bots Sentinel knew? 

“You promised me that you weren’t compromised,” Sentinel said, his voice edging into something sharper, more dangerous. He paced steadily on the rug beside the berth, occasionally sparing Elita a glance whenever she made a small noise of inquiry, but he shoved away any distracting thought about her as he was mortified instead by the way Orion remained silent. “Answer me. Tell me that you aren’t actually starting to care for that - that - “ 

He couldn’t even say it. Not even because uttering it out loud would reveal too much to Elita, who continued to observe him with wide optics, but because Sentinel honestly felt sick as he realized that something had shifted. Whatever change had occurred, it started last night, when he was too occupied to be a proper friend and dissuade Orion from getting involved in something he very well could never get out of. 

“What’re you implying?” Orion snapped. He sounded agitated, on edge, and there was a muffled noise from his end of the comm, like he had just slammed a door shut. His words were tense and Sentinel didn’t understand. “Why’re you interrogating me, Sen? You know I never do anything without reason! Why’re you acting like this?”

Sentinel was floored, and he sat down abruptly on the edge of the berth, the force of him doing as much so impactful that it lightly bounced Elita on the sheets. His wings drooped on top of the mesh out of his shock, and he knew that he was staring directly at the bland painting hung on the wall across from him, but he couldn’t even begin to comprehend it as he tried to digest what Orion had just said to him. 

“What?” Sentinel said, his voice almost hysterical as he gripped his servos into fists and his wings began to tighten so much that they were practically flat against his spinal strut. “Why am I acting like this? Why the hell are you acting like this, you afthole? Are you trying to spin this and pin this onto me when I’m not the one who’s compromised? Huh? Don’t you fucking dare - “

“Primus, Sen! You’re seriously getting mad over something that isn’t a big deal - “

“It actually is a big deal, you’re literally asking me for another favor, again, and you won’t even - “ 

“It’s not a favor! Oh, for - it’s a freaking solid, and you and I always - “ 

“Always what?” Sentinel spat, and by this point he was shouting, his voice hoarse and crackling with static as he gripped his own patellas so hard that it was a wonder the armor didn’t crack. His helm was spinning and he couldn’t vent properly; had he ever yelled at Orion before? “Go on, say it! It’s always you and me, except it’s me getting dragged into another one of your master plans that ends up getting us in trouble in more ways than one!” 

“This is bigger than just you holding a petty grudge!” Orion hissed. It occurred to Sentinel just then that Orion was shouting, too. He had never heard it before, honestly, and it was jarring. Maybe a little scary. Not because Orion himself was a particularly menacing mech, but because they had never done this before. They had never… fought, and Sentinel felt sick. “Can’t you see that? I’m sorry that you have such a busy life, I’m sorry that you’re doing all your fucking aristocratic bullshit - “ 

“Aristocratic bullshit?” Sentinel cried out. He couldn’t tell if his vocalizer was cracking from the anger that boiled inside of him like magma, threatening to spill over and eagerly burn every part of this conversation, or worse, because of the tears that were starting to well up in his rapidly blinking optics. “You know it’s not like that! I’m working my fragging aft off so I can be a good Prime! So I can be a good Prime for you!” 

“For fuck’s sake, Sentinel, I never asked you to be Prime!” Orion shouted. 

Silence. 

Sentinel’s ragged venting filled the room, his breathing off and inconsistent as he stared dizzily at that damn painting, unable to make sense of its swirls and colors. He sat there, lost, hurt, angry, everything he had never felt for Orion, his dearest friend. Orion, his biggest supporter. Orion, his brother. 

Orion… 

Who had just told him he never wanted Sentinel to be Prime. Sentinel had never known anything but how to be one. He had been raised on this, told that this was his path, and that nothing could lead him astray. For a long time, he had believed Ultra who told him that everything, including friends, could be a distraction. But Sentinel had told himself that just this once, he could ignore Ultra. 

Just this once, he could pretend that he was a miner like Orion and Bee, who weren’t miserable even despite their ranks, and seemed happier than Sentinel, who felt like he was often carrying the weight of the world on just his shoulders alone. 

Just this once, he had allowed Orion liberties, taken him places he couldn’t, and let him do things that Sentinel would never allow anyone else because Orion had never once not told Sentinel with the uttermost confidence: “you’ll be a better Prime than any of the Thirteen were.” 

The tears fell. 

They were warm and soft on his cheekplates, and his hardly functional processor told him that he was running low on tear solvent. Of course he was running low on tear solvent. These weren’t the normal kind of tears he usually cried during moments of pain or frustration or even dramatic manipulation for when he needed one of the staff to do something for him and he wanted to appear extra pitiful. 

These were tears of hurt. 

A servo draped gently over his own. He watched blankly, his vision swimming and watery, as slowly, digits smaller than his own curled in between his and held them in a way they had never been held before. 

“Sentinel,” Elita said. He could barely focus on her. Her voice was like a phantom to him. “Enough.” 

Enough, Sentinel repeated. Enough of this. 

“Aren’t you tired?” 

I am. 

“Don’t you deserve better?” 

Do I?

“He isn’t worth anything.” 

That’s not right… 

“He’s nothing.” 

No, that’s… 

“Let it end.” 

But… 

“Stop.” 

“Stop,” Sentinel muttered. 

“You’re right,” Orion said after a brief pause. His voice was thicker, and he cleared his vocalizer. Almost like he was sorry. Was he, though? Was he sorry? Was he sorry for implying that Sentinel was only that, an aristocrat? Was he sorry for taking back all his support as Sentinel strived harder and harder to be a good Prime? What was he sorry for? Was he sorry at all? When did he and Sentinel stop talking? When had they been reduced to this? “I should have stopped. That - that was low of me. I’m - “ 

“Figure it out, Orion.” Sentinel interrupted. He stared at the painting. His voice was hard and cool, and there was no more room for argument. “I’m done saving you.” 

He ended the call with a soft click. He immediately blocked the notification of Orion trying to reconnect, and instead found himself blinking through his tears as Elita practically leapt into his lap, her engine purring something fierce in her chassis as she leaned up and began to smother him in kisses. 

“You did so well, my Prime.” Elita practically purred, her optics gleaming and her touch purposeful as she stroked his audials, then his cheeks, and rubbing away any of his tears with a surprisingly firm nudge. “You don’t need the likes of Orion. You’re the next Prime. You’re the most intelligent. The strongest. The best. You don’t need anyone.” 

Oh, Sentinel thought to himself dully, slowly leaning down to press a kiss to Elita’s eagerly waiting dermas, though for the life of him, he couldn’t stop looking over her shoulder, right at that framed painting that he had been staring at the entire time. Except it wasn’t a painting. 

It’s a mirror, he realized. 

For a moment, he thought he saw Ultra in his place. 

Just for a moment.

Scene: END!

Next scene: coming soon!

[tinydefector]

Would love to see some soft vore with swindle maybe first contact au with a little human he found wandering a warehouse he keeps his product in by themselves

Smuggling

Swindle x human

Word count: 1.8k

Warnings: smut, oral, vore, Valveplug, Giant/Tiny

Edit( had issue with transferring it from my writing area over here so hopefully it's all together this time. The joys)

Swindle masterlist

_____________________

little cries echo from the human swindle had caught, he eyes them through the large Cube he had caught them in debating what he should do with them. Their eyes linger on him wide as if pleading for him to let them go. He wasn't sure how the human had gotten there but he was fascinated by their smaller form

Swindle peered down at his unusual catch through the translucent edges of his containment cube, rotors whirring thoughtfully. The tiny creature writhed within, clawing vainly at the barrier as strange cries emanated from its primitive vocalizer.

How curious that such a fragile thing could have wound up aboard his ship. The Decepticons had little need nor patience for biology beneath their notice. Still, as a businessman, Swindle appreciated any commodity's potential value - and rarity commanded the highest prices on the black market, where only the boldest dared to deal.

"Now now, no need for that racket," he said, tone placating yet laced with calculation. The human stilled at his words, wide optics locking onto Swindle's face with an expression...pleading? Most odd.

Lowering the cube, Swindle gazed within, scanning hastily. Basic carbon-based, bipedal, underdeveloped neuronal network...but sentient nevertheless. His grasping servos gentled upon feeling its erratic organic pulse. Perhaps this catch deserved study before rushing to market. Potential discoveries could revise alien worth beyond raw material.

They curl up on themself, eyes darting around as they watch swindle check his warehouse stock. Small trembles rack their small frame as they try to make themself even smaller. As Swindle surveyed his stockpiles, peripherals noted movement within the containment cube set before him. Curious, he knelt for closer investigation, crimson optics peering through the translucent barrier.

Within, the tiny human had drawn into a quivering ball, trembling violently as large optics darted about the warehouse in panicked disorientation. Clearly, its primitive systems found the vastness overwhelming. How fragile such an alien organism must seem without protective armor, weaponry or even adequate size to impose any will.

Lifting the cube. The human merely shrank tighter, as though hoping invisibility might shield its vulnerable form. An interesting survival mechanism, yet ineffective among their kind. Its continual shaking set oddly on Swindle's sensors.

Crooking a digit, Swindle nudged the cube gently, awaiting response to stimulate and assess this odd creature's potential. What solutions might it improvise under pressure? Fortune favoured the bold and clever, after all.

They shout as they tumble out on the table. Their eyes go wide as they try to bolt across the metal table. Neatly tumbling over the edge. He's curious about the tag on their leg, it held the information on where the human was from, where they were going and what their purpose was for.

As the tiny human tumbled from its confinement, Swindle's keen optics tracked each jerking motion broadcasted by its tag chip and primitive garments. Clearly disoriented amongst the warehouse's cavernous machinery, the thing bolted recklessly across the table, servos scrabbling for purchase on the slick metal.

A sharp gasp escaped them as momentum carried the fragile body over the edge, sending it plummeting toward the unforgiving ground far below. An unfortunate demise would ruin this rare find before its potential could be explored.

Snatching the thing from the air, Swindle brought it close for examination, ignoring its frantic pounding against his braced digits. There - the identification chip embedded in its vest offered tantalising insights into origins and intended fates of this hitherto unknown species.

The human squirms under Swindle's grip as the bot checks them from damage or injuries, moving them close to make sure they aren't broken.  they whimper out. Swindle's optics narrow as he processes the information on the human's leg tag. 

A chuckle escapes Swindle's vocalizer as he holds the squirming human firmly to the table, his grip unyielding. 

The information on their leg tag filters across his processor. 

Species: homo-sapien (human) 

Planet of origin: Terra 1, Earth 

Destination: Vos, Cybertron 

Buyer: offlined 

Other information: 'exotic pet', bid off to the highest buyer or keep them. I don't care.  

"Earth, eh?" he murmured, scanning the encoded lines rapidly. "A long way off course, meatbag. But who said the black market honours authorities' designs, hmm?" The human writhed uselessly, but clever optics observed its every microexpression carefully.

As swindle downloads the language file attached he can finally understand the small squeaks and chirps from them. His audials twitch at the implications, his curiosity piqued by the concept of an 'exotic pet' from Earth being brought to Vos, the city of seekers. It seemed that someone on Cybertron had quite the fascination with organic, soft-bodied creatures. As he downloads the language file attached, the squeaks and chirps they emit start to make sense to Swindle. Their plea for freedom.

"Please let me go," they whimper, their voice carrying a mix of fear and desperation.

Swindle's optics flicker as He leans in closer, his tone low and contemplative. "Now, why would I do that, little human? You see, you've been bought and sold, and it looks like I'm the one in possession of you now. You're quite the valuable commodity, and I must say, I'm rather curious to see just what makes you so 'exotic.'"

Swindle's grip tightens slightly, ensuring they couldn't struggle out of his gasp. He can't help but enjoy the power he holds over them, relishing the control he has in this situation. "Now, don't you worry," he muses, a sly grin playing on his face. "I'll take good care of you, my little 'exotic pet.' Perhaps we can find some... mutually beneficial arrangement."

As the human's plea lingers in the air, Swindle's mind races with possibilities, calculating the potential profits and leverage this situation could bring. For now, they were at his mercy, and he intended to make the most of it. They try fighting against his hold but its useless, only making him chuckle as he holds them to the table.

 'Exotic pet' could mean a lot of things and Swindle was more curious now just what had been intended for the human, but for a human to be set to Vos, the city of seekers he had a pretty good idea. Some Cybertronian had a kink for organics. soft bodies. It was the dead seekers lose now.

Swindle's grip tightens as the human futile struggles against his hold. Their attempts only serve to amuse him, a chuckle slipping past his vocalizer as he maintains his firm grasp, preventing any chance of escape.

A smirk curls across Swindle's face as he contemplates the missed opportunity for the deceased seeker. They had lost out on what could have been a valuable acquisition, but now the human was within his grasp. "Looks like you're quite the prize," Swindle comments, his voice laced with amusement. "I wonder what makes you so special, hmm?"

Their smaller frame lit a fire in Swindle. "What do you want from me? " they whimpered out in the most delightful way. They lean into his servos, they squirm as his digits Begin removing clothes. Swindle intended to test drive them. See what all the fuss was about.

A sly grin spreads across Swindle's face. He takes a moment to savour their squirming, their body responding to his touch. Swindle intends to explore every inch of their being, to push boundaries and test their limits, all while satisfying his own curiosity and desires.

As their clothes fall away and their vulnerability is exposed, Swindle's optics gleam with anticipation. they whine out as Swindle runs his glossa against their skin, arching under his touch as he takes in the sweet taste of their skin, Swindle smirks, savouring the taste of their skin against his glossa. His fingers trace teasing patterns along their body, revelling in the shivers and arches it elicits from them. The sweetness that lingers on their skin reminds him of the finest energon wine or a well-aged high-grade.

"Mmm, you taste as delightful as the finest concoctions," Swindle purrs, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "You're like a rare vintage, my dear, a delectable treat I can't resist." He continues to explore their body with his lips and tongue, leaving a trail of tantalising sensations in his wake. Swindle revels in the power he holds over them, the ability to elicit such pleasurable responses from them.

His hands roam, caressing and teasing, seeking out the most sensitive spots. Swindle's lips curl into a mischievous grin as he trails his glossa between their legs slowly lapping against their skin. He revels in the sounds of their pleasure, the way their breath hitches and their body arches under his touch. His servos roam with purpose, gliding along their curves and tracing patterns As his lips trail lower, Swindle's tongue flicks out to taste the sensitive spots he discovers along the way. He savours the delicious moans that escape their lips, the sweet melody of their pleasure.

"You're so responsive," Swindle whispers, his voice laced with a mix of satisfaction and hunger. With a final, lingering kiss, Swindle pulls back slightly, his gaze filled with a predatory gleam. He knows that he has them right where he wants them, teetering on the edge of overwhelming desire.

"Now, my lovely, it's time to truly indulge," Swindle says, his voice low and sultry. "

His mouth continues to explore their body, his lips and tongue leaving a trail of heat and sensation in their wake. Swindle's hands roam, seeking out every sensitive spot, every place that elicits those delicious reactions. His lips press against their leg as mischief flickers in his optics. 

They lay there shuttering slightly before Swindle takes them further into his mouth. They squeal out as Swindle swallows them. " hey! Let me out!!" They shout and it only makes swindlers chuckle. They cry out again as his tubing slowly drops them down into his tank making an echoing thump as the land. They try to pull themself back up but only get stuck before they land back in the small chamber of his tanks their naked form shivers slightly. 

"Now, now, there's no need to get all worked up," Swindle taunts, his voice smooth and sly. He relishes in the control he has over the situation. He takes a moment to appreciate the sound of their voice echoing within his tanks, a reminder of their helplessness.

 "I'll make sure to take good care of you. After all, you're quite the valuable asset." With a satisfied chuckle, Swindle returns his focus to his work. The human squirms and moves around in the tight confines of Swindle's tank, banging their fist against the inside, It echo's lightly. “Let me out, Let me out !” Swindle's grin widens as he hears the muffled sounds of struggle within his fuel tank. The echo of their fist banging against the walls only adds to his amusement, fueling his desire for control.

"Oh, you're quite the feisty one, aren't you?" Swindle taunts, his voice laced with a mix of amusement and superiority. "But I'm afraid all that struggling won't get you anywhere. You're securely locked away, completely at my mercy."

He takes a moment to savour the sounds of their frustration, "You might as well settle in" Swindle continues, his voice dripping with smugness. "Perhaps if you behave, I'll consider letting you out," Swindle teases, his voice filled with false promise. "But for now, you're mine to keep."

___________

Taglist: @angelxcvxc

Let me know if you wish to be added to the tag list

[commgroundstone]

Meanwhile...

ooc: continuation of this thread here @luna-wing-cns274 ===

"JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!"

It's loud, unencrypted, and broadcast wide. They'll take no response, in all likelihood. Gently feminine, saw-edged with a faux-electronic tone made for performers. Shading it further is terror, as they wing over, throttling down and letting gravity take them into a shallow dive.

Behind the opaque canopy, fear introduces desperation. They energize their active sensors and open fire.

Commercial sensors scrabble for purchase to no avail against military airframes. Optical only then, and with the violent buffeting of high speed air to boot.

Automatic fire, a magazine dumped into the air, marched towards Luna Wing by virtue of an all tracer load.

The only, magazine, actually. At high speed, any externals are torn away and reloading might as well be impossible. Caseless ammunition extends shooting time, but eventually does run out too. In seconds the bolt locks back.

[symphonicdemise]

You threw my message out the window, so i'll try another suggestion.

Could you imagine?

Blue claws curled in those pretty hip plates of you, holding you nice and still and unable to do more than squirm as his glossa delves into your valve. Teasing over node clusters and sensors in a way a spike or your own desperate digits have never managed to do.

Heels scrabbling on the berth unable to gain traction. Fans roaring trying to cool you down. Hips trying to buck as he finds some particularly sensitive parts of you to focus on. Your HUD warning you of a system crash at all this sensory feedback and core temperature. Could you imagine your overload? Your ability infused moans might even be felt by Overlord, who I doubt is going to give you a moment of reprieve on the off chance of feeling that again.

"I don't need you to put lurid notions in my head, the ones already there don't need company."

[buffshipper8490]

Rating Mature

Chapter Summary

The Millennium Falcon arrives on Kef Bir, the Ocean Moon of Endor; C-3P0 & R2-D2 witness the horrors of the bloodtroopers— Chancellor Hux’s Red Army— on Coruscant; Finn wanders Coruscant's sewers and encounters an unexpected ally...

Excerpt

The streets of Coruscant were quiet. Too quiet, if C-3PO had anything to say about it. Even his optimum auditory sensors struggled to pick anything up in the aftermath of the Jedi Temple explosion. An explosion! And at their ages! Why, they’d barely escaped with their lives as that old temple collapsed around them. And now, walking through this desolate wasteland, they were like sitting ducks. Ripe for the picking by whichever band of brigands and rogues came their way. Who knows what dreadful things could happen to a droid then? Would they be stripped for parts? Or sent to the pits of Griq and used for target practice? Threepio shuddered at the thought. Next to him, R2-D2 beeped.  “I agree, Artoo," replied Threepio. "We might not survive this time.” He looked up as a shadow fell, blocking out what little light filtered down this low. An entire battalion of First Order ships came into view. They were really doomed now. Together, they watched as the transports descended through the morning mist, touching down a block ahead of them.  Immediately, an entire army of troopers flooded the street, their crimson armor marking them as bloodtroopers. Bloodtroopers! On the streets of Coruscant. Honestly, what was this planet coming to? After Captain Phasma's death during the destruction of the Supremacy , General Hux established a new, elite core of stormtroopers to facilitate the First Order's plague-like expansion throughout the galaxy. Entire planets wiped clean of inhabitants, stolen from their homes in the dead of the night. Villages, towns, cities, all left empty, no sign of so much as a struggle. The bloodtroopers were animals, beasts, as evidenced by the way they set to work dragging beings from their homes, scared children separated from parents, any resistance dealt with swiftly. No mercy.  Their ruthless effectiveness of Hux's Red Army earned him his Chancellorship on Coruscant, and with General Parnadee's fanatical recruitment and conscription drive, there were even rumors they'd be phasing out the regulation stormtroopers within months. If the small group of white-armored stormtroopers that hovered on the edge of the scene looking at each other in horrified silence were any indication, there was some truth to those rumors. “I can’t watch. How horrible!” cried Threepio, covering his photoreceptors with one hand as they threatened a tiny Chadra-Fan girl with a blaster to the belly, her screams overwhelming his auditory sensors. “Tell me when it’s over, Artoo.” The citizens were herded into prison transports, wails echoing through the street as they reached through the bars, hands scrabbling for anything to hold on to. But there was no one left to help, the entire settlement having been cleared in mere minutes.  As quickly as they had arrived, they were gone again, the screams following their progress through the city. Threepio looked at the once again empty streets, no evidence remaining of what had happened here. How many neighborhoods had suffered the same fate, the rest of the galaxy none the wiser? Artoo gave a melancholy beep. “You’re right," murmured Threepio morosely. "We’ll never find Master Finn, now.”

New fanfic link! Likes ❤️ and Reblogs 🔁 are much appreciated!

[all-the-things-2020]

Deeds Not Less Valiant - Chapter Thirteen

Summary: Din and Grogu arrive at the aftermath of the disaster.

Word count: 1500

Rating: PG

Din saw the blast plume a few seconds before the sound reached the cabin. “That doesn’t look good,” he said, dashing inside to grab his jet pack. He strapped it on and scooped Grogu up. Soon they were in the air.

”Greef’s going to need help,” Din said.

“Ya,” Grogu said. His ears fluttered in the wind as they streaked toward town. He pointed with one hand. “Boom.”

”Yeah, a big boom,” Din said, scanning the area with all his sensors. “Doesn’t look like the town’s under attack, so hopefully it’s just an accident.”

As they got closer, he could see what section of town was affected and his heart sank. That’s Tala’s neighborhood. Grogu realized it, too; his ears drooped and he started to whimper.

Din landed several yards from the edge of the debris. People were shouting and droids were already swarming over the rubble. “Stay back!” Greef was there, his arms wide. “Let the droids search. It’s not safe.”

Greef turned to Din. “Mando! Good to see you. Looks like just an explosion.”

”That’s Tala’s building,” Din said, starting forward.

Greef laid a hand on his arm. “Most people were still at work,” he said. “I don’t think there were many inside.”

”Nee!” Grogu cried, wriggling from Din’s grasp and running toward the mess. “Ta! Nee!”

”Get back here!” Greef yelled, but Grogu was fast. He darted past the bystanders and disappeared into the rubble.

”The tooka,” Din said, pushing Greef aside. “He’s going after the tooka.”

Droids were carefully lifting and sorting debris as they scanned for life signs. Din ignored them all and focused on Grogu, who was crawling with unusual speed toward a section where a wall had recently collapsed, dust still swirling in the air.

”It is not safe,” proclaimed a small droid as Grogu went past it. “The area is still unstable.” It turned to Din as he came near. “Sir, we have everything under control.”

”I’m sure you think so,” Din said, “but the kid knows what he’s doing.”

Grogu dove into a hole between two slabs of concrete. Din paused, wondering if he should try to lift one of the slabs or wait until Grogu came out. Suddenly, the upper slab began to move on its own, lifting shakily into the air. As it rose, he could see Grogu, his eyes squinted in concentration, his tiny hand directing the movement of the concrete. And behind him … Tala!

Din dove in, sliding into the narrow gap Grogu had created and grabbed her arm. He pulled her out, scrabbling backwards to get clear of the hovering slab. “I’ve got her,” he shouted.

Grogu lowered his arm and the concrete slab settled back with a groan. In a flash, he had wriggled his way back out of the original hole, covered in pale gray powder.

”Ta!” He patted her leg, then turned back toward the rubble.

”Neeli,” Tala gasped. “She’s in there. She’s alive. Grogu … he told me.”

”It’s okay,” Din told her. “We’ll get her out.” Every fiber in his body screamed for him to snatch her and Grogu and get them to safety, but they couldn’t abandon the tooka.

“Nee!” Grogu shouted. He flew into the air, aided by the Force, and flipped and jumped from one bit of rubble to another. Then he was lifting chunks with a flick of his hand, tossing them aside with ease. When a large enough hole had developed, he dove in and emerged a few moments later with a bedraggled but alive Neeli in his arms.

”Get him out of there!” Din yelled at the nearest droid, a nimble mechanic model that skittered ahead, grabbed Grogu and Neeli, and hurried back.

”Get them all out!,” shouted Greef. “Dank farrik, Mando! I told you to stay back.”

IG-11 strode into the mess and gently picked up Tala. “Please follow me, sir,” the droid said. “The High Magistrate requests we leave the area immediately.”

Din staggered to his feet and followed the former assassin droid. Tala twisted around in IG-11’s grip, calling out for Neeli. She wasn’t bleeding much, and all her limbs seemed to be properly attached and pointing in the right directions, but Din was still vibrating with fear.

He glanced around. The mechanic droid had Grogu and Neeli safely out of the danger zone and IG-11 had Tala. He could retreat with dignity. As he stumbled over the chunks of concrete, he realized he’d twisted his knee. Pain lanced through his leg with every step, but it was able to bear his weight, so he ignored it. Even so, he was limping as he approached Greef.

”The droids said there aren’t any more life forms inside,” Greef said. “They found one body …” He shook his head. “I’ll have the Typhe twins’ hides for this!” Greef was normally affable, but at the moment his face was grim. “Find them for me, Mando.”

Din shook his head. “No, I need to see if Tala and her tooka are alright,” he said. “Let Marshall IG-11 do it.”

Greef was stern. “I want you to do it, Mando. If they survived that blast they ran. You’re the best bounty hunter I’ve ever known. Bring them back for justice.”

”Just let me check on Tala and Neeli … and Grogu,” Din said. “And get some bacta for my knee.” Greef looked ready to argue. “An hour,” Din said. “I’m just asking for an hour.”

”All right,” Greef conceded. “One hour. Then I want you on the job. I’ll have IG start making inquiries now that the immediate danger is over. The other droids can handle cleaning up the mess.”

Din limped toward the wall across the street where the injured and their rescuers were huddled.

**********************************

Tala was propped against a wall, Grogu and Neeli both in her lap, as a med droid scanned them all. “Superficial injuries on the child, moderate on the human, the tooka requires intervention,” it said.

”Intervention?” Tala managed to say. Her voice was shaky.

”Minor surgery,” the med droid said. “Lacerations and one broken bone. Also dust inhalation. Needs breathing treatment.” It swiveled away, already focused on the next patient.

A Twi’lek nurse kneeled down in front of them. “Don’t worry,” she said calmly. “Your tooka will be fine. I’ll take care of it.”

”Her,” Tala said. “Her name is Neeli.”

”I’m La’bana,” the woman said. “And once I get Neeli taken care of, I’ll clean you up.”

”Na!” Grogu said, holding up one hand. :I fix Neeli.:

:It’s okay, the nurse can do it. It’s not life threatening:

Grogu’s eyes narrowed. :I do it better:

:I’m sure you do, but what if we need your Force powers for something else? What if your Dad needs help?:

Grogu’s ears drooped a bit, but he relinquished his hold on Neeli and let La’bana take her. “Good choice,” Tala whispered to him. “Always let the professionals do their job.”

:Neeli be okay?:

“Neeli will be fine,” Tala said, willing her words to be true.

Din appeared in front of them, carefully squatting down. His knee was clearly injured. “Greef wants me to go after the Typhe twins,” he said, his voice tight. “I told him I needed to check on you first.”

Tala nodded. She wanted nothing more than to wrap her arms around him and reassure herself that they were both alive, but duty called. “I’ll watch Grogu for you,” she said.

:I go with Dad!: Grogu wriggled out of her lap, his ears vibrating with indignation.

”He can come with me if he wants,” Din said distractedly . He reached out to cup her face in his gloved hand. “Are you okay?”

”I’m fine,” she assured him. “The med droid said it’s only moderate injuries. A nurse took Neeli and I’m sure she’ll be back to take care of me when she’s done with her.”

She leaned into his hand nonetheless.

He nodded. “I need some bacta for this knee.” He hissed as he shifted his weight. “Watch Grogu while I swing by the med station. Then he and I will go after the twins. I’ll have Greef transport you and Neeli to my cabin when you’ve both been treated. It’ll be quieter there than the evacuation center. You can rest and recover.”

”Thank you,” she said. Tears were welling in her eyes, but she fought them back. She didn’t want him to think she was in pain. “I appreciate that. Neeli doesn’t like strangers.”

Din nodded. “And I’ll feel better, knowing exactly where you are,” he said. He levered himself up with a grunt. “Be right back.”

:Dad and I find the bad guys. Don’t worry.:

:Just be safe. I don’t care if the bad guys get away, as long as you and your Dad come back safe.:

[shroudandsands]

Prompt #17, Extra Credit: Blood

“Gun- Gun- Gunslinger- Hawk-” The static came in the middle of hysterical laughter. Raucous. Joyful. Pained.

Weaponsfire seared the air. Plasma scorched even the darkest pieces of the midnight alleys. Circuits and bone and artificial memories screamed in the arching shadows like neon. Copper wiring with magnetic spirals as plasma bolts in magnetic remnants spun by them, electricity in the air that coursed along her skin and down her fingertips. Gunshots. Gunshots. Gunshots. It had just rained. The puddles were evaporating. Water and mineral content changing. Not the acid-tinged rain. Not the runoff filled with particulate plastic and rubber. Iron. Blood. It reverberated with the screaming. With the gunfire. Her fingertips scrabbled as the night drowned out her voice, as the one currently fighting couldn’t turn away. There were so many after all. Where had they come from? No evidence on any network. No trace in the silicon. No touch could elevate her senses into finding them in footage or local magnetic effects. But here they were now, and here they were now. Bullets scraped the sheet metal wall as she finally found it. She tore off the access panel, the metal groaning and screaming in time with the combat. Could it be heard over it all? She could certainly feel it. She could feel the echo of it in every sensor even as they focused on tracking every projectile that rocketed by. How could she feel so powerless in all of this? Certainly she wasn’t made for being a combatant but she had some of the best military tech money could buy put into this body, not even speaking on software- No time, no time, milliseconds were screaming by and signals were closing in. Coming closer, gunfire louder, her combatant charge cursing as she fumbled for ammunition. And then it all went black.

Not for her, no. Far from it. For her? The world couldn’t be clearer. Her tail was jammed straight into the junction box. The entire sector’s power supply at her fingertips. Enough voltage to fry any human so insane, enough current to melt any synthetic that could ever hope to imagine. But for her? The mimicked taste of copper and ozone on her body’s sensors only let her know that her laughter had become laced with the high pitched scream of high voltage.  

Fuses blew, breakers popped, lights went dark, machines fell dead, as all in that moment was hers. All in that moment was made to bend to her, to come to her, to feed her. “Gunslinger.” The AM-3S unit spoke. A voice of one, a chorus of more. “Watch.” And the city came to life under the weight of a mind. Pylons roared into brilliant plasma arcs, neon bulbs sparked and exploded, ancient machinery lost beneath the asphalt screamed through the surface. All of it her hands, all of it her fingertips, all of it bleeding her senses and bleeding her life. The datastream of multitudes as network and networked rose in tandem, as circuit and copper and old-world PCB responded to her just as the body of one did. Human-lethal pressure waves, human-lethal temperature, human-lethal particulate as blood and bone vaporized under the renewed life of a mind that had been confined from ten thousand senses down to one. And still the unit stood close to her gunslinger. A smile on its face. The cables trailing behind it still sparking and frying in the junction box. Further and further the blackout spread. And louder and louder the voltage laughed. Drive off these attackers, protect herself, protect this charge, follow her protocols to the letter and she could have it all. She could have her network, this body, her mind and all that it entailed, she could be free of it all and take what she wanted in this cesspool that she had been born into-

Blackout. Cut off. Her tail snapped back into her body, her mind pulled back as a cord which had stretched too far. Face down in the water. Iron percentage: 34%. Correction, as her last thought plugged through her remaining charge. Face down in the blood.

[cosmo-craftin]

Lawker also known as 14WK3R

My cyberpunk oc from my dnd group.

He’s basically a robot that the police force now use to enforce stability in a corporate controlled world. The police are mostly for hire though and are quite corrupt. 14WK3R was hired to shut down a robbery at a rich engineer’s house.

But one of robbers grabbed a random gadget and shot him with it. The device scrabbled his sensor unit and processor, within that moment he was hit repeatedly with a metal bat. The combined contact and confusion scrambled his coding. So he now has gained full sentience instead of false programming that most bots are programmed with for communication.

After a failed mission he was returned to the police force. He now struggles with his new found sentience, he is greatly concerned with the situation as police bots are created to serve and that only. He is forced to act as a robot like the rest as he is worried that if his secret sentience was found out, he would be sent to be scrapped. As police bots are programmed without sentience so that emotions and morals won’t influence their actions.

He is now trying to perform at his best despite his internal conflict, so that if he is found out, his high reputation will save him and he won’t be shut down. Although all these patrols aren’t quite getting him anywhere. Until he picks up radio chatter of a murder so he assigns himself to case. Upon arrival he finds out that he isn’t the only one who wants to solve it. As there are other people who’ve been ‘assigned’ or hired to track down the murderer. As the body shows signs of being part of an on going trend from someone called the Doll Maker Murderer. So he is now trying his best to be a detective and solve the case along with three others. He quickly realizes it won’t be easy as he is forced to against his previous programming to arrest the criminals helping him and take charge.

Here are some other sketch designs and WIPs

[smartdeals24]

Play digital versions of iconic classics like Hasbro’s Monopoly, Scrabble, Trivial Pursuit, Chutes and Ladders, Candy Land, Yahtzee, puzzles, card games, coloring books, mini-games, and many more Hi-Resolution Screen adds next-level realistic depth and texture to all games; Social Play+ connects to other players worldwide, with Safe Connect that allows up to six players. Tactile Feedback and Dynamic Zoom - haptic feedback sensors and automatic zoom game features provide immersive gameplay Impact / Water Resistant - Relax while you play, the Infinity Game Table’s surface resists spills and is tough enough to withstand everyday impacts, with removable legs for tabletop play Wi-Fi connectivity, online play, and an ever-expanding selection of downloadable games and interactive content via the game store

If you like to play video games together with family and friends then this might be perfect for you. 5% Off- https://sites.google.com/view/infinity-game-table/home

[utopianadaosophy]

A psychedelic baseball cap with a Scrabble word scanner installed on it would likely function as a fashionable and functional accessory for Scrabble enthusiasts. Here’s how it might work:

Design: The cap would feature a vibrant, psychedelic pattern that’s visually striking. The scanner itself would have a futuristic design, possibly with sleek lines and an LED display to fit the aesthetic.

Scanner Functionality: The scanner would be equipped with a camera or sensor capable of recognizing Scrabble tiles and words on the board. It could use optical character recognition (OCR) technology to read the letters and a built-in dictionary to verify the validity of the words.

Word Validation: Once a word is scanned, the device would check it against the official Scrabble dictionary. If the word is valid, the scanner might light up or give a positive audio signal. If not, it could alert the user with a different signal12.

Scoring Assistance: The scanner could also calculate the potential score of the word by analyzing the board’s layout, considering double or triple letter and word scores.

Connectivity: For an enhanced experience, the cap could connect to a smartphone app via Bluetooth, allowing the user to track game progress, learn new words, or even challenge the scanner with difficult word placements.

Power Source: The scanner would need a power source, such as a small battery pack hidden within the cap’s lining, which could be rechargeable for convenience.

This invention invented by Tiana Lavrova combines fashion with technology, providing a unique tool for Scrabble players to quickly and efficiently check the validity of their words during a game. It’s a fun blend of style and practicality for board game lovers.

[redyarns]

caught in the undertow

Chapter: 6/?

Rating: E

Relationship(s): Optimus Prime/Megatron, Orion Pax/Megatron, Sentinel Prime/Bumblebee

Summary:

When Megatron, leader of the rebellion, escaped from prison, everybot knew one thing, and one thing only: he stole an innocent with him.

---

"I'm not a sheep, how dare you!" Orion hissed, bristling at the insult.

"Oh, really?" Megatron drawled. His red optics glanced up again, and Orion's glossa went dry.

Scrap.

Who knew the cruel and ruthless leader of the blasphemous rebellion was so... handsome?

STORY: START!

Act I, Scene XIV: Atropa belladonna

It took Sentinel several kliks of lying completely still in unfamiliar sheets before his processor began to urge him to at least open his optics. He groaned lightly, his voicebox hoarse and crackling with static. He winced at both the sound and the sensation of his throat clicking in pain, and he tried to raise a servo to rub at it, wondering why the hell he was so - 

His servo caught on something. He froze, feeling a bit dumbfounded when he realized that the prickling sensation of his arm wasn’t because of some residual injury from training, but instead because it had spent the last - he checked his chronometer - four joors tucked tightly underneath Elita’s frame. 

The aristocratic femme was recharging silently beside him, her spinal strut curled slightly inwards with her facial plates towards him. If he listened carefully, he could pick up on the soft, whirling pattern of her slow vents. She was snuggled close so that her nose was pressed to his chassis as his servo curled up and over her dorsal plate to touch her hip. 

The light of Helios streamed in gently through the two windows of the room, and Sentinel felt his helm hit the pillow again as he sniffed the air and his cheeks burned at the lingering scent of ozone and transfluid. The lune cycle had certainly been… something, his processor provided meekly, flashes of last night (the way she arched on top of him, his frantic servos scrabbling uselessly at her sides, his spike throbbing as he choked) running across his vision in a decidedly unhelpful manner. 

That had been - uh - good. Very good. A bit too good, actually, and he felt shame as well as guilt burn through his frame as he thought about the way he had gripped her waist so desperately that bruises had almost instantly bloomed. As if to prove his dreadful thoughts right, he hesitantly lifted his helm again, his gaze roaming her figure. 

His optics lingered on her midsection, where, just like he suspected, there was a distinct pattern of five, circular bruises that lined up too easily with the length and spread of his digits. He almost brushed his servo against them, his guilt gnawing at him as he let his helm fall with no small amount of regret. 

Slag. He shouldn’t have been so rough; he was always too unaware of himself and his extremities, especially since he hit fifteen vorns and practically shot up in height, frightening his carrier into thinking he was going to end up being a roller rather than a flier. 

He lifted a servo and stared at it, clenching and unclenching his digits. These digits hurt Elita, he thought to himself. He had gotten carried away, too enthralled by her and the scent of charge, his olfactory sensors tingling with her smell of jubiline, and in his naivety and eagerness, he had allowed himself to slip out of his careful control. 

It felt awful, the more he thought about it. He hadn’t lost control like that since the first time he attempted to fly with both Bee and Orion and ended up gripping them so tightly that they both had bruises around their waists for cycles. It had horrified him to the point he refused to fly with them for vorns after that. 

Keeping control was important. Crucial. Essential. 

“Control yourself. You’re unsightly, Sentinel,” Ultra Magnus had once said to him. When was that? Sentinel’s processor whirled, and he blinked slowly as he recalled the way energon had dripped slowly down from his forehelm and how he’d tried hastily to wipe it away with a shaky wrist. 

Ultra had taken one look at his shallow breaths, cracked plating, and had made an expression of such disgust that even now, Sentinel’s processor had a hard time bringing up that particular memory file. It was distorted and filled with static, almost like he couldn’t remember properly, which was ridiculous since it only happened a sol ago. 

As if on cue, something twinged smartly in his shoulder, and he couldn’t stop himself from flinching as his neural subsystem practically shouted at him that he was pinching something. He grunted, his entire frame jolting, and his pain bled into guilt as Elita shuffled from her position on top of his arm. 

“My Prime?” She muttered, her spinal strut arching slightly as she stretched, an effortlessly seductive look on her as she slowly onlined her optics. She blinked them several times before she smiled up at him. “What are you doing?” 

He gave her a hesitant smile, feeling rather defeated as the pain reluctantly subsided and instead left him with nothing but a sense of embarrassment. His cheeks were warm and no doubt blue with energon, and he mentally groaned as he struggled to provide an answer. 

He was as eager to tell her the truth as much as he wanted to stick his bare aft over an open flame, so not at all. Instead, his sluggish processor (something he found was common around her and her beauty… urgh) simply made him smile stupidly again, and he said, “uh… good morning.” 

She laughed, a light and airy sound that made his spark jolt as she rolled over, the top half of her now draping across his chassis as she winded her arms around his neck. Like this, the top of her helm brushed alarmingly close to his dermas, and he swallowed as she smirked and said, “good morning, my Prime. Did you recharge well?” 

Sentinel shifted his gaze to the side, clearing his throat as he muttered, “of course. It was - fine. What about you?” 

Elita tilted her helm and didn’t answer as he prayed she wouldn’t see through his lie. 

Though that hadn’t been the worst sleep he had ever gotten, it still hadn’t been good. He always had trouble recharging even before Ultra took over the majority of his training, and now, well… He considered himself lucky if he only had the one nightmare or two. 

“You seem distracted,” Elita said, staring up at him with her large optics as he hastily began to try and distract himself by going through the notifications he had missed last lune. When he didn’t reply right away, she pouted, a subtle push of her full dermas as she leaned up and pressed a kiss to his chin. “Busy already? We’ve been awake for less than ten kliks, my Prime.” 

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely, already feeling like he was messing up as he hesitantly reached down to peck her forehelm. It was apparently the right move, since she smiled widely up at him and giggled as he chuckled quietly. “There’s just a lot that I have to sort through. But as soon as I’m done then maybe we can spend the… spend the… uh…” 

He mumbled something incoherent as his processor pulled up the notification that had been bothering him up until now. He had made a note a long time ago that any message from Orion or Bee was to be marked as urgent, and he felt his spark lurch as he realized that this was the first time in vorns that he hadn’t managed to write back right away. 

He sat up, leaning against the headboard and mumbling a sorry to Elita when she protested, claiming she wanted to lie on him some more.

He felt dread gnaw at him from the inside out as he quickly began to slide through Orion’s messages, which started off well enough, but quickly devolved into frustration after Sentinel completely glossed over them. 

Private Comm Link (ID: #628317): Sentinel Prime? No, Sentinel Prick

Incoming message… 

DES: Orion Pax - ID: OP-001628

:: Sentinel! :: 

:: Look, Sen, I really need your help. I'm assuming you're still at the party, so could you get me Hot Rod's private comm line if you can? ::

:: I know it's a lot to ask but I seriously need to talk to him. :: 

:: … Sentinel? :: 

:: Sen, come on. Whatever happened between you and Bee, we can fix it. Don't be too upset. I seriously need you right now, buddy. :: 

:: Sen. :: 

:: Sentinel!!! ::

“Slag.” Sentinel swore quietly, running a servo down his face, his wings stiffening as they fluttered with his anxiety before he forcefully stopped them from moving so much. Primus, would he ever learn how to control them?

“What happened?” Elita asked.

“Nothing,” he said automatically. When she continued to stare at him in an unimpressed manner, he ex-vented slowly, and tried to think of what to say. “It’s - nothing. I promise. I guess I just forgot to reply to my friend last night, and… that hasn’t happened before.” 

Elita hummed. There was a glimmer to her optics as she leaned up and kissed him, the touch soft and coaxing, and he shuddered as he parted his dermas a little too eagerly and held her close when she traced the tip of her glossa against his bottom dentae. 

“Is this the same friend that Hot Rod reminded you of?” Elita muttered curiously, her small and nimble servos cradling his helm gently, like he was the most precious thing she had ever held. It melted him, and he felt his engine start to purr quietly in his chassis as Elita smiled into their kiss. 

“Hm?” He said dreamily, feeling rather off kilter as he tried to chase her when she broke contact and gently pushed him back, her legs swinging so that she was now straddling his lap as he fell onto the pillow again with a soft oof. It took him a few micro-kliks to try and remember what she was talking about, since, oh, Primus, she was a vision. “Oh, yes, that one. He’s very close to me, and I feel bad for not being able to respond right away.” 

“There’s no need to feel bad,” she said sympathetically, her digits fluttering across his collar plates and causing him to tremble slightly. His wings in particular were practically vibrating, and he gave up any pretense of controlling them when she stroked a particularly sensitive spot. “Your friend sounds like he’s difficult, don’t you think?” 

“I wouldn’t say that,” Sentinel said rather hoarsely, his optics squeezing shut when she leaned down and bit gently at his neck cables. “Ah - he’s a great friend, he’s been there for me for vorns - oh, frag - “ 

Elita clicked her glossa gently, the sound both fond and exasperated. “If he’s really that precious of a friend, then shouldn’t he be understanding that you have your own life to live?” 

“Well… I mean…” he said, trailing off weakly as she stared at him pointedly and settled more in his lap, her wiggle pressing her interface panel right up against his as energon pumped wildly in his veins. 

It was difficult to think through the haze of charge that ran through him, though his processor did pause to whirl on what she said. It wasn’t like he was lying; Orion really was a great friend, and he and Bee had been the biggest pillars for Sentinel ever since they met as sparklings. There was very little Sentinel wouldn’t do for either of them, stuff that he wouldn’t do even for Ultra. 

But it did bother him, just the slightest bit, how Elita’s words resonated with him. Though he knew that Orion always had his reasons, sometimes those reasons were just so ridiculous that it caused him more stress or trouble than it was worth. He couldn’t think of one decent answer as to why Orion needed to speak with the newest to-be-named trailblazer, though some part of Sentinel dreaded the thought that he had an idea as to why. 

Megatron. These sols, every single thing that Orion did led to that blasted mech, and Sentinel honestly didn’t understand. Initially, he had indulged his friend because a tiny part of Sentinel had been curious, too. The names Megatron and his rebels had been more of a myth than reality at that point, and he’d feebly wondered what the real mech was like. 

After finding out, he had simply categorized Megatron as the criminal as he was. So when Orion had insisted on feeding the damn bot, and even worse, began to extend sympathy… Sentinel feared for his friend, he really did. There was only so much someone could play with a line before they fully crossed over. 

And Orion asking for the personal comm link of a mech who was about to climb the ranks and become an elite was definitely hopping over that line. Obliterating it, even. 

“I should text back, shouldn’t I?” Sentinel said in a small voice, now feeling more unsure than ever as Elita paused on top of him. 

She tilted her helm, and for a fleeting moment, her gaze sharpened. It was razor-thin and so quick that he began to doubt if it ever even happened, and when she spoke, it was still as sweet and soothing as ever. “If you want. Just tell him you were busy. He doesn’t need more than that.” 

Right. 

Right, because - because Sentinel had other things to do than just lounge around for Orion like some messed up pet waiting on its master. (Don’t you already do that? No, he didn’t. Really? Ultra only likes complete obedience from you. Because he was Sentinel’s mentor. Because you don’t deserve decency? Because you don’t deserve dignity? Fine, then. You're pathetic. Stop it. Why? Because you're ashamed? Some future Prime you are. You can't even protect yourself. How are you going to protect the world? Enough! So shameless. So selfish, stupid, nothing's ever enough - )

Private Comm Link (ID: #628317): Sentinel Prime? No, Sentinel Prick

Outgoing message… 

DES: Sentinel - ID: SN-402021

:: Sorry, I was… occupied.:: 

Almost immediately, Sentinel's communication chip pinged him that a call was coming through, and of course it was Orion. But before he even had a chance to acknowledge it properly, Elita was pressing down on him more insistently, and he felt like he was floating as she kissed him again. 

The call rang at the back of his mind, mixing into a hazy mix with the amount of notifications his charge was sending through his interface subsystem. He flailed slightly, still unused to any of this even after joors last night learning how to touch and be touched, but he had already ignored Orion for too long, he should at least pick this call up. 

… Right? 

“H - Hold on - “ Sentinel mumbled in between kisses, feeling rather disoriented and overwhelmed as Elita simply hummed and pressed closer. Already, her servo was dragging down his chassis, and he shivered at the touch, unable to stop himself from ignoring the hot, sweet sensation of her dermas, but also unable to completely snuff the comm call line, which was ringing insistently. “E-Elita, just - just one micro-klik, okay?” 

“I’m doing a bad job at this if you’re still thinking of taking that call.” Elita huffed, but her swollen intake was pulled into a smile as she let out a small, exasperated sigh and then fully draped herself over him, her arms crossed across his chassis as she tilted her helm and smirked. “Fine, then. Answer it, my Prime.” 

He gave her a shaky, nervous smile, his servos flexing with uncertainty on her warm hips as he cleared his throat, accepted the annoyingly insistent call, and hesitantly said out loud, “hello?”

“Sentinel!” Orion’s voice blasted through his processor at a decibel so high that he immediately flinched. He turned down the volume hastily, grateful that at the very least, Elita wouldn’t be able to hear Orion’s side of the conversation regardless of the noise. “Dude, why the hell didn’t you respond to my comms last lune?” 

“I do actually have a life outside of you, you know,” Sentinel said in exasperation, darting his gaze down and trying not to gulp when he saw and felt the way Elita began to trace loop shapes on his paint. Holy shit, he needed to wrap this call up yesterday. “Get on with it, O - “ 

He barely managed to bite back Orion’s name in time as Elita pressed a small, fleeting kiss to his collar. It was hard enough to keep his focus with her in the same room as him, but with her entire frame firmly on top of his, and worst of all, with her flirting… She was a temptress and knew just how weak he was for her. 

He needed to be careful. It was already a risk to accept Orion’s comm and have Elita listen to Sentinel’s part of the conversation. If he slipped up and revealed too much about who Orion actually was, then there was no doubt to Sentinel that Elita wouldn’t approve. 

Him, a high caste bot, but more than that, the future Prime, talking to a miner? And addressing him so kindly at that, as well? Dire consequences would surely follow. Sentinel still bore the marks and sting of the last time he had made that mistake in front of Ultra. His wrist twinged slightly as it rested against Elita’s waist. 

“I told you, I needed to speak with Hot Rod,” Orion said impatiently. Sentinel could practically see the way he must have looked at that moment; tilting his helm and rolling his optics because he was just that obnoxious when it came to getting what he wanted. “Please don’t tell me he’s already left.” 

“Why do you need to talk to him?” Sentinel forced out, placing a servo on the back of Elita’s helm in some poor attempt to both stop and encourage her as she began to nip at his neck cables. He coughed, a small amount of static running through his hoarse voice as he said, “you can’t just ask me for something and not tell me why. That’s not how this works. And I already told him good luck for you.” 

“Well, I was wrong. Luck has no place within the ceremony,” Orion said tightly. He sounded different, tense, and it was enough of a change that it made Sentinel frown, smile apologetically at Elita, and then sit up, gently wrapping his arm around her waist so she wouldn’t fall. 

Her optics narrowed and she was definitely displeased, but she still hooked her elbows around his shoulder plates and leaned her cheek onto one of them as he said, “what are you talking about?” 

There was no answer. 

Sentinel's face pinched as he went through a quick systems check with his processor, but everything was fine. It was already hard enough to shut Orion up over text comms, but verbal comms were a whole thing altogether. And Sentinel had known Orion since they were sparklings; maybe Sentinel even knew Orion more than he knew himself, so it was easy to pick up on the uneasiness of his tone. 

Something was wrong. 

“Hey,” Sentinel said more gently this time, allowing his previous annoyance to soften into empathy. Though he couldn't deny that maybe Elita had been right in that Orion could be pushy, that didn't take away from the fact that he was still one of Sentinel's closest friends. “Come on, talk to me. What's going on?” 

“There's more to the ceremony than we know,” Orion finally said, his voice strained. It was gruffer than usual and there was a small shuffling noise on his end, like he was climbing something. What the hell? “Just - look. Is he still there or not?” 

Sentinel squinted up at the ceiling as he tried to make sense of whatever Orion was rambling about. His weird insistence to talk to Hot Rod was already a bit strange, but the ceremony on top of that… As far as Sentinel was aware, Orion had never been that interested in the Iacon 5000 or the subsequent trailblazer ceremony that followed. 

Why was he suddenly expressing such blatant regard for it now? 

“You mean Hot Rod?” Sentinel said after a klik of silence. Elita moved slightly on top of him, and when he glanced down at her, she gave him a look of what's going on? He tried to reassure her with a smile, but she simply nudged him, which he tried to brush off. “Of course not. I don't know where he is, he and Ultra left together last night I think.” 

“Fuck.” Orion swore. “He was my only chance! Shit. Okay, it's… okay. That's fine, it just means I have to go see Megatron sooner than I thought I would.” 

Okay. That was definitely not what Sentinel had expected nor wanted to hear. 

He practically leapt up from the berth, mouthing apologies to Elita, who was left sprawled on the sheets with an indignant expression twisting her pretty face. She huffed and draped herself more elegantly across the mesh as he hissed way too urgently, “what the frag are you talking about, you bucket of bolts? No! It's been less than a sol since you last saw him, are you fragging kidding me?” 

“He has the answers that I need, Sen!” Orion pushed back. “He's the only one who can help me figure out what's actually going on!” 

Sentinel felt like ripping the paint off his helm as he buried his face into his servos and tried to vent steadily. He couldn’t fucking believe this. All this trouble and flack for, what, Megatron? Again? Why was Orion like this? Why was he so obsessed with a mech like him? What could Megatron have possibly said to sway one of the best bots Sentinel knew? 

“You promised me that you weren’t compromised,” Sentinel said, his voice edging into something sharper, more dangerous. He paced steadily on the rug beside the berth, occasionally sparing Elita a glance whenever she made a small noise of inquiry, but he shoved away any distracting thought about her as he was mortified instead by the way Orion remained silent. “Answer me. Tell me that you aren’t actually starting to care for that - that - “ 

He couldn’t even say it. Not even because uttering it out loud would reveal too much to Elita, who continued to observe him with wide optics, but because Sentinel honestly felt sick as he realized that something had shifted. Whatever change had occurred, it started last night, when he was too occupied to be a proper friend and dissuade Orion from getting involved in something he very well could never get out of. 

“What’re you implying?” Orion snapped. He sounded agitated, on edge, and there was a muffled noise from his end of the comm, like he had just slammed a door shut. His words were tense and Sentinel didn’t understand. “Why’re you interrogating me, Sen? You know I never do anything without reason! Why’re you acting like this?”

Sentinel was floored, and he sat down abruptly on the edge of the berth, the force of him doing as much so impactful that it lightly bounced Elita on the sheets. His wings drooped on top of the mesh out of his shock, and he knew that he was staring directly at the bland painting hung on the wall across from him, but he couldn’t even begin to comprehend it as he tried to digest what Orion had just said to him. 

“What?” Sentinel said, his voice almost hysterical as he gripped his servos into fists and his wings began to tighten so much that they were practically flat against his spinal strut. “Why am I acting like this? Why the hell are you acting like this, you afthole? Are you trying to spin this and pin this onto me when I’m not the one who’s compromised? Huh? Don’t you fucking dare - “

“Primus, Sen! You’re seriously getting mad over something that isn’t a big deal - “

“It actually is a big deal, you’re literally asking me for another favor, again, and you won’t even - “ 

“It’s not a favor! Oh, for - it’s a freaking solid, and you and I always - “ 

“Always what?” Sentinel spat, and by this point he was shouting, his voice hoarse and crackling with static as he gripped his own patellas so hard that it was a wonder the armor didn’t crack. His helm was spinning and he couldn’t vent properly; had he ever yelled at Orion before? “Go on, say it! It’s always you and me, except it’s me getting dragged into another one of your master plans that ends up getting us in trouble in more ways than one!” 

“This is bigger than just you holding a petty grudge!” Orion hissed. It occurred to Sentinel just then that Orion was shouting, too. He had never heard it before, honestly, and it was jarring. Maybe a little scary. Not because Orion himself was a particularly menacing mech, but because they had never done this before. They had never… fought, and Sentinel felt sick. “Can’t you see that? I’m sorry that you have such a busy life, I’m sorry that you’re doing all your fucking aristocratic bullshit - “ 

“Aristocratic bullshit?” Sentinel cried out. He couldn’t tell if his vocalizer was cracking from the anger that boiled inside of him like magma, threatening to spill over and eagerly burn every part of this conversation, or worse, because of the tears that were starting to well up in his rapidly blinking optics. “You know it’s not like that! I’m working my fragging aft off so I can be a good Prime! So I can be a good Prime for you!” 

“For fuck’s sake, Sentinel, I never asked you to be Prime!” Orion shouted. 

Silence. 

Sentinel’s ragged venting filled the room, his breathing off and inconsistent as he stared dizzily at that damn painting, unable to make sense of its swirls and colors. He sat there, lost, hurt, angry, everything he had never felt for Orion, his dearest friend. Orion, his biggest supporter. Orion, his brother. 

Orion… 

Who had just told him he never wanted Sentinel to be Prime. Sentinel had never known anything but how to be one. He had been raised on this, told that this was his path, and that nothing could lead him astray. For a long time, he had believed Ultra who told him that everything, including friends, could be a distraction. But Sentinel had told himself that just this once, he could ignore Ultra. 

Just this once, he could pretend that he was a miner like Orion and Bee, who weren’t miserable even despite their ranks, and seemed happier than Sentinel, who felt like he was often carrying the weight of the world on just his shoulders alone. 

Just this once, he had allowed Orion liberties, taken him places he couldn’t, and let him do things that Sentinel would never allow anyone else because Orion had never once not told Sentinel with the uttermost confidence: “you’ll be a better Prime than any of the Thirteen were.” 

The tears fell. 

They were warm and soft on his cheek plates, and his hardly functional processor told him that he was running low on tear solvent. Of course he was running low on tear solvent. These weren’t the normal kind of tears he usually cried during moments of pain or frustration or even dramatic manipulation for when he needed one of the staff to do something for him and he wanted to appear extra pitiful. 

These were tears of hurt. 

A servo draped gently over his own. He watched blankly, his vision swimming and watery, as slowly, digits smaller than his own curled in between his and held them in a way they had never been held before. 

“Sentinel,” Elita said. He could barely focus on her. Her voice was like a phantom to him. “Enough.” 

Enough, Sentinel repeated. Enough of this. 

“Aren’t you tired?” 

I am. 

“Don’t you deserve better?” 

Do I?

“He isn’t worth anything.” 

That’s not right… 

“He’s nothing.” 

No, that’s… 

“Let it end.” 

But… 

“Stop.” 

“Stop,” Sentinel muttered. 

“You’re right,” Orion said after a brief pause. His voice was thicker, and he cleared his vocalizer. Almost like he was sorry. Was he, though? Was he sorry? Was he sorry for implying that Sentinel was only that, an aristocrat? Was he sorry for taking back all his support as Sentinel strived harder and harder to be a good Prime? What was he sorry for? Was he sorry at all? When did he and Sentinel stop talking? When had they been reduced to this? “I should have stopped. That - that was low of me. I’m…” 

He trailed off. 

Sentinel sat there, the tears dripping slowly down his face, and he felt numb. He wiped slowly at one of the droplets, and he stared at it, at that bead that held all his rage and sorrow and loneliness all at once. It stared back at him, reflecting a warped image of himself, and he couldn’t understand it. 

He couldn’t understand any of it. 

Orion knew nothing. He knew nothing. The amount of beatings that Sentinel took, all because he was too scared to be perfect, but Ultra expected nothing less. The amount of times he rolled over in his berth, unable to recharge, because everything hurt and he found comfort in reading through the comm texts he saved between himself and his friends. 

The way that being a Prime terrified him, how it was his worst fear, and yet he wanted it so desperately that he endured it all. He could endure being imperfect and unloved and unwanted, as long as it meant the title of Prime was firmly in his grasp. Being Prime was everything he wanted to be, everything that he was, so if that was taken away from him, if Orion took that away from him, what did that leave behind? 

Nothing.

Sentinel was nothing without being a Prime. He would shatter and turn to dust and blow away into the wind, because why the hell would anyone seek him out if he wasn’t Prime? He knew that at his core, he was a pathetic, cowardly thing that never quite managed to adopt that persona many of the aristocrats played out. He didn’t have any great ambitions, he wasn’t particularly smart, and he wasn’t even that good at fighting. 

Prime was the only thing he could be. 

And Orion was taking that from him. 

“Don’t let the words of someone beneath you get into your helm,” Elita’s low voice swam through his processor. 

“I just meant that you work so hard, and I… I don’t want you to lose yourself either.” Orion’s own voice bled through. 

Why did everything sound so muffled? Why was he so still? Was he even venting properly? It was like a wall of frosted glass had settled around him, dulling everything to the point he couldn’t even tell if the servo on his patella was his own or Elita’s.

“Stop him, my Prime,” Elita whispered. 

“I’ll stop, Sen, just tell me that you understand,” Orion pleaded. 

Understand what? Sentinel wanted to ask. Understand why you, the most important mech in my life, just ripped away a part of myself that I can’t ever let go of? Understand why you stripped away the one thing I thought I could one day be proud of? Understand why you’re leaving me behind? 

Because that was it, wasn’t it?

Orion was leaving him behind. 

For all his cogless functions, and for all his supposed uselessness as someone at caste level 0, why was Orion so fast? How was he always sprinting ahead effortlessly, only occasionally looking back at Sentinel, and having to reach back to drag him along because Sentinel simply couldn’t keep up? All this time, Sentinel had found that part of him admirable, maybe endearing, but it was all for naught, wasn’t it? 

Because this time, Orion was going down a path that Sentinel couldn’t follow. Wouldn’t follow. And no matter how much he begged and pleaded, Orion was still leaving, still abandoning him, and Sentinel hated him for it, but - no - no, he didn’t hate Orion - he - 

(Yes, you do, you hate him. You hate him because he’s always been better at you than everything, and he’s almost half the size of you, isn’t that funny? He stands up for himself. All you do is snivel. He’s courageous and bold and everything that you’re not. He’s going to leave you. He’s going to leave you and you’ll be all alone except you’re already alone, aren’t you? Not even Ultra can stand you. He’s your teacher and you only ever disappoint him. You’re pathetic you’re pathetic you’re patheticpatheticpathetic - )

“Good luck, Orion,” Sentinel said dully. Insincerely. (When have you ever been insincere with Orion? It doesn’t feel good.) He stared at the painting. His voice was quiet, almost inaudible, but he picked up on the soft hitch of Orion’s breath over the line anyway. “I’m done.”

He ended the call with a soft click. He immediately blocked the notification of Orion trying to reconnect, and instead found himself blinking through his tears as Elita practically leapt into his lap, her engine purring something fierce in her chassis as she leaned up and began to smother him in kisses. 

“You did so well, my Prime.” Elita practically purred, her optics gleaming and her touch purposeful as she stroked his audials, then his cheeks, and rubbing away any of his tears with a surprisingly firm nudge. “You don’t need the likes of Orion. You’re the next Prime. You’re the most intelligent. The strongest. The best. You don’t need anyone.” 

Oh, Sentinel thought to himself numbly, slowly leaning down to press a kiss to Elita’s eagerly waiting dermas, though for the life of him, he couldn’t stop looking over her shoulder, right at that framed painting that he had been staring at the entire time. Except it wasn’t a painting. 

It’s a mirror, he realized. 

For a moment, he thought he saw Ultra in his place. 

Just for a moment. 

Act I, Scene XV: I’m a Lone Wolf, Baby

Orion stared in disbelief at the wall in front of him as Sentinel shut down the comm link, and then turned on his do not disturb. Even if Orion tried to call him again, his status meant that all attempts to reach out would hit a dead end, and Orion would automatically be denied. 

What the actual flying, fragging fuck. 

What the hell had just happened? Had he and Sentinel just argued? No, Orion thought to himself, his processor whirling so fast that it was practically screaming in his helm. No, an argument wasn’t that - they argued all the time! Over petty things, unimportant things. Nothing that ever resulted them in screaming at each other, trying to hurt each other, and - 

Orion ground his dentae as he fought the urge to punch the cement surface leaning against his dorsal plates. That wasn't a mistake he was all too eager to repeat since the last time he did such a thing, he had been required to get an entire new servo replacement. 

But that only meant he had no physical way of releasing the pent up, boiling heat of complete and utter frustration inside of him as he clenched his servos into fists and felt the protoform of his palms protest. His digits were digging in too tightly and his sensors warned him that his joints were too poorly lubricated to withstand the pressure for long, but he angrily stomped out the notifications. 

Orion had never, not in all his vorns staying at Sentinel's side, ever had a fight with him. A real one with hurtful words and the intent to jab in their softest, most vulnerable parts. It was like Orion had been punched in the gut; had he ever yelled at Sentinel like that before? 

Had Sentinel ever yelled at him like that before? 

Orion felt himself slide down the wall slowly in a sort of numbness he had never felt in his life as his processor hurriedly went through the thousands of memory files he had of Sentinel. Throughout their entire friendship, there had certainly been countless times where Sentinel had shouted at him, sure, but those had been of reprimanding and caution. Sometimes even scolding, when Sentinel felt like an overbearing carrier at times. 

But that call had been… 

Orion's vocalizer sent him a meek ping that his throat was sore. When he slowly unclenched his dentae and swallowed, he almost flinched at the scratchiness that followed. 

Why had he done that? Why, oh Primus, why had he screamed at Sentinel like they hated each other? Orion loved Bee and Sentinel more than he loved himself; if they ever asked for him to jump, he would simply ask how high. 

Orion had broken actual laws just to ensure that not only was Bee safe and looked after, but also to ensure that Sentinel would never know disgrace or fall from his pristine image as a future Prime. Sure, Orion didn't particularly like the fact that he and Bee were kept separate from Sentinel’s life like some horrible, dark secret, but he had endured for the sake of his friend. 

And yet Orion just… 

I need to apologize, he thought feverishly, frantically running through his list of comm links and trying again to call Sentinel. I need to tell him I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I - 

No answer. 

“The line you are trying to reach is currently on Do Not Disturb,” the bland voice of the automatic answering machine said inside his helm. “Please try again later. Goodbye.” 

Orion blinked slowly as he was left on the dialing tone, which slowly began to recede at the back of his processor until it was more static than noise. 

Right. Sentinel had put himself on Do Not Disturb, something he had never done before, purely for the purpose of ignoring Orion, something he had also never done before. 

The guilt burned into anger. 

“Fine. Fine!” Orion gritted out, knowing he looked like a mad mech as he fumed in a dirty alley between stacks buildings while he couldn't fully stop himself from stomping his pede like he was a sparkling or something else equally embarrassing. “You - whatever. Do what you want, Sentinel, since clearly that's all you care about! Because I'm caste level 0 and you're so high up that it's practically instinct by this point to look down on me!” 

The words echoed back to him meaninglessly, bouncing off the filthy and poorly built concrete of the stacks. He felt like crumbling as with each reverberating murmur, he could hear the resentment in his own voice, and more than that, he could hear the lie. 

He didn’t think of Sentinel like that. 

No way. There was no way. Sentinel wasn’t like a lot of the other aristocrats - he was kind and funny and had never once made Orion feel like he was anything less than who he actually was. Important. Worthy. Alive. 

But you’re saying that the aristocrats as a whole are a problem, then, right? Something in his processor prodded. It sounded too much like Sentinel, except it wasn’t the usual way Orion imagined him, all gentle and whining and just a touch soft with affection. It was said with the same harsh, cutting tone he had used only a micro-klik before, like he was everything he wasn’t. 

Orion tried to shove away the voice as best as he could in a panic. That was too blasphemous to think. The caste system had a reason why it was implemented, dammit, and he didn’t have the right to question Ultra, much less the council! He was just - he was - 

He glanced down at himself and at his surroundings. He picked up on the trash and the pollution that littered the slums of Iacon, and the chips in his paint. In the distance, if he increased the sensitivity of his audials, he could hear the faint noises of the aristocratic portion of the city. Parties and glimmering lights tickled his senses like faint twinkles, and he felt stupid as he slowly slid down the wall. 

He wasn’t a traitor. He wasn’t. Ultra was the only remaining mech alive who had any connection to the original Primes, who had undoubtedly been the holiest out of anyone also born in that era, as they had executed decisions based on Primus’ voice alone. So going against Ultra was going against the Thirteen, but more than that, it was going Primus himself. 

But in all the tales that Orion had ever heard, Primus had been righteous and glorious. His children had been just as much. His firstborn, Prima, had shined as brightly as the stars the day he was born, and had occasionally been referred to as the seraph of his brethren from how he passed Primus’ judgement fairly and mercifully. 

Was this fair? Orion thought to himself, his servo absentmindedly picking at the small pile of trash next to him, which seemed to be made up of broken cubes. The shitty kind, easily recognizable as the rations that miners got whenever it was paysol. 

No, something muttered to him. No, it’s not fair. Keep going. Stand up. Stand up. Stand up.

Orion jolted, stumbling to his pedes again and distinctly feeling like something had prodded his spinal strut with a hot poker. He glanced around himself, nervous and for some reason anxious, as he brushed off the dirt from his digits before he tentatively relaxed. 

Primus, what the hell was he doing? This was all so stupid. He didn’t have time for Sentinel’s temper tantrum (tantrum? Then what was the shit that you threw, huh?), not when he still had so much information he didn’t understand. First, Megatron. Then, apologizing to Sentinel. 

“Now,” he said out loud, shrinking in himself slightly as the only reply was his own voice bouncing off the alley walls. “How do I go see you, Megatron?” 

-----

Sneaking into the mines was less sneaking and more just walking in like normal, since no one ever followed safety protocols and shut down the gates like they were supposed to. Funny how the only protocol the higher ups never enforced were arguably the most important ones, but Orion didn’t like to think of Ricks if he could help it. 

Luckily, there was no sight of the short mech anywhere as Orion trotted out of the elevator and slipped into the newest maw they made right before the Iacon 5000 took place. Though the mines were open and any bot had the ability to come and go as they pleased, Ricks never worked if he had to, the lazy aft. 

It was even better this way, since Orion didn’t have to worry about anyone heckling him again for trying to blow up the fragging mines for the fifty-seventh time, Orion Pax! It wasn’t like Orion blew up the caves on purpose, okay, he just really liked alchemy. And he just so happened to have a new datapad on a transmutation he desperately wanted to try out, a little souvenier that he got for himself after his trip to the archives. 

Though Orion wasn’t nearly as intelligent as Bee, who could read something only once and immediately recall it with ease while also applying it in a practical sense, he knew he had a talent for alchemy, something that seemed to stress out everyone around him due to how half the time, his experiments yielded in some, uh, interesting results. 

But it was the only way he could really think. When the mines were like this, devoid of anyone but himself, it was often quiet and almost musical, what with how energon liked to drip periodically and land on various stones with a soft sound. He needed the peace and the time to contemplate, because how else was he going to figure out a way into Titan’s Hold without anyone else’s help? 

Once again, Orion’s servo drifted up to rub at the edge of his cog well, the touch sending a deep and irritating ache. It was annoying how constant that sensation was, almost like his well felt out of place or that it was complaining at how it had nothing to hold. 

What do you have to complain about? Orion thought to himself, his face twisted into a frown as he continued to walk, the light of the morning Helios quickly melting away into darkness, which eventually had him slowing down as he placed a servo on the wall to the left of him. You were born like this. Quit throwing a tantrum, I’ve had enough of those for a lifetime…

Luckily, it was easy enough to navigate the vein, even without Orion’s helmlight, which he left behind at his recharge bay. Again. Unwittingly, his processor dug up a memory from only a few sols before, where Sentinel’s voice had muttered, “he’s a miner and he forgot his helmlight?”

Orion banished the file with a brutality that left a bit of an ache behind his optics, but it was better than having to address the immense pressure he felt on his chassis. He paused for a micro-klik, cleared his throat, and glanced around him, trying to distract himself. 

The vein itself was rough and only vaguely shaped like a tunnel, but that was normal for an entry as young as this one. Over time, it would smooth out and become less volatile, though Orion did have to snatch his servo back from the wall it was leaning on when a petty spike tried to jab him. 

“Hey, come on,” Orion said out loud in exasperation, running his digits carefully along a long line of unrefined energon. It pulsed under his paint impatiently, and he grunted when it actually shocked him, what the frag? “Are you still mad about last time? Uh, I’m sorry… It’s not easy to drill when you have an afthole screaming at you the entire time, you know?” 

Orion waited patiently, pleased when the tunnel grumbled from somewhere deeper before with almost a large exhale, it settled. Though Orion couldn’t say he enjoyed mining or anything that came with it, he didn’t hate the mines themselves. In fact, he found it rather cute how petty their planet could be, what with how it was semi-sentient and everything. 

Now less annoyed, he could see the entirety of the rounded vein, and it was beautiful. The rough and rocky surface was perpetuated by various blue lines that pulsed weakly, giving him just enough light to recognize that he was deeper into the tunnel than he had been the last time he worked. 

“Thanks for forgiving me, buddy,” Orion said as he let his servo rest on the wall again, relieved that nothing shocked him this time. He looked over his shoulder plate, squinting to see if anyone was near him, and once he was satisfied, he sat down, crossing his legs and patting the ground gently. “You’d be the only one these sols, honestly.” 

He paused. 

Embarrassment made him ex-vent a huff as he realized just how grateful he was that no one was around to witness him try to talk to - what - Cybertron? That was a bit crazy even for him, and he let out a wary chuckle as he addressed the wall closest to him. “I’m so lonely that I’m talking to you, apparently. Not that there’s anything wrong with you, I really like, er, how - bright - your energon is.” 

He listened for a moment, his audials picking up on the steady rhythm of the pulse that ran through the energon, and… Oh. 

What the… 

Why was the beating so reminiscent of a… sparkbeat? 

That made no sense. And was also a little creepy, if he was being honest. Everyone knew that Cybertron was semi-sentient since supposedly Primus had sacrificed himself to transform into the damn thing, but didn’t he die as a result? That was why the Thirteen had sprung forth, wasn’t it? To carry out his will, execute his judgement, all that good and righteous stuff? 

“I’m going to ignore the fact that I’m inside you right now,” Orion said in a stilted voice, coughing lightly to try and distract from the fact that his face was definitely an unflattering shade of blue as he hastily dug around his subspace and brought out a small datapad. He waved it towards the ceiling and said, “anyway, look what I brought! Don’t worry, I won’t accidentally blow you up this time. Probably. Hopefully.” 

The vein rumbled lightly, but surprisingly, nothing fell on top of him in protest as he flicked the datapad on and began to scroll. Which was good, since he really wasn’t looking forward to having to deal with a concussion again, something that he would have to go to the medbay for. 

And Orion refused to go to that stupid, tiny little thing they dared to call a medbay. It was barely functioning at best, and a complete slum at worst, especially with how the staff there were just low caste bots who barely knew what they were doing. The actual doctors weren’t there most of the time, since they figured Iacon Spark had more to offer. 

It was completely degrading, and so Orion settled into his spot a little more, determined to make it through this next transmutation without pissing off the planet that he had already annoyed a little too much by this point. 

“Oh, here it is,” Orion said out loud, his previous hesitation over talking to his planet weaning away into eagerness for this newest experiment instead. “The art of disguise…” 

The Art of Disguise, the words blared up at him from the screen. In the ways of alchemy, equivalent exchange is law, as one must give in order to gain. Transmutation is the process of total transformation, and must be done delicately to avoid complications. Take this art and begin yourself anew, as one might find themself the desire to do so… 

Orion hummed low to himself. Though he had drawn at least dozens of circles by this point, he only had a shaky grasp of the placements within, which was bad considering how the placement was what mattered the most. Well, some of the datapads argued that the arithmetics was the essential part, but Orion disagreed, since that part of the equation was trivially easy. 

He settled down onto the dusty stone floor, and with only the light of the energon around him to help guide, he dug out a piece of chalk from his subspace and began to draw, muttering to himself all the while. 

The circle was the foundation of any transmutation, but within that, the placements of the ornamental figures came. There was supposedly a red lion that he had to draw somewhere, and already he felt himself start to sweat coolant at the thought. 

He had already tried a few transmutations back to place the red lion, and though he'd only been about a micrometer off, it still resulted in an explosion so big that Ricks nearly turned himself inside out as he shouted at him for once again using the mines as his “playground”. 

No room for error this time, Orion thought to himself with determination. 

An entire two joors passed before he threw the now complete nub of chalk at the wall and cursed a line of explicits so egregious that if anyone else had heard him, they would have thought he was going crazy. 

And he was going crazy, his voice crackling with static from his frustration as he groused, “Primus in hell, what the fuck is going on with these equations? I can't figure it out! The numbers don't add up, and whenever I try to plug something in, it just all falls apart!”

And that wasn't even the worst part, he thought to himself as he flopped onto the ground with a clang, dust rising up and settling around him as he flung his arms out wide and stared up at the cavern's ceiling in disbelief. 

He still didn't know how to get to Megatron. Even as he brainstormed, even when he spared at least half his processor to try and figure out the solution to that problem, he came up with bust. He didn't have a transformation cog, so he couldn't exactly fly up there himself and wander in. 

He didn't know anybody who he could trust, much less be able to shift into an actual useful alt mode. This kind of thing was reserved only for his two closest friends, both of whom seemed at odds with him more and more these sols, and drifted farther away any time he tried to get closer. 

He lied there, with no solution to anything. His transmutation circle was half finished and nowhere near completion. He didn't know if he would ever be able to see Megatron again, something that admittedly made his spark twist painfully. He couldn't understand what was going so wrong between himself and the two mechs he thought he would be with forever. 

Orion was… helpless. 

“This is stupid,” he whispered. Once again, nothing but his own voice answered him, the echo of the cave far more daunting than the one in the alley. He lifted a servo and dragged it across his optics, squeezing them shut and trying to focus on the steady beat of the energon in the walls. “I keep fucking it all up. I…” 

I want to become an alchemist. 

I want to make up with Sentinel. 

I want to see Megatron. 

I want to touch Megatron. 

I want to ask him about everything. 

I want to… I want… I want hi - 

“Who's there?” 

Orion flung himself up into a standing position, his helm swimming with dizziness as he shoved a pede hastily through the circle on the ground, chalk lines becoming nothing more than a smear on the rock as he managed to spit out, “uh, it’s me! Orion. Pax. Orion Pax. I’m definitely not doing anything illegal in here, so if you could go back and - oh! Arcee.” 

Arcee appeared around the corner with an unimpressed look on her pretty face and also her arms crossed in a way that told him that she was annoyed. To be fair, she always seemed that way, so maybe that was just the way she looked, but he didn’t really want to test his luck, especially when her optics narrowed and she accused, “you’re doing alchemy again, aren’t you?” 

“No,” Orion said immediately. They both stared at each other as the datapad he’d been using glowed innocently on the ground, where the text ALCHEMY 2012: PROFICIENT USES was blatantly glowing in the darkness. “Uh… That’s a - recipe book.” 

Arcee scowled and he winced. Though he couldn’t say that he and Arcee were close, or even friends, that didn’t mean he didn’t know her. She was introduced into the mining business around the same time he had, so not only were they about the same age, but they grew up around each other. 

The good thing was that she didn’t know how to read. Most miners didn’t, and Orion had never seen her pick up a datapad, much less have access to one, so he relaxed minutely as he stepped past the tablet on the ground, kicked it behind him, and said, “what’re you doing here? The mines are closed.” 

Arcee sneered. “It’s not closed just to me, you know. You shouldn’t be in here.” 

“You know me, Arcee.” Orion smiled, laughing lightly when she rolled her optics. “Rules aren’t really my thing.” 

“And neither is having common sense,” Arcee said, walking closer and pushing past him, ignoring his sputters and flailing servos as she bent down, casually shoved aside his helm when he tried to block her view by sticking his face close to hers, and scooped up the datapad. She waved the tablet around, her optic ridges raised, and she held it up above her helm as she kept him at bay with a single servo and while staring at the screen, she said, “the Art of Disguise. In the ways of alchemy, equivalent exchange is law, as one must give in order to gain. Transmutation is the process of… Primus, Orion, are you serious?” 

He stared at her, half his vision blocked by her servo that was squashed against his nose as she kept him back from swiping away the datapad, though his efforts were instantly gone as he let his arms fall limp at his sides.

“You… know how to read?” He asked weakly.

She shot him a nasty look. 

“You know how to read.” He declared this time, and he heaved a sigh as he straightened up and brushed aside her digits, feeling like a complete idiot as she continued to casually scroll through his datapad, occasionally pausing and squinting at something. 

“Observant should also be added to your list of many skills,” Arcee said drily.

“How?” He asked, still feeling off kilter as he watched her primly sit down on the ground, coincidentally - or maybe not, who knew by that point - right next to his smudged transmutation circle. “I mean… I’ve never seen you read anything before. How did you get access to - “ 

“Unlike some of us, I know how to keep a secret. How to be subtle,” she said, her voice pointed as she glanced up from the glowing screen and clicked her glossa when he made a small chirp of embarrassment. “Never you mind how I learned, I just learned. And this shit is dangerous, I hope you know.” 

“So is mining,” he said wearily. 

“Hm.” Arcee looked around them, her nose scrunching slightly at the sight. “This area of the vein’s been giving my team trouble. Our leader almost gave herself a spark attack trying to figure out how to get inside without aggravating the walls too much.” 

“That’s really interesting,” Orion said in a voice that implied anything but. Like he wanted to talk about work when this was one of their rare sols off. “Can I have my datapad back?” 

“No.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I want to know how you managed a half decent circle when I once saw you try to convince everyone to dare you to drink an expired cube and when nobody did, you just said you dared yourself and you ended up sick for half a cycle,” Arcee said with pursed dermas. 

Oh, right. That. 

Wait a klik. 

“Wait a klik,” Orion said out loud, his optics wide with his disbelief as he sat down on the ground next to Arcee with a clang, observing her carefully. “You know alchemy?” 

She shrugged casually, which almost made him want to hit her. This was definitely not something to be casual about for fuck’s sake, and her voice was deceptively calm as she said, “not much. But enough to know that you’re better than I am. Your placement’s off, though.” 

“Yeah, I know.” He groaned, finally swiping the datapad away from her, though he knew that the only reason he managed at all was because she let him. He tucked away the tablet and said, “does Cliff know?” 

At the mention of her conjunx, she glanced away. 

Out of the numerous and countless cogless bots who worked in the mines, conjunxed pairs were few and far in between. Not because romance never happened, but simply because there was no time to pursue anything serious, but even more than that, because trying to get an actual conjunx certificate was practically impossible at their caste level. 

Processing requests took at least several orns, and approval sometimes took actual vorns. As far as Orion knew, Arcee and Cliffjumper were the only ones who somehow managed to endure that hellish limbo of waiting, and became officially conjunxed not long after they turned seventeen. 

Orion still wondered how they managed to pull it off, especially since legally, no one could conjunx until they were at least sixteen. 

“Cliffjumper doesn’t know a lot of things,” Arcee said. She seemed unfocused, her servo pressed to her collar plate, where she rubbed along the edge in thought. If he squinted, with the low light of the energon around them as well as the glow of her optics, he could make out the way her dermas mouthed what seemed to be a song. 

“Right,” he said, unsure. He had a feeling that there was something sensitive going on there, and as much as he was curious, he did know social etiquette, as much as Sentinel (hnng…) liked to disagree. So as smoothly as possible, he cleared his throat and said, “come on, Arcee. Tell me what you’re doing down here.” 

The way she looked at him told him that his clumsy attempt at changing the subject didn’t go as unnoticed as he had hoped, but she at least eased up with the unfocused look on her face as her gaze sharpened again. “Only if you tell me why you’re trying to complete a circle that’ll change the physical appearance of anything placed inside.” 

Now it was Orion’s time to look away. 

There wasn't much he could say without condemning himself, and he knew that Arcee knew. Basically, her message was if you can't tell me anything, I don't have to either. 

He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck cables, and when he smiled at her hesitantly, she only looked unimpressed as he said, “alright, fine. Keep your little secrets.” 

“All of us have them,” she said vaguely. Then her face contorted. It was strange, almost like she was biting back an expression that she couldn't fully control, which was weird because out of everyone he knew, she was one of the few who had more control over herself than everybody else. 

She cleared her throat, smoothed her digits over her collar again, and muttered, “B-127 is awake, in case you wanted to know.” 

“Oh,” he said, a little surprised but not entirely put off as his processor pulled up his list of comms, deftly dodging the last mech he had contact as he instead navigated to the chat he had with Bee. He frowned and said, “that's weird, he hasn't texted me yet. Usually he does right after recharge. Did he say anything?” 

Arcee was silent. 

Orion stared. 

He squinted at her face, highlighted very dimly by the energon and her own optics, and it took him a moment for him to start to recognize the lines that ran at the corners of her dermas as she pursed her lips, as well as the scrunching of her soft protoform in between her optic ridges. She didn't exactly shift where she sat, but she continued to rub at her collar plate, and he ex-vented harshly as he realized what was wrong with her. 

She was feeling guilty. 

“What did you do?” He sighed. 

“It was an accident,” she said at the same time. 

He eyed her wearily, taking note of how she avoided optic contact all the while. Though he had a somewhat amicable relationship with her, that didn't mean he would stand by and ignore the amount of times she and Cliffjumper liked to tease Bee to tears at times. 

He didn't think the conjunxed pair were necessarily cruel or even mean, but there was a certain culture when it came to miners, and Bee was a pariah among them. Orion could handle it, could handle them, because he wasn't afraid to throw punches when needed and even tackle someone to the ground if they crossed the line, but Bee was a pacifist, and they all knew it. 

And with Orion gone that morning, Bee had been left vulnerable again, meaning that in some way, this had to be Orion's fault. 

He cursed lowly under his breath, gritting his dentae while gripping at his patellas. He couldn't stand this, how he kept failing at every turn when it came to his friends, and his voice was a little sharper than he intended as he said, “you know he's softer than us, Arcee. I don't understand why you and Cliff keep treating him like he won't break if you play too roughly.” 

“He needs to toughen up.” Arcee insisted, though there was a hint of remorse in her voice as she didn't bother returning his sharp tone. She wasn't the type to let that kind of thing slide, so whatever she did, she really was regretful about. “Look… just tell him I'm sorry, okay? I didn't - we didn't - “ 

She fell quiet again, her digits curled across her collar as she stared at the ground. She seemed off, now that he thought about it, and he narrowed his optics at her servo, tilting his helm when he saw something dark and almost circular shaped right underneath her palm. 

A bruise. And all too recognizable with how it resembled the exact dentae marks of a mech, which made him squirm slightly where he sat, his face heating as his processor hesitantly shuffled through his memories from the lune before. 

He hadn't spent a ton of time in their stacks building before he went up with Jazz to discuss how to get into the archives, but it only took a little bit of digging before his files found a small audio clip where the soft, muffled noises of Arcee moaning and Cliffjumper mumbling at her to stay quiet had reached his audials. 

It wasn't… abnormal, unfortunately, that Orion often picked up on noises or even visuals like that. The recharge bays hardly let anyone have some sort of privacy, so miners got too used to having to deal with lunes when charge would crackle through the air as moans quickly followed. 

Orion could ignore it most of the time, or end up leaving due to how his own charge became a bit too high for his own comfort, but he actively avoided it if it came to anyone he knew personally. 

But there was definitely something going on with Arcee, more than just her insistence that her teasing of Bee was nothing more than an attempt to toughen him up. And it wasn't like tact was all that common among miners, so with a tone that was only barely polite, he said, “rough night with Cliff?” 

She blinked. “What?” 

He nodded to her chassis, and she snatched away her servo from her collar like she'd been burned, only she must have realized that the obvious hickey was now on full display, because she hastily clasped her digits over again with a fierce frown. 

“That's not any of your business,” she snapped. She looked uncomfortable, caught off guard, which only made him raise his optic ridges. Arcee wasn't exactly a prude even among the miners, but there was a certain wobbliness to her voice as she said, “quit staring!” 

“I've seen Cliff's spike too many times for it to not be considered my business.” He snorted, but he dropped the subject anyway, his spinal strut tweaking slightly in protest as he heaved himself back up onto his pedes. “Come on, let's go.” 

“Giving up on your slaggy circle already?” Arcee muttered, but there was no real heat in her voice as she followed. She paused and rubbed the rest of the chalk away, leaving behind nothing but a smudge as she trotted lightly to catch up to him where he waited for her. “Not like it was worth salvaging, anyway.” 

“Gee, thanks,” he said drily. He thought for a moment, their walk slow and steady as he let the tips of his digits drag against the wall closest to him to guide them. Finally, he said, “yeah, it wasn't worth salvaging. I couldn't figure out the placement of the iron star, so the red lion was pretty impossible. And that wasn't even what I really wanted to do, anyway.” 

“Yeah?” Arcee said softly. She was behind him, the soft clinks of her steps the only other indication that she was still with him. “What were you looking for in there, Orion?” 

A lot of things, he thought to himself. He wanted to figure out how he could mend that bridge between himself and Sentinel, even if it seemed impossible at times. He wanted to hold Bee close and get answers this time to figure out what was bothering him so much. 

He just… wanted to see Megatron. Badly. 

“There’s this - erm - guy.” He began slowly. 

Arcee jabbed him in the lower back, ignoring his sharp what the frag, Arcee? as she said, “you? A guy? No way. You’re about as good at flirting as Cliff is, and he can't even charm a mech mouse, much less another bot.” 

“I can't imagine what he did to be punished into conjunxing you, then,” Orion said in annoyance, and when Arcee only nudged him again, this time in an urge to get him to continue, he ex-vented slowly and carefully said, “the thing is that I can't see him. At least not easily. I've been trying to figure it out, but…” 

He trailed off. 

“Oh.” 

It took him half a klik of walking before he realized that Arcee wasn't following him anymore. 

He paused and turned around, frowning when he saw that the femme was a good distance away from him, her outline barely visible with how dim the pulses of energon were as they grew closer to the entrance. Her face wasn't visible, but when he focused his optics, he could just barely make out the shakiness of her frame. 

“Arcee?” He called out, his voice reverberating throughout the tunnel in a distinctly unnerving manner. When she didn't respond or even move, he felt like something was prickling up his spinal strut. Anxiety. “Are you okay? What's wrong?” 

“Nothing,” she finally said in a voice that indicated it was anything but. She shuffled forward slowly, and her face was impeccably neutral as she drew up beside him and said, “so why can't you go see your guy?” 

“Are we going to talk about the fact that I thought you were having a seizure for a micro-klik?” He asked, exasperated. 

She stared ahead, giving no indication that she heard him, and so he pinched his nasal ridge before he began to walk again, this time keeping a close optic on her, in case she really did have a seizure or something. 

“He’s unreachable,” he finally said. He was aware of how quiet his voice had become, almost dreamy, but this wasn’t Sentinel, who would scorn him for daring to be so soft, and this wasn’t Bee, who would simply look at him with wide, worried optics. This was Arcee, who simply thought that Orion was mooning over someone unattainable, and something about that made a lump rise to his throat. “I just… I can’t seem to really get him, even if I try. There’s too many differences between us.” 

Arcee muttered something, too low for him to fully catch, but his audials did pick up on the tail end of … derstand. 

“What?” He asked dumbly. 

“I’m saying that sucks,” she said loudly, looking uninterested in repeating whatever she just said. “Not being able to reach him is… well. I’m guessing he’s a high caste bot, right?” 

He coughed and glanced to the side, hoping she wouldn’t pick up on his scrunched expression or bright cheeks. Actually, what caste was Megatron? For all his griping and rebelling and all that junk, he didn't exactly look low caste, either. He had a cog and was taller than average, and not to mention that underneath the scuff marks and energon stains, his armor had been polished to a shining silver. 

But it wasn't like Arcee needed to know all that, so instead Orion said, “yeah, he is. He, uh, lives in one of the hanging buildings.” 

He sent a silent apology to Megatron, who definitely would not be pleased to be painted as some sort of princess in a tower as Arcee hummed in sympathy. To be fair, she did look apologetic as she patted Orion's elbow, and her voice was just that much more gentle as she said, “I get it. Not being able to see him sounds shitty as hell. Too bad you can't fly up there to meet him.” 

“Yeah.” He heaved a great sigh. “Not like there's an extra cog laying around for me to just pick up, though. And I heard that alt modes are more genetic than anything, so who even knows if I'd be a flier? Maybe I'd be a roller instead. I'd look great with a pair of wheels, don't you think?” 

Arcee scrunched her nose and said in a tone that implied heavily he was an idiot, “what're you talking about, Pax? We can already fly.” 

Okay, now he really did feel like an idiot, and he was sure the dumbfounded look on his face was as stupid as felt as he intelligently said, “huh?” 

She scowled and gestured impatiently towards his spinal strut. “Have you hit your helm too many times? How exactly do we get around these damn veins, stupid?” 

He stared. 

And then: 

Oh. 

OH! 

“Jetpacks!” He blurted out, and he felt slightly crazy as he laughed and grabbed her upper arms, shaking her lightly as she sputtered and demanded for him to let go of her. “Holy Primus, jetpacks! I can't - you - “ 

He couldn't believe that he had forgotten all about the jetpacks. They were standard and not nearly as powerful as an actual flying alt mode, but they were more than enough to carry him up to Titan's Hold! And the best part was that they weren't accounted for except for when inspections came around, and those only happened twice every vorn. 

This entire time, the answer had been right under his nose, and he had being a miner to thank for it. For once, being low caste seemed to pay off, and steam billowed from his smokestacks as he smacked a kiss right onto Arcee's forehelm, dodging her punch as she screeched at him what the hell he was doing. 

“Thank you.” He breathed out, winded and disoriented in all the best ways as she looked at him like he was insane. And maybe he was, honestly, what with how he dragged his servo down his face and thought about how close he was to once again touching, breathing in Megatron. “I - seriously, Arcee. Thank you.” 

Arcee glanced over his shoulder plate, and her expression darkened as her optic ridges furrowed and her dermas twisted into a frown. She grabbed his elbow and tugged him slightly so that he was pushed more firmly up against a wall, and her voice was low and irritated as she said, “don't thank me yet, Pax. Look.” 

He craned his neck to see what made her look like she just ate expired energon, and he swore as he recognized not one, but both of the figures that were currently standing near the elevator. 

Darkwing and Ricks. 

Fuck. 

“What the hell are they doing here?” Orion hissed, crouching down and tugging Arcee with her so that they were hidden from view completely. At this angle, Orion could at least continue to peek beyond the edge of the maw and watch as Darkwing continued to listen to Ricks’ rambling with a distinctly sour look on his ugly face. “Ricks never comes down when it's ceremonial day!” 

“Do you ever pay attention to the system updates?” Arcee snapped as she also stared at Darkwing with no small amount of nerves. “They told us during the last paysol that inspection would take place soon.” 

Dread made Orion's spark sink to his abdomen as he watched the way Darkwing began to approach the line of jetpacks, his wings flexing impatiently as he gruffly told Ricks to hurry up and bring out a list to check the inventory. 

Shit. The last paysol had been barred for him and Bee, of course he didn't catch that awesome piece of information, thank you! Why the frag had no one told him? Actually, no, why the actual fuck was today of all sols the time for them to majorly screw with his plans and derail everything? 

Did Primus really hate him that much? 

The opening to the vein groaned deeply around them, and Orion almost groaned alongside it. 

“Great.” Orion gritted out as he glared at the way Ricks eagerly began to shuffle through the hundreds of packs that were lined up. “It'll take them joors to finish up, and there's no way Ricks is going to let it go if he sees me here. This is ridiculous…” 

He wanted to tear his own paint off in frustration. How was he supposed to go see Megatron now? It wasn't like there was anything else Orion could do to get to Titan's Hold short of spontaneously growing a cog. 

He couldn't believe this. 

If only he hadn't been so mean to Sentinel, so spiteful, then he wouldn't be in this position in the first place. 

“Fine.” 

He jolted, almost falling flat onto his aft when Arcee huffed and rolled her helm. She had a glint in her optics that immediately scared him, especially since he saw that look way too many times, usually when Cliffjumper tried her patience a bit too much and she punched him in the jaw to shut him up. (Seriously, what a weird relationship.) 

“Arcee.” Orion hissed when she began to dig through her subspace for something, and when she took out a thin, white piece of chalk, he almost choked as he instantly recognized what she was going to do. What the actual - “frag! What the hell are you doing? Stop it!” 

He tried to wrestle the chalk away from her, but he should have known better, especially since she was known as one of the best wrestlers in their stacks building. Somehow she managed to easily dodge his swipes, and while clamping one servo over his intake, she squeezed her thighs tightly around his waist and slammed him to the ground, his vision going blurry for a micro-klik as he tried not to wheeze from the impact. 

“Geeze, Pax.” She smiled at him, and it was pretty. For once, she looked her age, unburdened by whatever was bothering her so much. Her optics softened at the edges and there was even a small flash of her dentae as she leaned down slightly and waved the chalk above his helm with a playfulness he never saw from her before. “Just do as you’re told for once and stay put, yeah?” 

He finally managed to wretch her servo away from his intake, and he scowled up at her, wiggling to try and get out of her tight grip, but her legs were firm from where she straddled him. It made sense since she was one of the ones who bore the brunt of cargo loading a lot of the time, but seriously? 

“Stop it, Arcee.” He bit out sharply, trying desperately to knock the chalk out of her grip with his helm, though of course the attempts were more pathetic than anything and made her snort while she bopped him on the head with her knuckles. Ow. “You know what Darkwing’s like, so don’t even think about it! If you blow up the mines right in front of his face, you’re not going to get any rations for cycles! Orns! And who knows what he’ll do to hurt you? He’s got a mean right hook, and I don’t need Cliffjumper killing me for getting you beaten up!” 

“Cliffjumper won’t be a problem.” Arcee dismissed easily, and she hesitated before she sighed quietly and looked at him with a weariness that settled him almost immediately. He was a bit uncomfortable with how her gaze pierced him, like she was peeling back all the layers of him and staring right at his core, at his spark. “Pax. You told me just a bit ago that I should stop bothering B-127 because he’ll break if I’m too rough.” 

Caught off guard by the abrupt change in subject, he stuttered slightly as he said, “r… right. Yeah.” 

She shook her helm and climbed off of him. When he grunted as he tried to get back up, she held out a servo, and her smile was apologetic as she said, “you’re wrong. That dude’s tougher than all of us put together. Tell him sorry for me, and consider this - “ 

She waved around the chalk again. 

“As a solid I’m doing for you on his behalf.” She finished, and that was when he realized that she was serious. 

She wasn’t going to back down, because of course she wouldn’t. She had a stubborn streak somehow even bigger than Orion’s, and he didn’t know why he ever thought he could talk her out of something like this. Especially when it was clear to him now that this was more than just her trying to be kind; she was giving him an olive branch. 

An extension of both apology and favor, and he huffed out a noise of amusement as he clapped his servo into hers and she tugged him up, her grip surprisingly strong and steady as she gripped his forearm to stop him from stumbling too much. 

“You can call him Bee, you know,” he said as he gripped her shoulder and squeezed lightly. 

“Only friends call him that,” she said calmly, reaching up to wrap her digits around his with a gentle push. 

And I don’t get to call myself his friend, her unsaid words sifted through the air. 

“I owe you one,” he said sincerely. 

“No,” she said, her optics glimmering. “Consider us even after this.” 

With that, she was gone, slipping away and using one of the interconnecting tunnels to crawl into the next maw over. The smaller paths that spanned in between the different veins were a bit too tight for him and his shoulders, so they had slipped his mind, and he felt a bit stupid for forgetting about them when she managed to squeeze past the rocks with nothing more than a tiny noise of effort. 

Within a few kliks, he saw a flash of her dull, pink paint in one of the entrances that was closer to Darkwing and Ricks, who continued to sort through the packs. Some petty part of Orion was pleased with how irritated Darkwing looked, evidently already at his limit with Ricks’ aft-kissing behavior, but that was quickly pushed aside as he saw white appear on the edge of the cave wall Arcee was in. 

From his angle, he could partially see the circle she was drawing with her chalk, and he groaned lowly as he recognized what it was. The art of toxins, which he recognized thanks to the dragonfly she began to scratch at definitely the wrong angle, holy shit. That particular transmutation was definitely way farther into the datapad she had scrolled through, did she manage to flip to the last few chapters without him realizing? 

The art of toxins was known to be more volatile than most reactions, which was why it was in the back of the datapad, dammit, Arcee! And she was way smarter than she liked to let on, so there was no way she didn’t know that the gold cosmos wasn’t supposed to be placed at a forty-five degree angle, and - oh, Primus, Cliffjumper was going to kill Orion. 

“Oh, Lord Darkwing!” Arcee called out, her voice echoing around the area a bit too loudly. It successfully caused Ricks to jump where he stood and nearly fumble the jetpack he held, his what the fuck? barely bitten back as his face contorted into an ugly sneer. “I didn’t realize you were there! It’s such a great morning, don’t you think?” 

Darkwing didn’t appear nearly as undignified as Ricks. The only indication that he was surprised was the way his wings twitched slightly, but his visor hid most of his expression as he ex-vented harshly and said, “AC-008910. You are breaking protocol by entering the mines when it is closed off.” 

Arcee’s face shuttered. This time, there was no fake cheeriness to her expression or her voice, which was exceedingly cold as she said, “I see.” 

She tossed away her chalk, the little piece of white rolling out of the cave and stopping only as it nudged against the tip of Darkwing’s pede, and he bent down slightly, observing it with a slight tilt of his helm, like he couldn’t immediately recognize it for what it was. 

“What the…�� Ricks mumbled, also bending down to pick it up. When a small piece broke off and he rubbed it in between his digits, alarm as well as recognition flashed across his face, and he shakily held up his servo to Darkwing. White powder trickled down to his wrist, and Ricks’ voice trembled slightly as he said, “my lord…!” 

Darkwing’s helm snapped up to Arcee, and he let out a sharp noise of protest, the beginnings of his transformations taking place as she slapped the middle of the incomplete circle while she recited, “I am thou, thou art I!” 

Orion barely ducked in time, and he clapped his servos over his audials as he lied flat on the ground, the walls of the cave protecting him as he stared up in disbelief. Pieces of debris flung themselves into the vein, which was crazy considering he was pretty far away from the site of the circle, but at the same time, it made sense. 

She placed the cosmos at such an egregious angle that it was lucky the entire place didn’t blow itself to bits, honestly, and he patted the ground in some harried attempt to soothe it when there was an ominous creaking noise around him. The area shook minutely, just enough that his processor could sense vibrations underneath him, but it didn’t last as long as he thought it would, and he belatedly realized that this was by design. 

She said she’s not as good at alchemy as me, but there’s no way, he thought to himself in exasperated fondness. She’s leaps ahead. 

“ARCEE!” Darkwing bellowed. 

“Woops.” She replied with a small cough. 

Orion peeked back around the ledge, breathing out a sigh of relief as he realized that everyone was more or less okay. Arcee was definitely the worst of them, what with how her paint job was charred to hell and she had several dents in her protoform that she definitely didn’t have before, but she didn’t wince as much as he expected when Darkwing practically howled in his rage and grabbed for her. 

“You irresponsible little heathen!” Ricks shouted, stumbling over and looking ridiculous with how his entire face was covered in soot. He pointed a shaky digit at Arcee’s face and barked, “who the frag is your team leader? Tell me!” 

She stuck her glossa out. 

“You are banned from rations for the next two paysols!” Darkwing roared, shaking Arcee in his fierce grip like she was nothing more than a doll. She did nothing to fight and simply flopped around, her expression bored as he did. “Performing alchemy in the mines is a direct break in protocol, and you’ve caused extensive damage to - “ 

“You fragging useless piece of slag, I’m going to bench your entire team for this, how dare you act like you don’t have anything but rust in your processor - “ Ricks hopped from pede to pede in his rage. 

As both of them continued to rant and ramble, for a split second, Arcee glanced past Darkwing’s tight shoulders and glared at Orion Pax. It didn’t last longer than a passing look, but the message was clear: get on with it! 

Oh, right!

It was easier than Orion thought it would be to creep towards the line of jetpacks. With Darkwing practically frothing at the intake and Ricks only egging him on, they seemed to have completely forgotten about their original purpose for being there, and it wasn’t long before Orion snagged his digits into the closest pack and hooked it onto his dorsal plates. 

As he crawled into the lift, he saw just in time the glint of a smile Arcee flashed him, and he couldn’t help but grin back, only wincing slightly when Darkwing screeched something along the lines of how dare you smile, miner? Do you think this is some kind of joke? while shaking her so viciously that she began to puff her cheeks up in nausea. 

Yikes. 

Definitely owed her one, no matter what she said. 

Act I, Scene XVI: Bite, Little Wolf, Bite

Megatron’s neck made a dangerous sound when his helm twisted in the direction of Prowl's fist. He blinked slowly, his vision filled with static in the edges as his pain sensors told him that he had sustained another new bruise on his lower left jaw. 

“Well, you've certainly gotten better at punching at the very least,” Megatron rasped as he ran his glossa along his molar dentae, tasting energon as he did. It wasn't an uncommon experience by this point, so he slowly turned his helm back around and smiled, his voice a purr as he said, “what other criminals have you enjoyed beating the slag out of to get this good, huh?”

“You don't get to ask the questions around here,” Prowl said blandly as he stepped back and flicked his wrist at one of the two guards standing in the room. 

The femme, who Megatron had gleaned was designated with the name Moonracer after carefully listening in on hushed conversations between her and her partner, jumped slightly from where she stood. She had a nervous look on her face as she hurried over and placed a rag into Prowl’s waiting servo, taking care not to look directly at Megatron all the while. 

Megatron nearly rolled his optics as he spat out another mouthful of energon.

Cowards, the lot of them, he thought. They dared to toss him around like a ragged doll and beat him like he wasn’t an actual sentient being, but they couldn’t even look him in the optics because, what, they were scared? What was he going to do? Limp his way towards them and feebly bump his helm against them in retaliation? 

He panted shallowly, his pain sensors going crazy as he hastily tried to stomp out as many of the notifications as he could. There were at least a dozen of the reoccurring pings, and a couple dozen more for the injuries that weren’t as deeply aching or razor-sharp against his nerves. 

He nudged his chronometer, which had stopped working properly about halfway through this latest talk with Prowl, something that annoyed Megatron significantly. Reluctantly, his processor calculated how long it had been since he last saw his cell, which was apparently five joors ago. 

He almost snorted as he dismissed the clock as well as the whining ping of his left ankle, which throbbed dangerously. That one had been one of the worst ones, a result of when Prowl had lost control of his seemingly impeccable temper and had no qualms about threatening to break the joint with the heel of his pede. 

Not that he actually did. After all, for all of Prowl’s demands and questions, there was only so much he could do without actually killing Megatron. There was a certain delicate balance to starving, beating, and medically neglecting a single mech before he fully offlined. 

At the thought, Megatron couldn’t help but smirk, not bothering to wipe it off even as Prowl finished wiping off energon from his servos like this was nothing but a damn dinner party. 

“You’re surprisingly cheerful for someone who’s helpless,” Prowl said. As always, his voice was stern, unyielding, and there was no change to his expression as he tossed the rag over his shoulder without looking. The mech guard scrambled to catch it, his face set into a grimace as he gingerly held the energon-soaked mesh. “And stubborn. Your insistence to keep your intake shut is…” 

He trailed off, contemplative. 

“Irritating.” Prowl finished. He was starting to circle the chair again, his movements slow and calculated. It was reminiscent of a predator, and Megatron idly wondered if all the enforcer did in his free time was come up with cheesy, villainous one-liners. “I don’t need much from you. Just a single word, and I could provide you with everything you need.” 

“I wasn’t aware that you were a psychic as well, Enforcer Prowl,” Megatron said, his words thick with sarcasm as he casually spat out another intake-ful of energon. The liquid was starting to become bitter and metallic, a sign that he was dipping into his fuel reserves. Unsurprising considering how much blood he had lost so far. “What is it exactly that I need? Decency? Dignity? Nothing your precious Ultra could provide, I’m sure.” 

Moonracer hiccupped in shock, her optics wide as she clapped her servo to her mouth and used the other to cling to her partner. The mech was pale in the face and dropped the rag unceremoniously, and Megatron barely had the time to tilt his helm at them before something grabbed his neck and slammed it back. 

He suppressed the urge to gag and smoothed his expression to one of boredom as Prowl scowled and leaned in close, his servo tightening around Megatron’s neck cables in such a manner that if he moved even the slightest bit, the enforcer would tear right through the delicate protoform. 

“Keep his designation out of your intake, rebel,” Prowl hissed. His anger was tight and barely suppressed, though Megatron quickly amended the idea that the mech was still in control of his emotions when he clenched at Megatron’s neck so hard that his vocalizer crackled. “Enough of this. I don’t have time for your games or your ploys. Tell me where the rest of your blasphemous rebels are hiding. Where is Most Wanted Number Two, Designation: S-007?” 

“Am I supposed to know who that is?” Megatron snarled. 

“Don't act smart,” Prowl said dangerously, a near manic glint in his optics. “Where is Most Wanted Number Three, Designation: S-749? Most Wanted Number Four, Designation: S-810?” 

“I don't know anyone of those names.” Megatron sneered. 

Prowl squeezed, his digit tips threatening to draw energon. “LIAR!” 

“Boss,” the mech guard said feebly. His voice was trembling ever so slightly at the edges, but his words surprisingly didn’t falter as he said, “his vitals are dropping. You have to stop.” 

“I never asked for your input,” Prowl spat. After another moment of his harsh venting, and another moment of the tiny black dots starting to float around Megatron’s vision, the enforcer released a string of curses before abruptly, he stepped away, his servo flexing at his side as he glared at Megatron like he was nothing more than lowly scum. 

A look that Megatron had endured for enough of his life already. 

Megatron’s vocalizer stuttered with static as he coughed, his glossa dripping with thick, bitter energon, which spilled over his bottom derma and no doubt splattered onto his collar plating. That had definitely been a bit too much even for him, and his processor felt sluggish as it tried to warn him that he was close to slipping into emergency recharge. 

He gritted his dentae and vented harshly as he forcefully shut down the recharge protocol. For a moment, he feared that it didn’t work - his processor still felt fuzzy and his vision was blurring an obscene amount, so instead he bit harshly on his own glossa, the taste of more energon filling his intake as the sharp pain stopped the reboot from taking place. 

He breathed shallowly, and it took him a few moments for his audials to focus again on the conversation going around him, particularly the sharp noise of frustration Prowl made as he tapped his pede on the ground in a tic that Megatron now understood meant he was pissed. 

“I can’t believe this,” Prowl muttered, and when Megatron managed to muster enough strength to glance up at him, he saw the way the enforcer’s optic ridges twitched with his irritation as he stood with his arms crossed, his optics slightly unfocused. He was going through something, Megatron sluggishly deduced. Probably a comm. “They’re daring to pull me away… This is such a crucial time…” 

Megatron vented slowly. 

“Fine,” Prowl growled, and he clicked his glossa as he opened the door with a harsher jab at the security pad than necessary. Without even looking back, he commanded, “put him back in his cell. Don’t get distracted. I’m sure neither of you need any more blemishes on your record than you already do.” 

Moonracer hiccupped again, and her mech partner looked like he’d been punched in the gut. 

“Until next time, Enforcer Prowl.” Megatron rasped with a sharp grin. He felt energon trickle steadily from the corner of his dermas, and he almost barked out a laugh when Moonracer looked close to fainting. “I certainly hope you find the answers you’re looking for.”

Prowl paused, clenched his servo into a fist, and then relaxed it just as easily. Wordlessly, he left, and the room almost felt warmer without him. 

“Primus, I thought he was gonna start swinging at us next,” the white mech hissed urgently as he let out a deep vent and rubbed his face with a trembling servo. 

“I feel sick,” Moonrace moaned. 

“Don’t be,” the mech said insistently, like that was supposed to provide any sort of comfort as he approached Megatron, who simply looked at him with a calmness that he was sure was unnerving the young mech. The bot couldn’t be any older than twenty vorns, which meant he just graduated from the academy, but more than that, it meant that he definitely didn’t have the balls to deal with someone like Megatron. As if on cue, the mech cleared his throat, but it did nothing to hide the slight shakiness of his voice as he said, “don’t try anything funny, rebel.” 

Megatron flashed him a menacing grin. He chuckled when the mech recoiled and stepped back, looking at Moonracer for reassurance, though he certainly wouldn't find it with her, not when the femme seemed only a micro-klik away from keeling over. 

“Whatever you say.” Megatron purred. “I’m the prisoner here, aren’t I?” 

“Right,” the mech muttered, and hesitantly, he stepped around Megatron and began to undo the servo cuffs that held his arms behind his spinal strut. The mech’s grip was unnecessarily tight as he held Megatron’s wrists together, and when he realized that he couldn’t redo the suppressors without letting go of at least one of his arms, the mech groaned. “Shit. Moonracer, a little help, here?” 

“Oh, sorry,” she muttered, and she gave a single hiccup before she clamored over and the both of them worked to bring Megatron’s arms to the front so they could bind his servos that way instead. 

He honestly didn’t know why they even bothered, but he stayed perfectly still, a complete model prisoner. When Moonracer began to shakily attach two long links of chains to his suppressors, he still didn’t do anything, and simply sat there, slowly cycling through the pain notifications from his neural network. 

It was a good thing that he had more energon reserves than any of them suspected him for, since he could dip into the highly refined kind and use it to begin the healing process. It wasn’t any sort of miracle work, but it was better than nothing, and he let out a slow breath when finally, it felt less like he would pass out, and he was just annoyed. 

“Get up,” the mech muttered, looking impatient as he grabbed one end of the chains and passed the other one to Moonracer. 

Neither of them tended to tug, something that Megatron was grateful for as he slowly stood up, rolled his helm, and barely bit back a snort when they both jumped at the cracking sound that emitted from his neck cables. 

They’re too young, he thought to himself idly. What’s Ultra thinking, sticking these sparklings in a place like this? 

The walk back to his cell - his, Prowl always liked to point out, as if Megatron needed any more of a reminder how caged he was, how his damn wings had been clipped like nothing - was, as always, agonizing. 

The injuries that Prowl liked to decorate him with never fully went away, even if sometimes the enforcer took entire sols before he came back from wherever that repulsive Ultra sent him to. Funny thing, that. How Prowl was one of the proudest mechs Megatron had ever had the misfortune of meeting, and yet like an obedient canine, he always ran back at the call of his master. 

Either way, the bruises never disappeared. They lingered behind, and yes, sometimes the dark blue of them faded to a discolored black, and the edges started to soften with time, but the soreness of them never left. The cuts healed even slower, and ever since Megatron had stopped eating regularly, the energon that dripped from them was sluggish and colored like deep lapis instead of the usual cyan. 

“He's bleeding a lot,” Moonracer said. The chain in her servo clinked gently as she tightened her grip, and her face was twisted with something that looked a bit too much like sympathy as her optics darted from Megatron's dermas and then down to his wrists. The bruises from the cuffs were pretty permanent by that point. “Shouldn't we… you know… get a medic?” 

“Moonracer,” the mech groaned. He was walking ahead of them and seemed even more impatient, going by the way the chain in his servo was so far stretched out that it was almost taut. He looked over his shoulder, an exasperated look on his face as he said, “you know that’s against protocol. Don't even joke like that, okay? Prowl’s a total hardaft about that kind of stuff. Plus you heard him, he’s already pissed with us as it is.” 

“Right. Uh. Sorry, Smokescreen,” Moonracer mumbled. She fiddled with the chain, the links clinking together softly as she risked a glance towards Megatron. She quickly looked away again when he gazed back with an indifference that seemed to unnerve her. He almost snorted. “I-It’s just - “ 

“Just nothing!” Smokescreen said with an impatient wave of his servo. “Ugh. Can he walk any slower?” 

He emphasized his words with a tug of his end of the chain. So much for tending not to pull, and Megatron stumbled at the yank, nearly falling to his patellas as he did, something sharp and twinging running up from his right ankle and all the way up to his central nervous subsystem up his dorsal plates. 

He bit hastily on his glossa to stop from making a grunt of pain. He caught himself barely on time, and as he stood there, hovering, panting as his subsystem hastily tried to rework itself so that energon flow would increase around the site of pain, he couldn’t help but grind his dentae, unable to fully stop himself from scowling. 

Though appearing as emotionless as possible was an advantage to him, he still wasn’t a prideless mech. Humiliation burned through him at the sight he must have made; almost knocked down from the careless movement of a guard bot who was young enough that he probably couldn't even drink high grade yet. 

“Holy Primus! Are you okay?” 

“Shit, I didn’t mean to do that! Is he…?” 

Megatron blinked slowly as he realized that he hadn’t actually managed to catch himself. Two servos, deceptively strong, tightened their grip around his shoulder plate and elbow in such a manner that his protoform twinged in protest, but kept him surprisingly steady despite his frame size. 

Moonracer looked at him with no level of caution this time, her optics darting around him in a frantic manner as she leaned in close, mouthing various words to herself that looked like medical terms. She seemed the most concentrated on his leg and ankle, though she did eye his energon-slick dermas with worry as well. 

Smokescreen, who had been the one to cause the issue in the first place, seemed genuinely shocked. He had stepped towards Megatron, his face petrified in a look of guilt, his arm raised and servo reaching out, almost like he had been in the middle of trying to catch Megatron and just barely stopped himself. 

“You’re seriously injured,” Moonracer said, not waiting for a response from Megatron, who wasn’t going to give her one, anyway. Still, when she carefully pulled him into a proper standing position and he couldn’t completely muffle the hiss that escaped his derma after putting weight again on his pede, her face rippled with a mixture of shock and alarm. 

“What’s wrong with him?” Smokescreen demanded, but his voice was unsure, high-pitched and borderline shrill as he drifted closer. He seemed to be hopping from pede to pede, his entire frame jittering as he fidgeted with the links in his servos and guilt tearing away the last of his aloofness. “I - I guess Prowl must have…” 

He trailed off, exchanging an uneasy glance with Moonracer, who bit her bottom derma and squirmed where she stood. It was easy to understand the unsaid words: Prowl must have hit him harder than I thought.

Megatron couldn’t help himself as he ex-vented a harsh puff of air from his disbelieving amusement, which turned into a roll of his optics when Moonracer jumped and snatched her servos away from him as Smokescreen similarly flinched. 

“Well obviously he’s fine if he can stand there and laugh at us.” Smokescreen scowled, his face full of indignation. 

“Smokescreen.” Moonracer pleaded, her digits twitching as she raised her arm again and hovered it close to Megatron’s, like she was only a klik away from grabbing onto him again out of fear that he would collapse. He scowled and resisted the urge to shoulder the offending appendage out of the way; he wasn’t a sparkling. “We can't just leave him like this. He's going to die.” 

Megatron doubted it. They were probably relying on the fact that his fuel reserves were low, and they were, but certainly not as bad as they should have been, considering how long the guards had last officially fed him. When he checked, his processor told him that he had a good 37% of full capacity, and he glanced down, knowing that if he made optic contact with either guard, he would smirk. 

Idly, he thought of Orion, of his burning curiosity and never-ending questions, and his stubborn kindness as he kept insisting Megatron needed to feed. The miner was certainly a touch dramatic, too, what with how easily he seemed to shoot insults at Megatron, status as rebellious leader be damned. It was… refreshing. Charming, even. 

Surprising. 

And Megatron had long stopped being surprised by anything after he had discovered the underlying truth of everything. Once one gazed into the abyss, she stared back, and you couldn't look away. Nothing was quite as captivating as her eye, so Megatron had steeled himself to never be caught off guard again. 

Who knew a mech, a miner at that, could somehow shock him at every turn? 

Had Orion done as Megatron had told him? Had he gone to the Archives? He had seemed too uncomfortable with everything Megatron had revealed to him to not go investigating. He seemed the type, honestly; to go digging for answers where he shouldn’t have. 

Megatron’s dermas twitched at the thought. Though he absentmindedly brushed away the notification in his processor that pointed away how his spark rate had just increased, he wasn’t exactly stupid. He knew that he had a… fascination for the mech, and he could practically hear Starscream nagging him, admonishing him for letting his personal feelings get in the way of their goal. 

Well. If Starscream had ever seen those plush dermas that Orion liked to bite on up close like Megatron had, then he would have understood, he bet. 

“ - an’t, are you fragging kidding me? We’ll be fired and demoted before we can even say oops!” Smokescreen yelped, his shout tearing through Megatron’s contemplation over Orion. A good thing, really, since he found that he’d been letting his thoughts drift a little too close to the territory of swooning, which was so ridiculous that he almost laughed. Uncomfortably. “Moonracer, stop, you’re not going to do this to me!” 

“Why’re you being so dramatic?” Moonracer asked incredulously. Luckily, it seemed like the both of them were so wrapped up in their argument with each other that they didn’t notice how Megatron was rolling his optics. “Look, I’m not saying we become traitors - “ 

“That’s actually exactly what you’re saying, thanks - “ 

“No, it's not, just listen - “ 

“Listen to what? About how you want us to throw all our hard work out the damn - “ 

“Smokescreen - “ 

“Moonracer - “

“I can’t!” Moonracer shouted. 

Smokescreen looked like she’d just punched him. 

Megatron tilted his helm. 

It was the first time in the entire conversation, maybe even across all the cycles that Megatron had been under her watch, where she had raised her voice. It was strange, especially since she always spoke with a softness that often tickled the edges of Megatron’s audials and nothing more. 

It was clear that she was aware and uncomfortable with how uncharacteristically loud she was being. Her shoulder plates were tight and bunched close to her neck, and her servos were shaking as they turned into fists at her sides. She glared at the ground, her vocalizer trembling something fierce as she said, “I - I can't, okay?”  

“Can’t what?” Smokescreen asked, stunned. When she didn’t answer right away, he briskly walked over, his hesitation to get close to Megatron seemingly thrown out the window. His grip was urgent and frantic as he grabbed Moonracer’s shoulders and practically shook her, his optics wide with something adjacent to alarm. “Moon!” 

To Megatron’s surprise, and perhaps a little amount of fear, the femme sniffled. 

“Aw, geeze,” Smokescreen said weakly. He gathered his partner close to himself hesitantly, one servo reaching up and stroking the back of her helm as he did. His touch was fleeting and awkward, and Megatron almost sneered at him for it. Who the hell taught him how to comfort someone? “Don’t cry, Moon. I’m sorry, okay? You know I hate it when you… Shit. I’m sorry, I swear.” 

“I don’t want you to say sorry!” Moonracer blubbered, pushing at his chassis half-heartedly. When she successfully made him take a minute step back, Megatron was genuinely surprised to see the amount of tears running down her face. Thick lubricant colored lightly blue stained her cheeks in streaks, and this time, her gaze was unwavering as she turned her helm and looked directly at him. “We entered the academy to help bots, Smokescreen. But as soon as we graduate, we get assigned to this - this - hellhole like we don’t mean anything!” 

“Hey, you know that’s not how it works,” Smokescreen muttered, but his voice wasn’t particularly compelled, and he looked distinctly tired as he ran a servo down his face and then pinched the bridge of his nasal ridge. “We still need a few more vorns under our belt before we can leave and try to enter the Elite Guard - “ 

“How can we claim to be a part of the Elite Guard if we can’t even help one mech who can’t help himself?” Moonracer sobbed. “I can’t, Smokescreen. I can’t. Nothing about this - any of this - was what I imagined when we got accepted into the academy. Don’t you remember? Why we worked so hard in the first place?” 

Smokescreen fell silent. 

He cleared his throat once, twice, and then finally, when he spoke, his voice was hoarse as he said, “your kin-forge.” 

“What?” Moonracer blinked. The last of her tears slid down her face innocently, and Smokescreen heaved a great sigh as he thumbed them away, fully stepping away and walking towards Megatron, who merely raised his optic ridges in question as the mech hovered for a few micro-kliks before he reached for him with gritted dentae. 

“Your kin-forge.” Smokescreen repeated, his servos rough but his touch surprisingly careful as he hooked his arm around Megatron’s waist and hoisted him so that most of his weight leaned on him. “The one who’s a medic. He works at Iacon Spark Medbay, right? Ugh, look, dude, can’t you at least try to let me help you?” 

Megatron snorted out a small noise of disbelief, and slowly, he obeyed. Though he wasn’t actually as close to death as these two idiots seemed to think, he could at least admit to himself that he felt a small moment of relief when he fully stopped putting any weight onto his pede. 

“Oh!” Moonracer said. She had a servo to her chin as she glanced to the side in thought. “You’re right. I… I haven’t talked to him in ages, not ever since he and my carrier had that fight, but if I could just find him, then it might work.”

“You don’t have his comm link?” Smokescreen asked in disbelief. 

Moonracer shot him a frown. “No, my carrier would never let me hear the end of it.” 

“You’re both idiots,” Megatron suddenly rasped. He ignored the way Smokescreen jolted beside him, and he sneered at Moonracer, whose face had drained of energon and left her looking pallid. ���Talking about me as if I wasn’t right here the entire time. Foolish. There’s a reason why you’re assigned to this hell hole, as you’ve so eloquently put it. You’re both too green, too soft around the edges. You wouldn’t last a klik out on the field.” 

Moonracer dropped her chain, and Smokescreen squeezed Megatron so tightly that he gave a reflexive cough at the sudden pressure around his waist. 

“What the hell is your problem?” Smokescreen demanded, his face scrunched up in his anger, though the image was slightly broken with the way he was also blushing in embarrassment. “We’re trying to help you and you call us useless?”

Megatron rolled his optics. “I never asked for your help, kid.” 

“I’m not a kid!” Smokescreen sputtered. 

“Then why are you both acting like one?” Megatron said harshly. He didn’t attempt to honey his words, not when this was too important, too crucial for them to hear. He ignored the way Moonracer seemed close to tears again, as this was simply the only way Megatron knew how to beat the lessons of the real world into these idiots. “Prowl made it clear already that you have, what did he say, blemishes on your record? Stop trying to sacrifice what little you have for someone like me.” 

This time, he grinned, and it wasn’t a nice grin. He made it menacing, his dentae stained with his own energon, his canines sharper than usual, and he knew that the glow of his red optics only served to cement the surely menacing image of him. 

“I never forget a face,” he said quietly, but the underlying tone was impossible to ignore. He stared directly at Moonracer, daring her to say something, anything, to deny his threat. “And mercy is never within my cards.” 

For a moment, Megatron thought it finally worked. Some deeply seeded part of him could find the compassion of both these bots fascinating, maybe even admirable. After all, managing to extend a servo to someone when they seemed to be suffering, even despite their past, was something not just anyone could do. 

But Megatron couldn’t deal with the possibility that involvement with him would result in punishment for these young bots. It was different with Orion, who was grown and curious and pushy, who was all too eager to figure out the truth of their broken system, and who never looked at Megatron with fear. 

But these two… 

“Well,” Moonracer finally said, and judging by how tremulous her voice was, he was sure that she was about to tell him he was a monster and that she regretted suggesting such a gift in the first place. So it surprised him when she said, “it is in mine.” 

What the fuck?

“We need to find out how to contact your forge-kin,” Smokescreen said gruffly, tugging on Megatron again, who followed simply out of confusion, unable to comprehend what the hell Moonracer just said. In fact, when she hesitantly reached out and grabbed Megatron’s other arm, he just let her, his processor feeling like it was going to bluescreen from his bewilderment. “My sibik works at Iacon Spark. Maybe she knows him.” 

“He’s the head of sparkeology surgery there,” Moonracer said. “Make sure to let him know that I'm the one who asked for him. He's not the most patient mech, and - “

“This is ridiculous.” Megatron gritted out, the first flickers of actual anger starting to lick at his processor as he finally managed to get past his initial shock. This was all wrong, it was wrong, and his servos clenched as he tried to stop them from shaking. “Do you even know how insane you sound?” 

“Yeah, I know,” Smokescreen said drily, pressing his servo against the security pad next to the cell door. “But like you said, rebel, I’m too green to know any better. And currently my greatest weakness is that idiot who’s clutching at you like you’re about to fall over any klik, so I just have to deal with her ideals, don’t I?” 

Moonracer beamed at him, and he softened considerably as he leaned across and gave her a brief kiss to the corner of her dermas. She brightened with her blush, and his face was an even more damning shade of blue as he pulled back and coughed lightly. 

Ah, Megatron thought dumbly. So it’s like that, then. 

It was easy enough to help Megatron into the cell, though he did growl at them both that he didn’t need it, for frag’s sake. He should have expected it when neither of them listened, and he wished his servos were free so he could throw them up in his anger when Smokescreen slipped out first. 

“I’m going to go ask Velocity if she knows your forge-kin’s comm link,” he said, looking a little disturbed for some reason. He rolled his shoulders and muttered, “I just hope she doesn’t lecture me again about how I only eat junk energon. I swear, she acts like she’s my personal medic sometimes. You know she graduated only a few orns ago?” 

“Smokescreen,” Moonracer said patiently as she crouched down and began to undo the chains on Megatron’s suppressants. 

“Right,” Smokescreen said hesitantly. He glanced at Megatron, and his gaze hardened as he said, “don’t hurt her.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Megatron drawled. As if he could, anyway. 

Smokescreen nodded stiffly, and like that, he was gone, mumbling something about annoying spark-kins under his breath as he did. 

“He’s a good guy. Just a little too enthusiastic sometimes,” Moonracer said softly, her optics distinctly narrowed with her smile as she undid the last of the chains and drew away. Without the chains, there was no more weight on Megatron’s wrists, and she seemed satisfied as she said, “his sibik isn’t as bad as he makes her out to be, she just worries about him. Anyway, we'll fix you up soon, just sit tight and I’m sure she’ll find Doctor Ra - “ 

“Enough.” 

She flinched like she’d been hit, and she stumbled back, her optics wide and unsure as she stuttered out, “I… I’m sorry?” 

“Enough.” He repeated, his voice cold and no longer tilted with his amusement. This had gone on far enough. If she refused to understand, then fine, he would make her. “Go home, little girl. I don’t need help from you and your lover.” 

“But…” She trailed off. 

“Leave,” he snarled. “How dare you claim to want to assist me while you degrade me by assuming I need help at all?” 

“W-We didn’t think - “ 

“No.” Megatron interrupted harshly, and he knew he was being too cruel, he knew that he didn’t have a shred of kindness in his tone, but so what? He wasn’t meant to be kind, and he wasn’t meant to be gentle. He had to nip this thing in the bud before it became too big of an issue than it already was. “You weren’t thinking at all. LEAVE!”

She scrambled back at his sudden roar, swinging the door to the cell closed with a loud clang as she stood outside the bars, shaking. She was barely visible with how low the light of the hallway was, but he could see the way she clasped her servos together, almost like she was trying to stop them from trembling so much. 

It was a bit too reminiscent of what he liked to do when he was falling apart, a thought that he banished as he settled himself against his usual corner, waiting for her to finally leave both him and her ridiculous idea behind. 

Except she didn’t.

She stood there, trembling and hiccupping every once in a while, and he eyed her with no small amount of annoyance as she slowly, nervously, opened her arm compartment and revealed something. 

A cube. It was glowing dimly, the liquid inside thin from how poorly refined it was, and she crouched down, her soft facial features highlighted by the blue as she timidly nudged the cube in between the bars. 

Oh, you have got to be kidding me…

Megatron scowled deeply. “What you’re doing is going against everything you’ve ever learned.” 

Moonracer faltered. For a klik, her face contorted with uncertainty. She hovered in her position, with one servo clutched to her chassis, like she really believed those stories about how he was capable of plucking and eating the sparks out of anyone’s chest. But then she took in a deep, steadying invent, and her voice was surprisingly calm as she said, “no, it’s not.” 

“Like hell it’s not,” Megatron spat. “Did you pay attention at all in the academy, you fragging idiot? Never deviate. That’s the first lesson all of you mindless bots learn, and you’re sitting here, trying to - what - gain my favor? My sympathy? My kindness? I lost all of that when this rebellion first started, kid. I have none to spare, so don’t even try to beg for any.” 

Moonracer bit her bottom derma. She fiddled with the cube, and she let out a slow breath as she quietly said, “that might be true, but what do they mean?” 

He narrowed his optics, silent. 

“Never deviate is one of the core pillars of the academy like you said,” she said slowly, her digit tracing the frost on the ground. She tipped the cube back and forth when her servo nudged against it, and though she still avoided optic contact with him, there was something distinctly firm about her voice as she whispered, “but so is mercy. So is empathy. I didn’t - we didn’t - enter the academy to be cruel enforcers or sentries. I always interpreted the pillars as that; to never deviate from who you are, and to never let your morals be led astray.” 

Megatron stared, and for a moment, he didn’t know what to say. And then: “that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” 

She jerked like she’d been struck. 

Megatron almost laughed. Instead, he leaned back against the cold wall, not bothering to hide the way his breaths came out in misty frost and his amusement as she flinched in discomfort. She was a weird one, he had to admit. She was so clearly at odds with him and his situation, but she still pushed the tiny cube of energon towards him through the bars. 

He made a displeased noise at it, letting his dentae hiss out something close to a growl. She winced at the sound, scrambling back like he had just shot her. Good. He didn’t need her foolish help. She was a young femme who was mid-caste at best, and even for mids, energon wasn’t exactly easy to come by. 

She’s got a strong spark. That in itself is worth admiring, something inside him murmured. It didn’t sound like Starscream or even Soundwave. It was different, unshakeable, and hard to ignore as it continued to mutter, don’t you agree? 

No, he thought harshly, shoving the voice aside. It doesn’t matter how admirable she’s being. It doesn’t even matter how her kindness directly benefits me. I can’t - I won’t - let her be a part of this. She’s too young, and this rebellion, it… no. It’ll snuff that part of her out. Don’t you dare suggest something like that to me. 

The voice fell silent, and he felt viciously justified as he glared at her. 

There was no reason for her to act so stupidly. He didn’t care for bleeding sparks or compassion born from sympathy - there was a chance, a high chance, that she and Smokescreen were going to get caught, and he knew very well how Ultra reacted to anything that undermined his authority. Megatron would not be responsible for the deaths of two young bots on his servos. 

“How stupid,” Megatron said dangerously, and he tilted his chin up. He knew that like this, in the dimness of the cell, with the frigidity of the air, his red optics gleamed with a menacing light that unnerved just about anyone who dared to look at him. Just as he predicted, she swallowed heavily and her servos clasped each other with her shaky nerves. “Do you really think this will grant you anything? That you’ll reap a reward?” 

She trembled. 

Clink. 

Megatron didn’t let his snarl ripple with surprise as his audials quickly picked up on the soft, almost inaudible noise of something moving above him. No, his processor thought with no small amount of exasperation. Someone moving above him. 

Of all the times for him to show up…!

Megatron needed to finish this quickly. The longer Moonracer remained, the greater the chance of discovery became, and so with a brutality that he only ever reserved for the elite, he growled, “you would do well to remember who I am, Moonracer. Don’t let the current image of who I am taint what I’ve done. You should listen to your precious Ultra Magnus. Do you really think I was thrown in here for my generosity or my mercy?” 

Moonracer sniffled. And then, quietly, she whispered, “I’ll be back. Drink this, and don’t bring any attention to yourself. Prowl’s been losing his temper more easily recently, and you’re already on the verge of collapsing. I’ll bring my forge-kin as soon as possible.” 

And with that, she was gone, with the cube being the only proof that she had even lingered at all. 

Megatron scowled deeply at the damn thing. Fucking stupid… was her plan to leave evidence willy nilly? Did she think that just because no one ever bothered to check his status of survival, that something like this would go unnoticed? 

He grunted as he leaned against the wall, unable to stand up, hobble over, and get rid of the damn thing. His leg still throbbed with pain and the cold always slowed him down significantly, something that Prowl had done by design, no doubt. He was just as paranoid as his master, and had most likely thought that keeping things below freezing would stop Megatron from acting too quickly. 

It was unfortunate how right he was. 

“You can come out now,” Megatron drawled. He couldn’t fully stop his dermas from flicking up into a small smile when he heard small, muffled curses before the vent above him flipped open. He caught sight of bright blue optics and a shocked expression before instinctively, he raised his arms. 

It was a bit of a mess considering his wrists were still bound, but he simply let out a small grunt when an entire mech fell right into him, blue servos scrabbling at his shoulder and elbow for balance while legs were haphazardly thrown over the other arm. The sensation was honestly a bit exhilarating, and he knew it wasn’t just him as harsh, warm vents filled the otherwise cold air. 

The smell of something deep and earthy, reminiscent of petrichor, filtered through his olfactory sensors, dragging up various memories that he hadn’t even realized his pesky processor had filed away so deeply inside his drive. Images of full dermas pressing together into a scowl that didn’t take away from a face of beauty, rusted paint that reminded him a bit too much of his own time in the mines, determination blazing in a gaze that never failed to look him straight in the optics - 

“Hello, sheep.” Megatron rumbled. 

“Hello.” Orion breathed. 

They were startlingly close like this, with their faces even closer than last time, when Orion had boldly, idiotically, decided that climbing close to the leader of the blasphemous rebellion would be a good idea. But this time, when Megatron peered at him, he could pick out the things he hadn't noticed before. 

The blue of his optics, which weren't quite the shade of cyan most elite bots had, since the energon he drank wasn't refined enough to be so bright. The small jut of his chin, which gave way to a jaw that was handsome and sharp, outlined by a helm that had the cutest, tiniest little finials that Megatron had ever seen. 

“You have a scar,” Megatron said, his voice low and tinged with something he couldn't name as he stared at the small, white streak that was startlingly close to Orion's left optic. Megatron wished he could touch it; Primus knew why he wanted to touch it, but he did, and not for the first time, he loathed the cuffs that bound him so tightly. “It's shallow. You must have gotten it a few vorns ago.” 

Orion stared up at him with slightly agape dermas. His intake was too damn pretty to be left open like that, and Megatron nearly told him to shut his fragging dermas before he made him, but Orion beat him to it as he said, “oh. Yeah, I got that one when I pissed Darkwing off. He was totally overreacting, but of course I paid the price for it.” 

Megatron arched an optic ridge. “Darkwing? He sets off if you even vent in his direction, but he doesn't usually get pushed to the point he lays servos on his miners. What did you do?” 

Orion's face pinched in offense as he huffed. He looked delectable like that, all defiant and unafraid even though he was literally in the arms of someone deemed the most notorious criminal in Cybertron history. What was even better was, despite his clear ire, he clung to Megatron eagerly, his digits digging into his shoulder plates fervently, and Megatron burned. 

“I didn’t do anything.” Orion complained, rolling his optics and nesting deeper into Megatron’s hold. Like this, his aft was pressed on top of Megatron’s thighs, and the rebel leader decided in that moment that he would keep quiet and not point out how the miner was practically cuddled into him. From his observations, Orion was the type to embarrass easily, and if Megatron pointed out how sweetly the mech was letting himself be held, there was a good chance that he would pull away. 

That was certainly… disagreeable. 

“I just might have blown up the fifth vein. That cycle,” Orion said stiltedly, his face becoming blue with embarrassment when Megatron couldn’t help himself and let out a bark of laughter. Orion scowled and said, “it wasn’t on purpose! Look, I just got a little too excited during my last transmutation, and the circle was just a teensy bit off, but I swear I - would you stop laughing, you aft?” 

“You’re telling me blowing up veins is a normal thing you do?” Megatron choked out, his vocalizer filled with amused static as he looked down at the smaller mech and smirked. He tucked away the image of him so flustered into his processor; there was something enticing about him like this, and Megatron wanted to admire it again later. “Protocol says that you can’t bring anything reactive into the caves, much less something like alchemy. Something tells me Darkwing already reminded you of that.” 

“I’d rather blow up the caves than blow up the stacks,” Orion said in irritation. He blinked, his finial twitching as he hesitated and glanced up at Megatron. This time, when he spoke, there was no exasperated humor, but rather, a tentative curiosity as he asked, “how… how do you know about mining protocols? Or about Darkwing?” 

Megatron didn’t speak. 

Ah, some part of his processor said faintly. I fucked up. 

That part of his life, before the rebellion, before the hatred, before the cog - well. Megatron had done everything in his power to ensure that no one could ever connect the dots. It wasn’t a matter of pride, or something nonsensical like that. He wasn’t ashamed of who he had once been. But it was about safety, and about ensuring that no one could pull up any past record of him and go digging into things he didn’t want them to see or know about. 

He had been doing so well at keeping up with that, at making sure that nothing about him would be learned without his permission, but this mech - this insignificant miner who was so far from insignificant that it actually stunned Megatron to think about - had somehow pulled information out of him without even trying. 

What could he do? 

Could he tackle Orion to the ground right now, dig through his optic, find the memory processing unit in his helm, and tear it out? Could he use other means, something more carnal and sinful, until Orion forgot everything, including his own name? 

No, no. None of those options sounded good. He didn’t want to brutally rip apart Orion’s helm and get his pretty energon smeared all over his servos. He similarly didn’t want to take Orion up on the floor like this was some fucked up conjugal visit, not when his sole purpose was to simply manipulate him. 

Thinking about any of this was honestly like pulling dentae out. Why was Megatron so bothered?

You’re acting stupider than usual, a voice that sounded disturbingly like Starscream sneered inside his mind. It’s obvious that you’ve grown attached. Really, Megatron? Ugh. Of course you would get captured and immediately become smitten with the first idiot who talks to you. 

Oh, Megatron thought a little dumbly. Oh, he means something to me. 

Back when the rebellion first started, Megatron had dealt with the misfortune of learning the hard way that sentiment had no place in his spark, at least not as the unwavering leader of his fellow oppressed. It had been hard, incredibly so, but too many losses and too many casualties had taught Megatron a very difficult lesson on what kind of mech he had to be to survive. 

How did Orion do it? How had he made Megatron want him so badly to the point that he was about to do something, say something, that went against everything he had ever forced himself to learn? 

“Megatron?” Orion said. His voice was unsure, and his optics darted around Megatron’s face, drinking him in and squinting when he couldn’t find whatever he was looking for. Hesitantly, almost painfully shyly, Orion said, “did I offend you?” 

No, Megatron thought. You did something I never thought possible. 

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” Megatron asked instead, brushing aside Orion’s noise of concern when he leaned forward and tipped his nose down to stare directly at the empty cog well in Orion’s chassis. It was a bit too disturbing to see a chasm like this again, and somewhere deep beyond his armor plating, Megatron’s own well ached, a phantom pain that still couldn’t be soothed even with his running cog. “You never get over it, even in recharge.” 

“What are you - “ Orion jerked back. There wasn’t much room to go anywhere, but his dermas pursed and his optics narrowed as he held a servo to his well, covering it with his digits, as if that meant anything. He was scowling, now, and irritation bled into his voice as he said, “look. I can’t believe I have to have this same exact conversation within joors, but you can’t just look at my freaking well! It’s not polite, and I don’t care if you’re a higher caste, it’s fragging rude - “ 

Megatron laughed. 

It was an honest and startled reaction that burst out of him unintentionally, and his engine purred roaringly inside his chassis, practically vibrating his armor as he tried to rein in the ugly sound. It was one of both humor and bittersweetness, curdled at the edges with the faintest sense of nostalgia, and Orion seemed rather nervous as slowly, Megatron ex-vented a large huff of warm air. 

“Sheep.” Megatron chuckled, his engine still running and warming the frigid chill around them slowly as he grinned at Orion. It was a bit strange to smile, a real one, not one twisted with malice or mockery. He slowly slipped out another vent, and when he spoke, his words were soft and hinted with exasperation as he said, “that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. That empty well, your scars from the mines, your frankly ridiculous relationship with Darkwing…” 

He trailed off. 

“You have a lot of scars.” Megatron began again. “So do I. But not all of them were gained through things like battle or war or torture, like everyone seems to believe.” 

“What?” Orion whispered. He was trembling ever so slightly, and Megatron honestly couldn’t tell if it was because of the cold or something else. Maybe a mixture of both. Whatever it was, it had him clenching his servo into a fist over his well, and he peered at Megatron with something close to desperation. “You - you were - “ 

“I was a miner. Designation D-16,” Megatron said, the old name clunky and strange in his intake. He hadn’t thought or even said that designation in vorns, and an uncharacteristic feeling of awkwardness - embarrassment - filtered through him when Orion’s optics quite literally lit up in awe. “Sub-level 30 was where I worked the most.” 

“No fucking way!” 

Two yelps of pain reverberated throughout the cell as Orion shot forward, the top of his helm crashing against the bottom of Megatron’s chin so thoroughly that he felt like his optics rattled with the impact. They both curled forward, trembling, with Orion pressing his forehelm to Megatron’s chassis as the latter gritted his dentae and tried to shove away his pain sensors’ notifications. 

“Okay, that was an accident.” Orion moaned pitifully, his voice muffled against Megatron’s armor. “Shit, that’s gonna bruise.” 

“At least you didn’t almost bite half your glossa off just now.” Megatron managed to ground out, his jaw sore from how hard he’d been clenching. “Primus, Orion, you can’t just - “ 

“You were a miner,” Orion said, interrupting what had definitely been about to be a lecture about acting like a mech his own age. There were stars in his optics as he looked up again, and despite the developing bruise right in the middle of his forehelm, something in Megatron’s spark ached, and he couldn’t finish his sentence, his dermas parting slightly as Orion grinned. “You knew the veins! A-And the mines! You - you knew Darkwing?” 

Megatron snorted lightly as he gingerly settled back against the wall again, folding his legs up slightly so it created a more comfortable place for Orion to settle. The smaller mech was warm, the scent of petrichor seeping deep into Megatron’s protoform, and he steadily ignored the way his engine purred in satisfaction when Orion naturally leaned into his arms some more. 

“It was far more than just knowing Darkwing,” Megatron rasped. He had to take a moment to drag up the old and slight staticy memories from his hard drive, but it was easier than he thought it would be. He hadn't accessed these particular files in such a long time that he was honestly surprised he still had them. “That fragger used to be my boss. I can’t even count the amount of times he acted like someone personally shoved that pole up his aft. Pretty impressive considering he was only seventeen vorns at the time.”

Orion laughed, and it was a sound that Megatron immediately recorded and tucked away into his memory core. There was no way he couldn’t, not when Orion smiled so widely with it, like he thought Megatron was the most delightful mech he had ever met. 

“I always knew that slagger was born that way,” Orion said triumphantly. His servo twitched over his cog well, and his face softened into an expression of concern as he said, “but wait, I don’t understand. If you really were a miner, how do you have…?” 

He hesitated, his arm raised. He glanced up at Megatron in question, and after a moment, he dipped his chin shallowly in a go ahead. 

Orion reached forward and pressed his digits to the smooth, silver plating of Megatron’s chassis. It was a soft touch, gentle in the way it traced the symmetrical grooves and thumbed the edges that implied a cog well underneath. 

Megatron shuddered slightly, his processor whirling in overdrive as it took note of the various ridges and bumps of Orion’s servo, a result of endless vorns of mining. If Megatron weren’t in these damn servo suppressants, he could have compared their scars against each other, to press their palms together and see which injuries matched and which didn’t. 

“You’re being dangerous,” Megatron muttered. His voice was low, a near growl, a mix of his desire and barely restrained warning. Orion didn’t seem to care, his gaze entirely fixated on Megatron’s plating, and this time, he let out a small snap from his vocalizer, a sound meant to instinctively alarm anyone as he snarled, “Orion!” 

“You told that femme earlier that she was being dangerous, too,” Orion said, his tone dropping from its usual tenor into a baritone as he leaned forward slightly. He was close, too close to be entirely comfortable, and Megatron shivered again, feeling like a complete glitch over how helpless he was at Orion’s careful touch and words. 

“Because she was,” Megatron said. 

“All she wanted was to help you.” 

“She shouldn’t.” 

“But she did. And so do I,” Orion said. He seemed a bit stunned by his declaration, like he had never said it out loud before. For half a micro-klik, his servo paused, palming the area just above Megatron’s cog well, and beneath that, his spark chamber. Orion cleared his throat, shook his helm, and said, “it doesn’t matter to me what’s dangerous or not. I’m already in this deep, aren’t I?” 

Megatron sighed, the sound deep and rattling as he eyed Orion with a deeply penetrating look. This time, when he spoke, his voice was flat and unforgiving. “What you’re asking from me isn’t something that I can take back, Orion. Look - look at me.”

Orion tipped his chin up, his helm tilted slightly as his wide optics stared unflinchingly right into Megatron’s own. It was yet another reminder of just how fearless this mech was, how he had broken into Titan’s Hold just to catch a glimpse of the criminal rebellion leader, and how eventually, he even extended a hand just to give him the fuel he needed. 

But Megatron wanted - no, needed - Orion to understand that if they talked more, if they peeled back the layers, then the abyss would be inevitable, and no one, not even someone as stubborn as Orion, could ever look away. 

“You told me before that you don’t trust me,” Megatron said. He said it blandly, without any inflection, but Orion flinched like he’d been burned anyway. To soothe that soreness, Megatron hummed low in his throat and his engine rumbled reassuringly, just enough to get Orion’s shoulders to stop tensing so much. “And that you believe in Ultra Magnus. That you believe in your friend, Sentinel. That’s what I’m trying to warn you about, sheep. The truth that you desire, and the consequences that follow…” 

You can never escape it, his unsaid words echoed. 

Orion looked stunned.

“Do you trust me?” Megatron asked. 

“I…” Orion stuttered. 

“Do you trust me?” Megatron repeated, more pressing this time. 

Orion made a distressed chirp from the back of his throat, and he pulled his servo back, his digits fumbling and twitching as he did. He looked to the side, his gaze unfocused, and his words unsure as he muttered, “I… I don't think so.” 

“Good.” 

Orion jerked, whirling his helm back around in disbelief, a frown already starting to furrow his optic ridges. “What?” 

“That's good.” Megatron repeated. He rolled his optics when Orion made a small noise of uncertainty, and felt rather childish as he leaned down and bit gently at the tip of the miner's nose, snorting when Orion immediately squawked and tried to bat him away. “Don't overthink it. Not trusting someone immediately is a good skill to have. Questioning what you know, trying to figure out things on your own… That's what marks a mech who knows how to think for himself.” 

“But I want to trust you,” Orion whispered. 

Megatron blinked slowly. His spark skipped a beat, and his voice was admittedly a little hoarser than normal as he said, “... you do?” 

Orion nodded. “I do. I think. But I can't - I just…” 

“You need to see it for yourself.” Megatron finished. He sighed and wondered what to do with this bot who defied everything and yet still forced himself to adhere to the society he had been born into. It was a little uneasy, honestly, because Megatron could very well remember how he'd been in the exact same position only a few vorns prior. 

“I can't tell you everything,” Megatron said. 

Orion looked crushed, and he fumbled with his servos, scrabbling at Megatron's shoulders as he sputtered, “but you said - !” 

“Calm down,” Megatron muttered soothingly, his arms tightening just the slightest amount around Orion's back and legs. Not nearly enough to hurt, but just the right amount of pressure so that slowly, the smaller mech stopped digging his digits into the protoform of Megatron's seams. “You didn't let me finish. I can't tell you everything, not yet. Not until you're fully ready to leave everything behind.” 

Orion's face paled of any energon, the soft silver now near white. He swallowed, hard, and his bottom derma trembled the slightest bit as he said, “you’re asking me to leave my entire life behind?” 

“I’m not asking you for anything,” Megatron said quietly. He hesitated before he leaned down again, this time brushing their noses against each other, the touch soft and as reassuring as possible. His optics slid half-closed, and he felt Orion’s shuddering breath against his cheek as he muttered, “this is a decision you have to make on your own. You don’t have to do this, sheep. You can leave me behind and forget about all of this - you can return to your day-to-day and be none the wiser.” 

“You’re telling me to forget about you,” Orion whispered, his neck arching up so that his cheek rubbed ever so slightly against Megatron’s. His servo landed on the rebel’s chassis again, digits digging in just enough to send signals to Megatron’s processor. “I can’t. Please don’t ask me of that. That’s cruel.” 

Megatron ground his dentae in his effort to stop from fully kissing this stupid, beautiful mech. “You have to. I already told you, you’re being dangerous. You need to stop doing this, and you need to stop trying to make me out to be something I might not be.” 

Orion looked to the side, his face in a severe frown as he did. It was clear that he was thinking, his dermas pressed tight into a pinched look of displeasure, his thumb absentmindedly rubbing across the plating over Megatron’s cog well. It was only after Megatron gave a small grunt of pain did Orion glance at him again, this time his frown one of concern. 

“You’re hurt again,” Orion said, his voice deep with worry as he leaned in closer, his optics darting around the entirety of Megatron’s frame. There was no use in trying to hide any of the injuries he sustained, so Megatron simply sighed and allowed the miner to reach up and cup his cheek, rubbing a knuckle gently against the corner of his dermas, before pulling away to reveal a blue stain on his servo. “Megatron!” 

“It’s nothing,” Megatron said easily, and maybe a little too quickly. “Prowl gets overzealous, and I can handle - ow!” 

He wasn’t particularly proud of the sharp yelp that escaped him when Orion sent him a distinctly unimpressed look and dug a sharp knuckle into the bruise that had developed near his shoulder protoform. It was a shocking pain that sent his processor reeling, and he cursed a line of filth that would have had Soundwave beating him on the helm. 

“How much are you at in terms of fuel reserve?” Orion demanded. 

“Enough.” Megatron tried to answer vaguely, though the stoicness of his voice was broken with a wince when Orion made an unhappy noise and once again pinched another bruise, this time causing Megatron to squirm in some bizarre, ticklish pain. “Quit it!” 

“How much,” Orion said again. 

“Don’t you fucking dare - ouch!” 

“That’s what you get for being such a stubborn afthole.” 

“Oh, for the love of - ow, ow, okay, stop!” Megatron wheezed out an unpleasant noise that was somewhere between an uncontrollable laugh and annoyed grunt as he finally spat out, “thirty-six percent. Ah. Thirty-five.” 

“That’s too low for the amount of injuries you have.” Orion frowned, his arm compartment already flipping open as he pressed a cube insistently to Megatron's dermas. “Drink, you stubborn aft.” 

Megatron drank. 

“I went to the archives,” Orion said in a hushed tone some kliks later. He was snuggled close to Megatron's chassis, his helm tilted against his shoulder as he brushed his thumb over the rebel's derma, rubbing away any of the energon that had spilled. His touch was gentle, caressing, and Megatron turned his helm to brush a kiss to the digit. Orion swallowed, and his pupils were blown wide as he said in a hoarse voice, “I, uh, needed help getting inside, so my friend Jazz told me how he has a buddy who lets him in sometimes.” 

“Resourceful,” Megatron murmured, well aware of how his tone was low, saccharine, seductive. The scent of ozone in the air almost made him smile, which he dampened only because of vorns of training his control over his face.

Megatron wasn't vain enough to say that he was the best looking mech out there, but he knew he also wasn't exactly ugly. Still, this current version of himself, beaten and starved and carved to hell, wasn't the best image of him. To think that this miner, this stubborn, hard headed, wonderful miner found him so attractive… 

Well. It was even better than getting drunk on high grade. The scent of Orion's petrichor was just as good as any drug, and mixed with the crackling scent of ozone, Megatron's helm felt heady with it. How could anyone resist this mech? How could anyone not look at Orion's full dermas, beautiful optics, and cute little finials and not want to make him theirs? 

Megatron was just a mech, dammit, and his voice was just a touch too low to be appropriate as he muttered, “I like that in a bot.” 

Orion blushed, and it was absolutely fantastic. High spots of blue appeared on his cheeks, and he squirmed lightly, charge causing small sparks to flick across his empty cog well for a brief micro-klik as he managed to stutter out, “u-uh, well, I learned a lot. There wasn't any datapad about the ceremony in the archives, and I was upset, but Longarm confirmed that - “ 

Megatron almost choked. “I'm sorry? Longarm?” 

He burst out laughing, his vocalizer sputtering as Orion bounced slightly in his lap from how boisterous the sound was. His engine rumbled with his amusement, and he was still chuckling as eventually he calmed down, though he did almost hiccup into another fit when Orion stared at him in complete bewilderment and said, “what the hell is the matter with you? What's so funny?” 

“Oh, sheep.” Megatron purred, leaning down so close that the tips of their noses nearly brushed against each other. He rumbled in satisfaction as Orion's optics fluttered half-shut, his servos clutching at Megatron quite desperately as a small, breathy noise escaped him. “You really are a good luck charm, aren't you? First you come and give me energon like some sort of angel, and then you climb into my lap like the obedient pet you are.” 

“Don't call me that, you aft.” Orion gasped, but he was tilting his chin up and nudging his nose insistently against Megatron's, who watched him with a hunger that practically burned in his chassis. When he didn't do anything, Orion's dreamy look sharpened into a glare, and he scowled as he pawed insistently at Megatron's armor and demanded, “are you going to kiss me or not, you fragging - “ 

Megatron leaned down and devoured Orion. 

His dermas were as soft as they appeared, and Megatron couldn’t tell who moaned, but when he swiped his glossa across the seam and Orion eagerly opened, there was no mistaking the steam that escaped from his smokestacks as he bit down on that plush, bottom derma and Orion made a sound that couldn't be described as anything but a whimper. 

His one arm wrapped around Megatron's neck, tugging him closer in a demand for more, something that amused the rebel to no end. Orion's other servo scrabbled at Megatron's shoulder, almost helpless in the way his digits dug into the seam and soft protoform, and the pain that ran down Megatron's spinal strut made him groan. 

Megatron knew he was being too rough, too forceful as he licked his way into Orion's intake and sucked on the miner's glossa, his own charge starting to crackle dangerously when Orion sobbed briefly and arched his dorsal plates, like he couldn't get enough. 

So for a brief klik, he broke away, their breaths heaving and Orion's dermas slick with saliva as he panted and stared up at Megatron with wide optics. 

“Orion - “ Megatron began hoarsely. 

“Don't you fucking dare stop,” Orion growled, and this time, he clambered in Megatron's lap until he was straddling him, his bound wrists held awkwardly in between them. Orion’s gaze gleamed with something mischievous and defiant, and he grinned when he pushed at Megatron's chassis. 

With a small oof, his dorsal plate hit the wall behind him gently, and he stared up at Orion with a mixture of disbelief and lust as the miner purred and shoved Megatron's arms up against the cement, keeping them raised and out of the way with a single servo. 

“You fragger,” Megatron said in amazement. “How many mechs do I have to kill, huh? Who taught you to act like this?” 

Orion's optics glimmered as he shuffled close, his other server reaching down and cupping Megatron's jaw, his clever digits sliding slyly against the sensitive protoform and causing Megatron to shudder. “Everyone has their secrets, shepherd. Now shut up and let me kiss you.” 

Megatron's groan was swallowed up as Orion leaned down and caught his dermas again, his servo stroking the side of Megatron's helm in a decidedly very distracting way, especially when his digit caught on the outer piece of his armor and began to tease it with his light touches. 

“I'm going to kill every mech who ever touched you before me,” Megatron growled into their kiss, hating his servo suppressants more than ever, his spark burning to grab at Orion and hold him still so he could frag the living daylights out of him. 

“And I'm going to beat every bot who ever touched you before me.” Orion gasped, his gaze dazed and his intake swollen as he leaned back just the slightest bit to catch his breath. He scowled at Megatron, his tone decidedly possessive and oh so delicious as he demanded, “who the hell did you kiss to become so good at this, afthole?” 

Megatron let out a sharp bark of laughter, and he was sure by now that it was affection that allowed him to sit there, unbothered by the position they were in, all too eager to allow Orion to handle him like this. Megatron was vulnerable in all senses of the word, from the way his entire front was open to injury to the way his spark felt bare and stripped naked, but it was okay. 

It was okay. Orion made it okay, dammit, and his voice softened as he arched up, caught the miner's intake in another kiss, this time slower and gentler as he murmured, “you did well. I'm proud of you.” 

Orion's venting hitched and he pressed back into him with a moan. “Longarm said that if I wanted answers, I'd have to find out on my own.” 

“He’s right,” Megatron muttered into their kiss. 

“You know him, don't you?” Orion said, breaking their kiss as he stared at Megatron critically. His gaze wasn't accusatory, but it was firm in his belief, and his voice didn't waver as he said, “that's why you laughed earlier.” 

“Smart.” Megatron chuckled lightly, and he bit playfully at Orion's nose, snorting when the miner squawked and pushed him away, telling him to cut it out. “Yes, you're right, I know him. Very well, actually. His real designation is Shockwave, and he's currently on a personal mission that I assigned to him.” 

“Shockwave?” Orion repeated, bewildered. “Wait, how is he working as Sunstreaker's assistant? There's no way the council would let something like that slip. I thought they had files on all of your rebellion!” 

Megatron hummed as he settled back into a more comfortable position, nuzzling into Orion's touch as he continued to absentmindedly stroke his cheek. When he kissed the palm, Orion shot him a look that said he was going to kiss him again if he didn't hurry up and explain, which in all honesty didn't sound like a bad deal. 

But he promised this infuriating mech as much of the truth as he could divulge for now, so he said, “only partial files, darling. The only picture they ever really managed to capture was of me, and that wasn't exactly unintentional. Your Ultra likes to paint himself as someone who's always in the know, but in case you haven't noticed the injuries, he has to resort to setting his enforcer rats after me to try and get as much information as possible.” 

Orion frowned deeply, and Megatron wished he could rub away the lines that appeared in between his ridges as he said, “I can't believe Ultra would resort to torture. It's so disturbing. And I hate seeing you hurt.” 

His thumb traced the corner of Megatron's intake, where he rubbed away any trace of the energon he had bled some half joor or so ago. Orion seemed genuinely upset, and there was a tenderness to him as he bent down and pressed a kiss to the spot, taking care not to put too much pressure. 

“Why are there no datapads about the ceremony?” Orion whispered against his protoform. 

Megatron sighed. 

He broke the kiss, briefly giving Orion a fleeting one when the miner made a sound of annoyance, but he needed to concentrate for this. He breathed out slowly, and Orion tilted his helm in question, likely questioning why his face was suddenly so somber. 

“The ceremony isn't just some ornamental tradition that we've kept around for shits and giggles,” Megatron said slowly. “My rebels and I have spent a long time looking into it, because it always bothered me how strange the entire thing was.” 

“Strange?” Orion said. He bit on his bottom derma, and he looked distinctly disturbed as he urged, “explain.” 

“A long time ago, back when the Primes were still alive, Cybertron flourished and was known to be at the forefront of space exploration,” Megatron said. The information Shockwave had fed him was practically burned into his processor by this point, but that didn't mean it was any less unsettling. “Even with how our medicine hadn't been as advanced, there was no nonsense about foreign illnesses or - “ 

“Or viruses that we aren't immune to.” Orion interrupted. He glanced to the side, his digit tapping on Megatron's arm. “Yeah, I read about that somewhere. There are still a few planets considered to be claimed in the name of Cybertron, but S-Sentinel said something about how most of them probably don't even remember us since it's been so long.” 

Megatron's optics narrowed at the stutter on Sentinel's name, and he tucked it away into his processor for later so he could analyze it. “You're right. It bugged me until I couldn't handle it, so I decided to send Shockwave into Iacon as a means to discover what's going on. It wasn't easy, but…” 

He trailed off. 

“What is it?” Orion asked. When Megatron didn't answer right away, he blew out an impatient huff. “Dude!” 

“Don't call me that when I stuck my glossa into your intake not even five kliks ago.” Megatron rolled his optics, smirking when it successfully caused the miner to snap his jaw shut and blush to high hell. “Fine. He found that every single trailblazer ended up dead.” 

Orion stared. “Right. Because they can't return home, so they pass away in space.” 

Megatron was shaking his helm even before Orion finished speaking, and his words were gentle as he said, “no, that's not it. They never went to space in the first place. They died here, in Iacon.” 

“No.” 

“The council killed them, Orion.” 

“No, don’t - “ 

“I know it’s hard to believe - “ 

“You’re - “ 

“But there’s no other - “

“No, that doesn't make any sense,” Orion said a little too loudly. His voice echoed around the cell sharply, and the blue of his optics were leaning into that side of too bright as he ran a servo over his helm and stuttered, “no, that can’t be right. How could they die here? Don’t - you’re saying - “ 

“Breathe.” Megatron sat up, the motion just enough so that Orion’s helm was leaning against his chassis. Megatron allowed his engine to purr, a noise to soothe rather than to seduce, and he nuzzled the top of Orion’s audial as he murmured, “listen to the sound of my voice. Of my sparkbeat.” 

They fell silent, the quiet only broken by Orion’s soft, panting vents. He wasn’t shaky, exactly, but close to it, and dug his digits so tightly into Megatron’s shoulders that if he were anyone else, the metal probably would have bent. 

For once, the cold of the room would be useful, and would probably help in calming Orion down. It was the one good decision Prowl had ever made, and Megatron lifted his chin to slowly huff out a cloud of steam, taking care not to breathe it over his miner, whose world was just rocked at its very core. 

A small part of Megatron sympathized. When he and the others had initially found out the truth, he’d been the hardest to convince that it was all real. Starscream and Shockwave had been vindicated, almost pleased, as if they were finally proven right that after all this time, the shittiness of their lives and situations weren’t actually their fault or chance, and so they were finally justified in their anger. 

But Megatron? He had been content with his life. Happy, even. He had worked diligently in the mines, toiling away selflessly at the veins and never finding any reason to disobey. When everything came crashing down, he honestly thought his reality had been shattered. Staring into the abyss had changed something in him, and he knew that Orion was getting dangerously close to peering at something that would look back with a ferocity he had never faced before. 

And it was even worse for him. Though Megatron could honestly recognize a flame in the miner’s optics, a burning curiosity that he couldn’t quite dampen despite his best efforts, it was easy to curb if it meant staying loyal to his friends, especially that one, Sentinel. 

That kind of loyalty was hard to break, much less question, and Megatron sincerely wished he could take away the pain and the desperation that Orion was going through. 

But the larger part of him knew he couldn’t interfere. If this was the path that Orion wanted to walk, it had to be through his strength and his choices alone. Megatron could guide him, maybe even point him in the right direction, but everything else, he had to look away and simply keep his intake shut. 

No one could truly break free and fly if they allowed someone else to undo the chains. 

“Why?” Orion asked. It wasn’t a sob, but it was close to it, and he looked up at Megatron with desperation, clawing at his armor like he could somehow drag the answer out of him. “Why would the council do that? Why?” 

“I don’t know,” Megatron murmured. “I really don’t. We’ve been trying for vorns to figure it out, but even Shockwave has his limits. And with my capture as well as orders for my rebels to lay low, there isn’t much that we can do.” 

“But you’re telling me that Ultra not only condones, but demands for the death of his citizens.” Orion practically begged. His bottom derma began to tremble, and he squeezed his servos into fists, banging one on Megatron’s chassis, though admittedly not that hard. “No, no! This is so unfair! You’re telling me things that shift my entire world, that literally break the ground underneath me, and I’m supposed to trust you? I have to trust you? You’ve killed bots! You’ve taken the lives of the innocent! I’m supposed to hate you! I have to hate you!” 

He stopped. 

He sat there, hunched over, his servos fisted and trembling, and his breathing so shallow that it was nothing more than a rapid flux of his chassis. He looked beautiful even like this, and Megatron ached.

“So why can’t I?” Orion finally said. He slowly lifted his chin, and though there were tears that pooled at the corners of his optics, they didn’t spill. He no longer looked at Megatron like he had the answers, which was good, because he didn’t have any. All of this, the anger, the torture, the questions - they were things Orion had to figure out for himself. Oh, how Megatron loathed it all. “I don’t hate you.” 

“That’s good,” Megatron said hoarsely. 

“Do you hate me?” Orion asked. 

“No,” Megatron said sincerely. “Never.” 

Orion laughed, and it was dry. “You don’t get to say that. Don’t make promises you can’t keep. Don’t - don’t give me hope. That’s cruel.” 

“Orion,” Megatron said helplessly. He didn’t know what to say. For the first time in his life, Megatron was speechless, and that had never happened before, because for all his contentment with his previous life, and for all his brutality in his second, Megatron had always managed to paint a picture with his words, had always scraped something together that either enraged his opponents or encouraged his allies. 

You must be a poet in another universe, Starscream had once told him in a rare moment of quiet from the mech. He had sat close to Megatron, the seeker’s wings folded back and relaxed as Megatron slowly groomed them, and the stars had glimmered high above them. It had been the first time they ever saw the open lune sky, and Selene had been even more beautiful than Megatron ever imagined. 

That’s a strange thing to say, Megatron had laughed. 

No, Starscream had muttered. You never fail to build cathedrals with your words alone. 

Well, Megatron had finally said after a moment of contemplation. All the better to lead. 

All the better to sing, Starscream had agreed. 

“Orion.” Megatron repeated. He ignored all of what Starscream had said, and he ignored everything he had ever taught himself. Instead, he smiled, a loose and sloppy thing that made his grin crooked, nervous, shy, and he said very plainly, “you mean more to me than I can put into words.” 

Orion shuddered, closed his optics, and then surged forward. 

His kiss was nothing more than a press of their dermas together, but just that simple touch was enough for Megatron to understand everything he was trying to say. Thank you, I adore you, I want to believe you, I want to understand, I want to see your world, I want to hold you, I want to touch you… 

It seemed Megatron wasn’t the only one who couldn’t speak that well. 

“Hot Rod’s going to die,” Orion said hoarsely, and he pulled back just enough so that there was a sliver of air in between them. He held Megatron’s helm in both his servos, his thumb stroking against one of Megatron’s cheeks, and he took in a deep, fortifying breath. “Please. Help me save him.” 

Megatron didn’t answer. 

Instead, he simply kissed Orion’s palm, once again using that one touch alone to convey his meaning. 

Okay.