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The dream of traveling across galaxies and studying their secrets now felt like a distant memory from another life, a worn-out illusion that belonged to a mech completely different from who he had become. In those days, lost in the dusty silence of the Iacon Archives, the vastness of the cosmos had been nothing more than a world of wonders waiting to be discovered; every datapad about extinct civilizations, every map of remote constellations, was a fragment of that infinite story he longed to absorb. But that longing had been extinguished, replaced by the harsh reality of perpetual escape. Traveling was no longer an adventure; it was a scar, a constant reminder that the universe, once synonymous with promise, had become a battlefield from which they had to hide. Each journey, each planet they visited, was a constant reminder of their escape from Cybertron and from the Decepticons who had taken what remained of the planet and were now hunting them down to extinguish their sparks.
When the Ark’s sensors picked up a planet of ochre and reddish tones, an arid and fractured world, hope flickered faintly in his chest. However, the miracle materialized in the spectral readings, among the complex network of minerals, deposits of raw energon crystals had been detected. There was no debate, not a single processor-cycle wasted on doubt. The order to halt their course was immediate. The stop was a desperate necessity, a pulse of survival. Most of their fuel was allocated to the Ark’s engines, to keep them constantly running so they wouldn’t have to stop and so they could escape in a worst-case scenario if the Decepticons found them. The rations for the crew were short, measured one by one to prolong their energon supply. Optimus watched how his Autobots moved with their usual efficiency, a façade of normalcy that couldn’t hide the low-consumption hum in their systems. He knew, with the cold certainty that leadership brought, that they couldn’t afford to run with their tanks half empty. At any moment, around any bend in space, they could encounter the enemy. And when that happened, they would need to be full, strong, ready. This dry, dusty planet was a reprieve, an unexpected gift they could not afford to waste.
The planet stretched before him, an arid, cracked landscape where cutting winds carried dust with them. Each gust struck the Ark’s hull with a rough whisper, a sound that, for one treacherous moment, entangled itself in his audio receptors and transformed into the echo of another desert. Kaon. The name rose from the depths of his processor, followed by a wave of memories he would have preferred to avoid. Unlike Iacon, with its polished towers and orderly streets, Kaon was harsh; there were no shining buildings or paved roads, everything was a vast expanse of dirt and dust, accompanied by large factories or mines where workers were exploited. He remembered the many times he traveled for hours just to see him. Nights in Kaon were not defined by stillness, but by the hum of resistance, by the passionate speeches that reverberated through crowded plazas, and by the long hours in a private cell, reviewing strategies and treaties in the company of Megatronus. He remembered the intensity in the gladiator’s eyes, the way his words, rough as the sand of the Arena, sketched the image of a fairer future, a world where castes and titles did not determine the value of a spark. He remembered the warmth of a massive servo resting on his shoulder, a solid, constant presence that made him believe, even if only for a moment, that the revolution was not just necessary, but possible. Together. The word that began as strategy, a near-diplomatic alliance forged between the curiosity of an archivist and the restrained fury of a gladiator, both slaves, in their own way, to a system that dictated their worth and destiny. Soon, they found a rhythm of their own. It was the very oppressive machinery that, by pushing them to the margins, united them, and what began as a tactic transformed into an intimate language, and that language, in turn, into promises. Not only promises of a better, fairer world, but promises of love, whispered in the dark, speaking of loyalty and devotion.
It was impossible not to remember how those servos, which at first simply rested on his shoulder, began tracing maps across his body, discovering every corner, every cable, every sensitive point of his frame. The same claws that in the arena tore apart beasts and shredded metal explored him with an inexplicable tenderness. Every moan they drew from his vocalizer, every muffled cry, and every growl of possession when the gladiator claimed him as his own, had been engraved into his memory like fire. And it wasn’t just the physical fire; it was the endless nights, cycles and cycles spent in constant communication, defying the distance between Iacon and Kaon. They exchanged opinions about ancient poets, debated works of radical philosophy, and built the foundations of a revolution amid whispers and low laughter. Orion could never get enough. Every morning he needed a dose of his voice to function; every night, he found comfort in not hanging up but simply listening to the sound of his breathing stabilize on the other end until sleep overtook them both. He would give anything, anything, to close his optics that very instant and wake up in the berth of his small recharge station in Iacon, with Megatronus’s name glowing on his processor interface, seeing that call he never dared to end.
A sharp pain, as physical as if internal cables had burned, tore through his chassis. The memories, once warm, had soured, poisoned by betrayal and spilled energon. With a conscious effort that demanded more energy than he would ever admit, Optimus wiped them from his processor, forcing a reset in his emotional systems. He could not afford that indulgence. Not here. Not now.
His optics refocused on the present, scanning the area from the elevated safety of the unloading bridge. Below, a colony of miniature metal ants, his Autobots, moved with well-practiced synchronization. Some checked the perimeter of the provisional camp, driving reflectors and shield generators into the hard ground, while others assembled the heavy machinery needed to extract and process the Energon. His optics shifted mechanically between readings from his internal processor, reports on energy levels, atmospheric scans, updates from his bots, and the vast earthy expanse before him. It was then that his gaze landed on the true owners of this world. Organic creatures of a scale that inspired cautious reverence. They were enormous beings with scaly skin that reflected the faint light with oily gleams, their bodies articulated in multiple sections that allowed them to move with surprising grace for their size, slipping through cracks in the rock that seemed impossibly narrow. To his relief, the native inhabitants had kindly accepted their stay on the planet so they could extract energon. They understood the Autobots’ situation and promised to keep their location a secret, in exchange, they asked for no weapons, no technology, but knowledge, stellar information, coordinates of other worlds rich in the mineral resources that were scarce in their home.
Optimus couldn’t have been more grateful for their discretion and wisdom.
His gaze followed the steady rhythm of the base’s assembly, a choreography of survival, until a sound, sharp and completely foreign to that environment of labor and tension, pulled him from his processor. A cheerful laugh. The sound sliced through the hum of engines and the screech of metal like a knife, and for the first time in a long time, Optimus’s attention centered not on the war, but on that flicker of pure life.
The sudden appearance of a small frame in shades of pink and black, hiding between his legs, was as unexpected as the burst of giggles that followed her. The sound, crystalline and carefree, cut through the fog of his tactical thoughts and forced his optics downward, toward the source of such joy. He had no time to process it before a second laugh, deeper but just as joyful, echoed nearby, followed by quick, heavy steps for someone his size, yet filled with the light energy of youth.
Behind his mask, Optimus’s upper lip curled into an involuntary grimace, a mix of exasperation and discomfort he was grateful to keep hidden. His gaze caught Bumblebee, the young sparkling they had managed to rescue, zigzagging between his ankles with clumsy determination as he chased the little femme who was using Optimus’s long limbs as temporary shelter.
“Bumblebee!” Optimus’s voice emerged with a rougher tone than he intended. With care bordering on excessive caution, he lowered his massive torso and cupped Eridanus’s tiny frame in his servos. He lifted her, feeling the incredible lightness of her body against his palms, keeping her at a safe distance as if he were holding an explosive artifact or a delicate crystal on the verge of shattering. His optics met the sparkling’s, and a familiar, painful conflict settled in his spark. Her optics… They were a bright pink, not the furious shade of battle or tyranny, but one luminous and curious, and the pattern he knew far too well, it dragged up a memory of Megatron that cut deeper than any blade. “What do you think you’re doing? I told you both to stay inside the Ark while we set up camp. Something could crush you” he scolded the young mech, who immediately stopped laughing.
Bumblebee froze, his own optics glowing with a mix of guilt. “I’m sorry, Optimus. We were playing, but she started running and I… I was just trying to catch her before she got into trouble.”
A heavy sigh, laden with the weight of a million worries, escaped Optimus’s vents. With deliberate movements, he transferred the small body that squirmed softly into Bumblebee’s outstretched arms.
“Take her inside. And this time don’t come out, I don’t want either of you getting hurt” he instructed, his voice regaining some of its usual calm, though still tinged with fatigue.
Bumblebee nodded vigorously, adjusting his hold on the little femme. But just as he turned around, the sparkling extended her tiny arms, her small servos opening and closing in the empty air in a desperate attempt to reach Optimus. A series of high-pitched beeps came from her vocalizer, the only language she could produce, a silent plea that pierced through Optimus’s armor with more precision than any laser.
Optimus remained motionless, a statue of metal and guilt, watching as the yellow figure walked away carrying that small pink and black dot that, despite its size, seemed to leave a tangible void in its wake. He kept staring at the cargo door long after it had sealed, the echo of those pitiful beeps resonating in his receptors like a reproach.
The soft squeak of tires over the metal of the bridge announced Jazz’s arrival before his voice did.
“Boss, the perimeter is secured and the extractors are already at sixty percent capacity, so once they reach one hundred percent the processors will be able to function without any major issues” he reported, following the line of Optimus’s gaze, still fixed on the sealed door through which the sparkling had disappeared. There was a pause, heavy with the understanding only a friend of so many vorns could have. “Hey, I can make sure everything keeps rolling here if you want to go with them. A break would do you good.”
The offer, made with such good intentions, hit Optimus like a sonic shot.
“No” he denied immediately, turning on his pedes to face Jazz. His voice sounded metallic and cold, the voice of the Prime he is supposed to be, not that of a good friend. “Everyone here needs me to organize our stay, and we cannot afford to linger long on this planet or the Decepticons could find us.”
Jazz didn’t flinch, his optics narrowing slightly behind his visor. After Ratchet, Jazz was the only bot who knew him better than anyone, so the moment his optics narrowed that extra fraction, he knew what he was about to say wasn’t directed at him as Prime.
“Maybe. But Eridanus also needs her Carrier, and you want to be with her.”
The name, chosen by him in the absolute solitude of his quarters, pierced through his spark. He had searched for it in his old star maps, looking for something that belonged to him, a piece of the sky he could offer her. Eridanus, the Celestial River. A constellation that snaked near Orion, belonging to the same infinite vault that had inspired his own name, an eternal and undeniable connection written in the stars. A bond he now felt like a chain.
The reaction was immediate and visceral.
“I am not her creator!” he snapped, and the look he threw at Jazz was so sharp and biting that even he, for a nanoklik, took a step back.
The silence that followed was heavier than any shout. Optimus saw the flicker of surprise and hurt in his friend’s expression, and the reality of his own words crashed over him with the weight of an asteroid. He had spoken with the anger and fear that seeped from his wounded spark, not with the wisdom and composure he was supposed to embody as a Prime. Much less with the respect he owed Jazz. The cables in his neck tensed.
“Forgive me, Jazz” he said, his voice now a rough whisper full of guilt. He even felt the impulse to let his antennas fall back, but it was one of the many reaction protocols he’d allowed himself to shut off the moment he became Prime. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. I didn’t mean to.”
Jazz nodded slowly, accepting the apology, though the concern did not fade from his face.
“I’m going to speak with the planet’s residents” Optimus announced, averting his gaze, searching for a physical escape route to match the emotional one. “I must verify that our extraction procedures aren’t damaging their ecosystem.”
And without waiting for a response, he turned and began to walk away, distancing himself not only from Jazz, but from the ghost of his own responsibility as a creator and from the echo of a name that bound him to a past and present he did not know how to reconcile.
Later, the metallic sounds of the camp had given way to an operative calm, and inside the tent that served as a provisional command center, the air was charged with the hum of data projectors and the rustling of the coarse canvas shifting in the wind. Optimus, with Jazz, Prowl, Cliffjumper and other bots gathered around a holographic table, reviewed the extraction reports. Calculations flowed, estimating cycles and tons of Energon, planning how long they could afford this respite before the shadow of the Decepticons caught up with them again.
The meeting unfolded with its usual efficiency until, suddenly, the flap of the tent’s entrance opened with a whisper. All heads turned in unison toward the empty threshold. No one was there. Only the dusty darkness outside. A tense confusion rippled through the group. Optimus frowned, his sensory systems shifting to low alert, until the distinctive sound of a weapon being slowly charged beside him caught his attention. He looked at Jazz, whose face showed not alarm, but a cautiously curiosity. It was then that he felt it, a tiny, almost imperceptible pressure on one of his legs. When he looked down, he found a pair of bright red optics staring at him from the shadows beneath the table. Eridanus, her frame almost fused with the darkness, smiled up at him, an expression of pure, unguarded happiness. And in that smile, in the slight, promising curve where her small, sharp fangs peeked through, Optimus did not see the little femme, but the specter of another smile, wider, more arrogant, yet sharing the same formidable structure. The image hit him low, a lightning bolt of memory that left him momentarily paralyzed.
The moment shattered with Ratchet’s hurried entrance, his vocalizer already emitting a growl of exasperation before he even spoke. “Has anyone seen Eridanus? I just turned around to grab something and she vanished from my lab.” His optics darted quickly as he crouched to search among everyone’s pedes.
Without a word, moving almost by reflex, Optimus bent down and scooped the tiny body of Eridanus into his servos. He lifted her, once again feeling that fragility that terrified him, and transferred her into Ratchet’s outstretched arms with the speed of someone shedding an uncomfortable burden.
“She’s more slippery than a cybercat” Ratchet grumbled, adjusting his grip on the little one, who didn’t even blink at him. All her senses seemed focused on Optimus, whom she watched with an intensity that was almost a physical reproach. “It’s far too late, young lady. You need to rest, or Unicron himself will come and snatch you away.”
Eridanus ignored the medic completely. Her tiny servos stretched toward Optimus again, and a soft, pitiful peep escaped her vocalizer.
Ratchet was not just a medic, he was a friend who had been there from the beginning, before Jazz, before Elita. He had been there before Optimus could even articulate a word with his vocalizer. He knew every crack in Optimus’s armor, physical and emotional. And in that moment, watching the internal struggle reflected in his rigid posture, he saw how Optimus’s gaze softened and turned directly to him, ignoring everyone else in the meeting.
“You know what?” he said, his voice losing its irritated tone for a calmer one. “Maybe you should take her. A few cycles of peace could do you both some good.”
“No. I’m busy.” Optimus’s response was a steel wall, erected in a nanoklik. His voice flat and final. Immediately afterward, he turned on his pedes, giving his back to Ratchet and the scene, as if with that sole motion he could erase its existence. “Cliffjumper” he continued, forcing a tone of normality that sounded fake even to his own receptors “proceed with the purity-level report on the extracted Energon.”
A heavy, eloquent silence fell over the tent. Optimus could feel it, the discomfort of the others was almost tangible. They had all witnessed the exchange, the way the little one sought him, and the cold determination with which he rejected her. He was aware of the occasional whispers about his refusal of the sparkling, from those who didn’t know the truth, and from those who did. Cliffjumper, after a brief and meaningful exchange of glances with Jazz, cleared his throat and, with visible effort, began speaking of figures and percentages. But for Optimus, the words had become senseless murmurs. Because in the distance, filtering through the tent’s canvas and pursuing him with ruthless tenacity, his receptors picked up the increasingly faint sound of pitiful beeps.
The next morning, the light of the suns filtered through the metallic dust hanging in the air, bathing the camp in a coppery glow. Optimus stood with his servos clasped behind his back, watching the flow of activity under his optics. A sensation he had nearly forgotten took weak root in his spark, serene satisfaction. The environment wasn’t weighed down by the low-power hum of systems running on fumes. The Autobots moved with renewed vigor, their armor free of the dull sheen that betrayed malnourished systems. They had consumed a full ration of energon, and those whose deeper tanks still needed it had been allowed seconds. He himself felt the difference, a steady, potent warmth coursed through his circuits, a latent power he did not remember possessing. Not without a pang of bitterness, he reflected on the energetic cost of the Matrix. The frame of a Prime, forged for leadership and war, and what is supposed to be Primus’s very vessel, was a much more voracious engine than the body of a simple archivist.
Peace, however, was a fragile bubble. Prowl’s figure approached, breaking his brief reverie.
“Prime” he greeted with his usual formality. “Reports are positive; extraction is advancing twelve percent above projection” He paused, and Optimus noticed the faintest change in his energon field, a flicker of something not strictly protocol “Some of the bots have requested permission to visit the nearby urban settlement. They believe a… reconnaissance mission would boost morale” Prowl looked at him directly, and Optimus felt the question coming before it was even spoken “It would be good if you joined us, you could evaluate the place yourself.”
“I’m sorry, Prowl. I prefer to stay at the camp” His justification for declining was already in his vocalizer, but just as he opened his intake, a familiar, sharp, unmistakable sound pierced his receptors.
He turned toward the sound, and there was Bulkhead with Eridanus perched atop his broad shoulders. The little femme rested in a small hollow of the constructor’s shoulder pads. And then, a wave of pure, cutting panic surged through him. He saw, in a flash of his processor, Eridanus’s small, fragile body slipping, falling through open space, crashing against the hard, cracked ground. The image was so vivid, so visceral, that he nearly reached out to catch her.
It’s the carrier protocols, he told himself, forcing his systems to calm. Just an automated biological response.
He shut his optics tightly, clenching his fists behind his back, trying to drown out the alarm hum echoing in every fiber of his being.
Bulkhead, noticing his fixed gaze, blushed slightly, embarrassment in his optics.
“Uh, sorry, Prime. She’s just too small and light to keep in my servos while I walk” The green mech approached with careful steps “Hey, would you mind taking care of her for a bit? They need help with the heavy drills, and I can’t bring her with me” He watched as Bulkhead extended one servo and the sparkling immediately crawled from his shoulders into the offered palm “You know I wouldn’t bother you if I hadn’t already asked the others”.
Optimus kept his optics closed a second longer, holding back a sigh that felt like lead in his chassis. The bubble of peace had burst, and reality, with its pink optics and dangerous smiles, wrapped around him again. Her tiny servos reached out toward Optimus, opening and closing in the air in a clear, pleading gesture, her bright optics fixed on him with an absolute trust that felt to Optimus like a fist tightening around his spark.
Discomfort overtook him, a physical sensation of wanting to escape. His gaze scanned the camp with sudden urgency, searching for an exit, a distraction, anything. And he found it.
“Arcee!” he called, his voice louder than necessary, cutting into the conversation the femme was having with Cliffjumper a few meters away.
Arcee turned, her optics narrowing in curiosity before approaching with uncertainty.
“Everything alright, Prime?”
“I need you to take care of Eridanus” he declared, avoiding looking at the little one still stretching her arms toward him. “Bulkhead was requested by the extraction team. Prowl and I will head to the nearby city for a reconnaissance mission”.
Prowl, who had witnessed the exchange with an optical ridge arched in deep skepticism, crossed his arms.
“Weren’t you staying here, as you’d mentioned?”
Optimus did not give him an answer. Instead, he turned on his pedes, his armor creaking slightly with the abrupt movement. “Prepare the gear. We leave in less than a click” he said over his shoulder, and began walking away with a determination meant to appear professional but that could not hide the fact that it was an escape.
Behind him, Arcee let out a sigh heavy with exasperation as she accepted the small, now-silent frame from Bulkhead’s servos.
“Great. I’ve never been good at sparklings stuff” she muttered, holding Eridanus with the stiff awkwardness of someone afraid of breaking something precious.
Cliffjumper approached, watching the Prime’s retreating back “He avoids her like she’s a scraplet infestation, and I don’t get why, she’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen” the scout commented affectionately while stroking the sparkling’s chin.
“Worse than that,” Bulkhead said as he ran one of his servos over the back of his helm. “Ratchet told me that when she emerged alongside her brother, he refused to feed them or care for them. They only recharged in the same room until…” He immediately fell silent; despite the vorns that had passed since the incident, no one dared mention it aloud, least of all near Optimus.
All their attention then turned to Eridanus. The sparkling was no longer looking in the direction Optimus had gone. Her tiny antennae, once upright and alert, now drooped sadly backward, a gesture of disappointment so palpable it was almost a language in itself. Then she turned her helm toward Arcee and, with one tiny finger, pointed insistently toward the empty path where Optimus had disappeared, emitting a low, confused peep.
Prowl observed the scene, his usually neutral expression hardening with a rare flicker of frustration.
“That’s enough” he declared, his voice a firm whisper that cut through the dusty air “He cannot continue like this, it’s not healthy for him or for her.”
“And what do you intend? As much as I disagree with Optimus’s decision, keeping the secret of their connection is the safest thing for her, especially if that glitch-head finds out she exists” Arcee said, trying to adjust Eridanus in her arms, though the little one squirmed uncomfortably at the position.
Cliff noticed the sparkling’s field shift, so he took her from Arcee’s arms and settled her in his own. She was still clearly distressed, but remained quiet as her optics continued fixating on the spot where the Prime had disappeared. For all of them, it remained a mystery why she insisted on staying close to Optimus. While Ratchet had explained that the connection between sparks would never fully disappear, and that was what kept her tied to both Optimus and Megatron—over time, without a real spark bond or the blending of energy fields between the creators and the bitlet, the instinct to remain near either creator should have faded from their systems.
“I don’t expect Prime to become her carrier” Prowl said, looking at Arcee with a deep frown. “It’s a decision we all respect and obey as an order, but he cannot spend his entire life avoiding her, Primus knows what will happen once she’s grown if this continues.”
“What do you have in mind?” Bulkhead asked uncertainly, watching the second-in-command place a digit to one of his audio receptors.
“Telling Jazz that I have a plan and that he should inform Ratchet” he replied simply, while the others exchanged uncertain glances.
The market was a torrent of life, a gathering of species, smells, and sounds that crashed against Optimus’s senses with an almost overwhelming force. Creatures with multiple limbs haggled with vendors whose voices were whistles or growls, and the air vibrated with the exchange of exotic goods and unfamiliar tongues. It was a crowded planet, a crossroads where the war between Autobots and Decepticons felt like a distant echo.
“Let’s keep a low profile, Prowl” murmured Optimus, his gaze fixed on the shadows between the stalls with distrust. “There’s always the possibility that someone leaks our location.”
The response he received left him paralyzed, as it was far from something Prowl would say.
“Relax, Optimus” said his second-in-command with a calm bordering on carelessness “Disconnect a little. You could even, I don’t know, buy yourself something nice to polish those wheels.”
Optimus stared at the tactician, completely bewildered. Polish his wheels? That was something one would say to a friend, not the commander of the Autobots. Since the Matrix had fused with his spark, the weight of the title had erected an invisible wall around him. Most treated him with the respect due to a Prime, a respect that, although well-intentioned, carried the cold distance of ceremony. Almost no one, except perhaps Jazz or Ratchet on rare occasions, dared to cross that line and treat him simply as Optimus. Prowl’s familiarity painfully reminded him of everything he had lost.
He decided to follow the advice, at least partially, and began walking slowly among the stalls. His processor, however, couldn’t “disconnect.” The bustle, the scent of exotic fuels and oils, the direct and vital bartering, was a mirror of another market, in another time, in a world that no longer existed. In Iacon, gathering centers were spotless, quiet, and luxurious, with shiny products behind windows and sellers with imperial licenses. A common bot could never hope to afford what was sold there. But Kaon… Kaon was different. There, life sprouted from every crack, and mechs sold what they could, where they could, just to survive another solar cycle. And then, as if a switch had been flipped deep within his processor, the memory struck him with heartbreaking clarity. Him, as Orion Pax, walking shoulder to shoulder with Megatronus through those same crowded streets, the heavy, hot air, the sound of metalwork in the distance, and the encounter with an elderly femme whose smile had more vorns than half the surrounding buildings. She made energon candies, and Megatronus, the fearsome gladiator, the relentless revolutionary, melted like a sparkling before them. He adored them. Especially the energon macarons, which dissolved in an explosion of sweetness and pure energy. Optimus remembered the feeling of the mesh bag in his servos, its weight when he handed it to Megatronus, and the way those red optics, free for a moment of all the world’s anger, glowed with pure and simple pleasure.
The first time he tasted them with him was a memory forever engraved in his mind; it was after a fight in the Arena, but not Megatronus’s, it was Soundwave’s. Both had watched the other gladiator face a mech in a death match, and while Orion was worried about the purple mech’s wellbeing, Megatronus smiled confidently after every blow his best friend received. The fight ended with the opponent’s head in the thin gladiator’s claws as he walked away from the Arena’s center. Orion had been too anxious; although he had seen death matches before, never one where someone close to him was involved. His processor kept replaying false images of Megatronus in one of those fights, he knew his champion won those battles, but it didn’t make it easier to bear. Megatronus seemed to notice his unease, so he took him to that little energon candy stall hidden from casual sight. When he tried them, he couldn’t find anything extraordinary in their taste, not because they weren’t good, but because he simply wasn’t a fan of sweets, but seeing the expression on the gladiator’s face made every visit they made to that place during the following orbital cycles worth it.
The pain was instant and physical, a stab so sharp in his spark that it nearly bent him in half.
With a sharp movement, as if tearing himself free from a sticky web, he pushed the thought from his processor. He stepped away from the central bustle, from the laughter and haggling, seeking the stillness of a side street. He needed distance, not from the market, but from the ghost that had returned to remind him that once, he had been happy.
With quickened steps, Optimus veered into a narrow alley, distancing himself from the vibrant chaos of the market as if he could leave behind the weight of his own memory. The tall, peeling walls of the buildings wrapped him in a cool dimness, a welcome contrast to the heat of the crowd. “Disconnect” Prowl had said. If only it were that simple. He scolded himself, reproaching a constant hum in his processor. Dwelling on the past was a luxury a leader at war could not afford, a weakness that could cost lives. The healthiest, most sensible thing was to keep moving forward, to bury Orion Pax beneath layers of duty and battle and act as if that other self, that bot who had known love and the promise of a future, had never existed. The temptation was as bitter as it was dangerous. For a moment, he wondered if Ratchet could install some kind of mental block, a firewall that stopped him from accessing those files corrupted by happiness and now stained with grief.
Just when the idea, stupid even to him, began to take shape, the alley opened into a small space. A tiny park, an oasis of relative tranquility with a modest fountain in the center, but it wasn’t the calm that captured his attention, it was the scene unfolding before him.
The native inhabitants of the planet, a pair of those scaly creatures, both male according to his readings. They stood shoulder to shoulder, smiling with an expression of such pure, simple joy. In front of them, two smaller creatures, their creations, ran and laughed freely, splashing each other and their creators with the fountain’s water. Then, one of the adults leaned lightly against the other, a gesture of trust and intimate affection, and their gazes met, filled with a fondness so deep it was almost tangible.
And then, his processor, traitorous, completely overriding rational thought, superimposed another image onto reality.
They were no longer two scaly creatures. It was him, as Orion, in his smaller and less armored frame, leaning against Megatronus’s broad chest; the gladiator’s servos, capable of inconceivable violence, wrapped around his waist with tender, protective possession and in front of them, not alien creatures, but two small Cybertronian sparklings. A little mech, with a hint of red in his optics, hugged his sister, a pink-toned femme, as both played in one of those scarce, neglected parks of Kaon, their metallic laughter mixing with the dusty wind. His optics, without him noticing, clouded with unspilled lubricant as they focused on the little mech of his fantasy, on those red eyes that were not the furious red of Megatron the warlord, but the warm, passionate red of Megatronus, the revolutionary, the lover, the Sire he would never become.
“Optimus!”
Prowl’s voice, sharp and clear, yanked him from the delusion. His optics snapped shut, and when he opened them, the vision had vanished. Only the alien family remained, and now one of the adults was giving him a frank, uncomfortable look tinged with clear annoyance. Shame burned through the cables of his neck. He realized he had been staring, intruding on a private moment with the weight of his own grief. He must have seemed like some kind of creep.
His gaze dropped to the ground, unable to meet the stranger’s eyes. Without a word, he turned and walked away quickly, following Prowl’s voice, which at that moment was an anchor pulling him back to a present that, painful as it was, hurt less than the ghost of what could have been.
The return to camp had a strange taste of artificial quiet. The sunset light stained the metallic dust with orange hues, and only a few Autobots dotted the exterior, speaking in low murmurs. However, Optimus noticed the shift in atmosphere as soon as his pedes touched the ground near the Ark. Heads turned toward him, and in an instant, like a switch had been flipped, several mechs began stretching their limbs with exaggerated displays of fatigue.
“Ugh, I don’t know about you guys, but my energy level is on the floor,” commented one, yawning unconvincingly.
“Yeah, time for a long, deep recharge,” added another, heading quickly toward the entrance ramp.
Optimus frowned behind his mask, his internal sensors registering perfectly stable energy levels in the mechs complaining. With growing suspicion, he entered the Ark, the echo of his steps resonating in now-empty halls. His destination was his quarters, but the path led him past the recharge room corridor and, to his growing confusion, every heavy door was sealed, showing the red “OCCUPIED” indicator. It was statistically improbable, almost impossible, everyone had decided to recharge at the same time.
Just as disbelief began to rise inside him, one of the doors slid open and Ratchet stood in the doorway, with an expression of annoyance so forced it was almost comical.
“Optimus, good. Just the mech I needed to see” said the medic, his voice carrying an urgency that, if it weren’t for how long Optimus had known him, might seem real “I need to calibrate the emergency med equipment and I can’t do it with an Eridanus running around. I don’t have time for this.”
Before Optimus could voice a single protest, Ratchet extended his arms and placed the small pink and black frame directly into his personal space. Pure instinct, honed by vorns on the battlefield, made Optimus lift his hands to catch the little one before she hit the floor.
Eridanus, upon finding herself held by him, let out a sharp, vibrant chirp, a note of pure happiness that cut through the hallway tension.
“Ratchet, this is—” Optimus began to reprimand, but the sound of the medbay door slamming shut, followed by the distinctive click of the lock, drowned out his words. He was left standing alone in the corridor, with the sparkling in his arms and the evidence of a blatant conspiracy closing in his face.
A deep sigh, loaded with resignation that tasted inevitable, escaped his vents. There was no choice. With deliberate movements, he stooped and set Eridanus on the cold floor.
“Let’s go” he murmured, more to himself than to her, and began walking slowly toward his quarters. His receptors, finely tuned, picked up the soft clink-clink of her small steps following him closely, a constant reminder that he was not alone. He didn’t turn, but he made sure to moderate his speed.
Upon reaching his door, the heavy metal slab slid open with a soft hiss. Optimus stopped at the threshold and, with a gesture that was both an act of chivalry and a last weak barrier, held the door open to let Eridanus enter first into the austerity that was his personal quarters.
Once inside, the heavy door sealed behind them, isolating the world in sudden silence. Optimus’s room was a reflection of his new persona, clean, functional, with a wide berth, a desk piled with datapads, and bare walls devoid of any personal ornament that might reveal the bot he once was as Orion Pax. His gaze swept the space, and again reality hit, there was nothing there for a sparkling. No provisional crib, no small berth, not a single toy. This place wasn’t made for life; it was made for war and the fleeting rest between battles.
Gently, though still clumsily, he placed her on his berth, and the vast surface only emphasized how tiny and vulnerable Eridanus looked against the gray mesh sheets.
“It’s time to recharge,” he told her, his voice sounding strangely hollow in the room’s quiet.
He turned away, seeking refuge in physical distance, and headed for the rigid chair at his desk. He sat heavily, servos resting on the cold surface. It was obvious. This had been a carefully orchestrated trap, executed with the precision only his team, who knew him too well, could achieve. The sudden collective fatigue, the sealed doors, Ratchet’s “urgency.” He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to scold them; maybe raising his voice would make them think twice before doing this again. It wasn’t about stubbornness, he told himself; it was simply that his responsibilities as a Prime didn’t allow him to fulfill what were supposedly his other responsibilities outside his role as leader.
However, barely had his frame touched the backrest when a dull metallic thud followed by a choked cry made him jump from the chair as if shocked. His spark contracted.
Upon turning, he saw her on the floor, a small heap of pink and black metal. One of her delicate antennae was visibly bent at an unnatural angle, and her faceplate, once serene, was twisted in a grimace of pain. Worse yet, lubricant began to spill from her optics, forming thin silver streaks down her facial plating.
Then Optimus discovered one of the most heartbreaking sounds his receptors had ever recorded: the miserable cry of Eridanus. It wasn’t the whine of a damaged engine, but a sharp, visceral expression of pain and fear that drilled straight into his spark.
“No, no, shhh…” he murmured, lifting her from the floor with urgent desperation. He cradled her against his chest, rocking her with growing anxiety. “It’s okay, it’s okay sweetspark” But his words were useless, drowned out by her growing sobs. In his processor, a cascade of red alerts began flashing, flooding his visual interface.
WARNING: Sparkling in distress.
Stress levels at critical.
Carrier protocols: ACTIVATED
He cursed silently. His systems, his own programming, were turning against him, demanding action. Amid chaotic sensory overload and rising panic, he felt a strange impulse, a deep pull that didn’t come from his processor but from the sacred artifact he carried in his chest.
The Matrix.
Without understanding why, without a conscious plan, he obeyed. The plates of his central chassis parted with a soft hum. From the protective cavity where his spark resided, a thin and complex cable extended toward the little one.
Optimus watched, confused, not fully aware of what he was doing, until he saw Eridanus, almost instinctively, grasp the cable with her tiny servos. His optics widened as he realized, rich, vital energon, saturated with the very essence of his spark, began flowing into the sparkling. Almost immediately, her sobs calmed, replaced by faint ventilations and a soft chirp of relief. Her small frame relaxed as she fed, comforted by the most primal and healing connection that existed.
However, one of her tiny servos slipped free and reached shakily toward the injured antenna. When her hand brushed the bent joint, her little face twisted again, and a new whimper, this one of renewed pain, escaped her.
Gently, Optimus moved her little servo away.
“I know” he whispered, his voice now strangely soft, filled with a tenderness he thought long lost “I know how much it hurts to bend an antenna. At dawn, we’ll go see Ratchet so he can fix it, you’ll feel better.”
He watched as Eridanus fed, her intense crying reduced to a satisfied hum, and an unsettling question formed in his processor. Was the Matrix more aware than he thought? Could it be that it possessed its own consciousness, an ancient wisdom that understood the connection between his spark and this little life better than he did? From what he had read in the archives, and from the little the Matrix had revealed to him when it was bestowed, it contained the wisdom of Primus and the Thirteen Primes, but no mention had ever been made of a consciousness of its own.
That train of thought halted when she finally let go, satiated, and a tiny yawn vibrated in her intake. Optimus closed the plates of his chest, sealing the sanctuary of his spark again.
Carefully, he placed her back in the center of his berth, on the cold mesh. But the lesson from her fall seemed instantly forgotten. As soon as his servos withdrew, Eridanus began crawling determinedly toward him again, heading straight for the dangerous edge.
With a sigh, more of affectionate resignation than frustration, Optimus lifted her into his arms once again. “Didn’t you learn your lesson?” he asked in a deep whisper. Eridanus responded with a cheerful chirp, stretching her tiny servos not toward him, but toward the large observation window of his quarters, beyond which the black canvas of space shimmered with eternal diamonds.
Understanding, Optimus approached the window. As he did, he noticed her little optics widening even more, reflecting the glow of a thousand stars. She extended her hands as if she could catch those distant suns in her palms, letting out a sound of pure wonder.
“Do you like them?” murmured Optimus, his own voice softening at her fascination. “I like them too. I’ve always liked them, the stars, the constellations… their stories” Eridanus turned her head toward him and let out another beep, as if she were following the conversation.
And then, almost without thinking, driven by the intimacy of the moment, the plates of his battle mask retracted with a soft click. He smiled at the little one, letting her see his full expression for the first time.
“But now it’s too late, little one. It’s time to recharge.”
He laid her down on the berth again, but this time he didn’t leave. He sat on the edge, waiting for sleep to take her. However, a pair of bright pink optics remained open, staring at him in the dim light.
“Aren’t you tired?” he asked with amusement.
In response, Eridanus sat up and stretched her arms toward him again, a mischievous smile lighting her face. A clear, metallic laugh filled the room.
Optimus couldn’t help it. A low, surprised chuckle escaped his chest “You’re just as stubborn as your Sire” he confessed, and the truth of those words, spoken aloud for the first time, didn’t hurt as he expected “He did the same. He’d pull me out of my concentration every time I tried to work on my datapads, demanding attention.”
Giving in completely, he picked her up once more and walked back to the window. With an incredibly gentle servo, he stroked the little one’s helm, carefully avoiding the injured antenna. The silence was comfortable now, filled only by the soft hum of their engines.
“Alpha Trion” he began, his voice turning into a soft murmur “used to sing to me so I could recharge, he used to say that when he found me that was the only way to make me recharge when I was your age” Eridanus let out a curious beep, tilting her head.
Optimus chuckled softly “Alright, I’ll try” he relented, the last trace of resistance melting away.
“It always seems more quiet, in the dark” he sang, his voice wasn’t that of a trained vocalist, but a deep, resonant bass, a low hum that seemed made for lulling someone to sleep. It was an ancient melody, a Cybertronian lullaby he had once heard and that somehow remained engraved in his processor “It always feels so stark. How silence grows under the Moon.”
As the words flowed, Optimus rocked Eridanus gently, bringing her closer to the vastness beyond the glass “Constellations gone so soon.”
Eridanus, enchanted, immediately turned her gaze toward the star-filled void, as if she could see the constellations the song bade farewell to. Then, slowly, she turned her head back to him, and a serene, complete smile lit her face. And this time, when Optimus saw that smile, it wasn’t the specter of Megatronus he saw in it. He didn’t look for fangs or the shadow of a painful past. This time, he noticed how her optics, those bright red spheres, narrowed slightly at the edges, how the gesture of pure happiness wrinkled her facial plating in a way that felt strangely, wonderfully familiar. It was the same unconscious expression he himself made when a true smile, not the forced courtesy of a leader, reached his own eyes. It was a piece of him in her, not just of Megatron.
“I used to think that I was bold” he continued the song, his voice weighed down by memory “I used to think love was for fun” each word resonated with the bitter irony of his life. He, who believed himself brave for following a gladiator into a revolution, had understood too late the true cost of love “Now all my stories have been told, except for one.”
And that last untold story wrapped him in deep sorrow, his gaze lost in the stars, he no longer saw them. Instead, his mind projected a painful ghost, Megatron, not the poet, but the warlord, standing beside him. What would have happened if he had told him the truth? If instead of hiding the greatest miracle of their lives, he had stood before him with the living evidence of what they once were? “I’m sparked”, those words, never spoken, echoed in his mind like the shadow of an alternate universe. Would the war have ended right then? Would Megatron have set aside his anger, lowered his blade to hold, with the same hand that shattered worlds, the tiny frames of their creations?
As he held Eridanus, his processor showed him the image, so clear and so cruel, of Megatron, with an expression he could no longer remember, holding Therion in his arms. Therion. That name, chosen in secret for the little mech who didn’t manage to cling to life, would have been perfect. A warrior, his warrior. A tear of coolant threatened to escape his optic, but he held it back, drowning the pain in the next verse.
“The day that you arrived, the sun went black” he sang, and the metaphor was literal to him. The day he learned that two small sparks had ignited within his own, fear had eclipsed any hint of joy, plunging him into an dark night “You came and stole away the light, and put it in your eyes.”
Looking at Eridanus again, the little one was fighting a losing battle against sleep, her optics closing and opening heavily. And Optimus couldn’t help thinking they were the most beautiful he had ever seen. He wondered where that vibrant shade of pink came from, a color that wasn’t Megatron’s nor his own. It followed the same imposing geometric pattern of her Sire, but the tone was unique, a galactic pink, alive and full of an energy that seemed to capture the essence of nebulas themselves. It was more beautiful than anything he had ever seen. Tenderly, he remembered the day he held her for the first time, so tiny she fit in one servo, a perfect and fragile being.
He would protect her from all evil. He would face Unicron himself if necessary. He would give her the entire universe, constellation by constellation, if she so much as asked.
“As the stars start to align” he continued, his voice a whisper against the window’s glass “I hope you take it as a sign” His optics rose to the stellar mantle, searching in the celestial order for a comfort his spark refused to give. “That you’ll be okay. Everything will be okay.”
And at that moment, the fragility of the present shattered before the specter of the future. What if his spark went out? The war was an insatiable monster; anything could happen, anyone could win. anyone could die. He trusted his team, knew that Jazz, Ratchet, all of them, would give their lives for Eridanus without hesitation. But what if they couldn’t? A cold worse than the vacuum of space , took hold of him.
Yet from the depths of that fear grew a strange certainty, quiet and devastating.
If he fell, if everything failed, he knew Megatron would protect her. Not for him, nor for the Autobots, but for the CNA of his own line, for the legacy of his spark. The Decepticon Lord would give his life to keep her safe, he would take her under his care and boast across all Cybertron of the heir who bore his mark, his power. It was a bitter thought, a dystopian future, but in it, she would be safe, alive. That was the saddest consolation of all, no matter who won, as long as one of them remained standing, she would be protected.
“And if the Allspark collapse” he continued, the song becoming an oath, a promise thrown at fate “Although the day could be my last… You will be okay. When I’m gone you’ll be okay.”
By then, Eridanus’ optics were just glowing slits, and one last tired yawn escaped her vocalizer. The battle was over. Optimus approached the berth and, with infinite tenderness, lay beside her, his massive frame sinking into the material. He took the coarse mesh blanket and draped it over both of them, creating a small, cozy world beneath his shadow. He watched as her optics finally closed fully and the soft hum of her engine calmed to an almost inaudible purr, the sound of peace. His gaze softened on her sleeping silhouette, and his processor began weaving dreams of a future he might never see. What would she be like once she grew? Would she inherit the shorter, standard build of Orion Pax, or rise with the imposing structure of Megatron and him? He knew she was a flight-frame, but vorns were left before her alt-mode manifested. Would she be a warship like her Sire, a swift jet, or something completely unique? For now, she was only the promise of wings to come.
And in that moment, his greatest wish, more than victory, more than peace for Cybertron, was simple and overwhelming: he longed with every fiber of his being to live long enough to see her become an adult femme. To see her live a quiet life, far from the sound of cannons, on the day the war finally ended. And if his spark extinguished before that day dawned, then all he could do was pray, with a faith that transcended the mortal, that Primus would allow him to protect her from the very heart of the Allspark.
“And when creation goes to die” he whispered, the final note of the song fading into the still air of the room, “You can find me in the sky. Upon the last day…” his voice was barely a thread of sound, a promise woven from the most intimate fiber of his being “And you will be okay.”
The silence that followed was sacred, broken only by the soft hum of their systems at rest. Optimus leaned in and placed a light kiss on the little one’s helm, right between her antennas, in the most protected spot.
He settled beside her, feeling the warmth of her small body against his armor, and was about to surrender to exhaustion himself, to close his optics, when he heard it.
A single word.
“Oppy”
The sound, so small, resonated in the room like a sonic explosion. Optimus froze. She had never spoken before, someone would have mentioned it, it would have been an event that rippled through the Ark from bow to stern, news Ratchet would have announced, the first word of a sparkling was a milestone.
And that first word, that affectionate and familiar sound, had been for him. But not the correct name, not the title that belonged to him by right.
Something in his spark, something that had been slowly cracking throughout the entire cycle, shattered completely. There was no way to contain the wave of pain, guilt, and overwhelming love, the coolant, hot and silent, spilled from his optics, tracing silver lines down his facial plates before falling onto the mesh blanket. He grieved from the deepest part of himself, she wasn’t supposed to address him that way, he was her creator, he had carried her in his forge, had fed her spark with his own, she should call him “Carrier.” That was the truth, but he was the one who had stolen that truth, denied her rightful knowledge, hiding behind the mask of the leader, the distant protector.
With a servo that trembled slightly, careful not to disturb the injured antenna, he ran the tip of his digit over the little one’s helm, over the healthy antenna.
“I’m sorry” he whispered, his voice broken by a stifled sob. The sound was as raw and vulnerable as nothing he had allowed anyone to hear since that day “I’m so sorry”
And in that whisper, he wasn’t only apologizing for not being there to prevent her fall, or for his denial. He was apologizing for the fundamental lie in which he was making her live. For depriving her of the truth of her origins, of the right to know who she really was.
Many vorns later
“What do you think?”
The simple question left Optimus perplexed, freezing his processor’s systems for a moment. It wasn’t a tactical inquiry about escape routes or battle strategies, it was a missile aimed directly at the most vulnerable crack in his structure.
The situation itself was simple. They had rescued a pair of femmes, their plates marked by the wear of hiding, whose only desire was to escape the war, they were two of the many neutral bots who only longed for peace, and the Autobots had relocated them to this remote planet, a world already tested and rich in energon, it was an act of compassion, but it also helped them fully refuel before making the bold jump to another galaxy, a desperate escape from the Decepticons who, after the destruction of one of their bases, were furiously hunting them down.
Optimus’ silence stretched so long that one of the femmes, with a slender frame and yellow optics, had to repeat the offer, her voice soft but firm.
“We can stay with them, the two sparklings. It isn’t safe for them to be on a warship, always fleeing.”
It was the most sensible decision, the one any rational leader would make to guarantee the safety of the most innocent.
But then, Optimus turned his head.
His gaze settled on the scene unfolding a few meters away. Bumblebee, with an exasperation that didn’t quite hide his affection, was being dragged by the hand by Eridanus. The little femme chattered with an enthusiastic series of beeps and coos, telling him something of utmost importance, the yellow mech, who in vorns of maturity fancied himself too old for such games, resisted with half-hearted protests. He grumbled, but his steps still followed her insistent pull. It was a familiar dance, a cheerful stubbornness that never yielded, and always, always ended with Bee involved in some mischief she had devised.
His gaze returned to the pair of femmes, and in his processor, with cold clarity, the future they offered unfolded. The image was tempting in its serenity, Eridanus and Bumblebee growing under a strange yet peaceful suns, no energon rationing, no alarms going off in the middle of a recharge cycle, no constant fear of an attack. They would be safe, the Decepticons had no idea this place existed, otherwise they would have already turned it into a fortress, it would be a quiet life, far from the jaws of war, far from the burden of belonging to a factio… far from him.
The idea of waking up on the Ark and not hearing Bumblebee’s hurried steps, not feeling that constant, loyal presence, caused him physical pain in the spark. Bee wasn’t of his saprk, wasn’t the creation he had carried in his forge, but he was his in a way as fundamental as the Matrix itself. He couldn’t erase the memory of the little yellow sparkling, trembling and alone, clinging to his leg after losing his creators, refusing to be separated from him, he remembered all those nights in the darkness of space, tucking in the sparkling he had taken in, while his own, Eridanus and Therion, grew inside him, he had dreamed then of the day he would do the same with his own creations, a united family. Bee had already become part of that fractured dream despite not having been there from the beginning.
No. He couldn’t let him go. It was an impulsive thought, he knew, a creator’s thought, not a commander’s. But it was the only truth his spark accepted.
Besides, he knew the young mech too well. Bumblebee, with his newfound dream of becoming an explorer, would never agree to stay behind. His place was with them, learning, fighting, growing at his side.
Eridanus’ voice pulled him out of the abyss of his thoughts.
“Oppy!”
Turning, he saw her running toward him, her small and agile frame dragging a Bumblebee who pretended resistance but whose steps didn’t falter.
“Oppy” she said, reaching him and without hesitation jumped to grab one of his servos and hang from it. The contact was a circuit closing, a spark of immediate connection “There’s a street market! Let’s go! I want to see it!” Her pink optics shone with a plea disguised as a command.
Optimus looked once more at the two femmes. Their faces were a mirror of the sensibility he was about to reject, he knew, with the cold and logical part of his processor, that what he was about to do was selfish, an unnecessary risk for two young lives, every argument against it resonated within him with devastating clarity.
But then, he felt the pressure of Eridanus’ hand in his, and knew, with a certainty that came from a place deeper than logic or duty, that he couldn’t let her go.
He couldn’t let her be taken from his side.
He had brought her into this world, he had carried her in his forge, a miracle and a secret kept under the noise of war, he had spent entire stellar cycles feeling her spark grow alongside his, the tiny protoform fluttering within him, risking everything so she could exist. He had seen her born, seen her take her first unsteady steps, he had taken for himself the freedom, the precious and stolen luxury, of caring for her whenever his duties as Prime allowed it. And in those moments, he hadn’t been a leader, he had earned her affection not with the title of creator, a secret he had sworn to take to his grave, but with every datapad read aloud, every lesson about nebulas and constellations, every story of ancient Cybertronian splendor, he had earned it with every sleepless night, singing until her optics closed and exhaustion took her.
He had risked his spark, his honor, and his peace to bring her into the world and keep her with him, letting her go now was not simply an option, it was an impossibility.
“No” he said, and his voice did not sound like a refusal, but like a profound affirmation. He shook his helm, addressing the two femmes while the small hand in his own became the only argument he needed “I appreciate your offer, it is generous… but they will stay with us.”
He didn’t wait to see their disappointment or confusion. The decision was made.
He turned to Eridanus, whose smile was now as bright as a sun.
“Let’s go!” she shouted, pulling him with surprising strength, and the three of them began walking away.
Bumblebee approached, his optics scanning Optimus’ face with a maturity far beyond his age “What did they tell you?” he asked.
“Nothing of importance” Optimus replied, and for the first time, the lie didn’t weigh on him, because in that moment, the only truth that mattered was tugging at his servo, impatient to explore a market.
He noticed Bee’s gaze; he didn’t look surprised, almost relieved.
“Anyway, I wouldn’t have stayed on a planet so full of dirt” declared the young mech, with a shrug that aimed to look indifferent.
Optimus didn’t respond, but smiled and allowed Eridanus, now perched on Bulkhead’s shoulders and waving her arms for them to hurry, to guide him toward the future that, selfish or not, he had chosen. And something in the deepest part of his spark, an echo of the Matrix perhaps, whispered to him that, against all logic, it was the right choice.