[Bay] War Without End - Optimus Prime
Aug. 2nd, 2013 11:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: Much love and thanks to azardarkstar for the beta-work and help with a few key scenes.
Title: War Without End – Optimus Prime
Universe: Bayverse, post-DotM, canon-compliant
Characters: Optimus Prime, Charlotte Mearing, Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, Will Lennox, Leadfoot
Rating: T
Warnings: mentions of character death, angst, some language
Desc: The war is over. They've won. But why does victory feel like defeat?
“This is unacceptable, Prime.”
She paces back and forth across the catwalk, her agitation clear, her expression pinched with fatigue and disappointment.
“I understand, Director Mearing,” Optimus replies, leveling his gaze on the small organic with a large grasp on their very existence. “I’ve already assigned a mech to track him down.”
She has not taken Prowl's abandonment of his post very well. She seems even more rattled than the Autobots themselves. Perhaps it’s because her superiors want answers that she’s so adamant about facing Optimus here today.
Mearing frowns and reaches up to adjust her glasses. “You seem to be losing control of your troops,” she says in a carefully controlled tone that hints of the angered swirling beneath. “They’re defecting faster than you can recruit them.”
Optimus shifts his weight, feels the grind and creak of unoiled pistons. Ratchet is missed for more reason than one, but he can’t bring himself to think of that now.
“We aren’t yet certain of the reason behind Prowl's absence. It is possible--”
She raises her voice, not quite yelling but enough to make herself heard over his statement. “He left without proper clearance or informing his commanding officer. He did not use the proper channels and snuck out like a teenager evading curfew. He defected.”
Optimus' helm dips, and he rubs his faceplate. It is concession.
“We are investigating the circumstances behind his departure.”
She makes a noise of skepticism. “Have you bothered to watch the security footage yet? It's quite clear to me.” One hand waves in vague gesture.
The soldiers walk by as they speak, pretending not to notice the exchange of words. The low murmur of conversation in the command center becomes even quieter. Computers beep and chirp updates by the minute, but only humans tend to them. There aren’t enough Autobots to go around.
Mearing begins to pace again. Optimus watches her, counting the steps. Five, six, seven before she stops and turns. Ten, eleven, twelve. Stop and turn.
Optimus cycles a ventilation.
Focus. He needs to focus. Needs to keep flashes of Ratchet’s grim face and Prowl’s seeking optics from overpowering him. He just needs a moment to think.
“The video does not reveal motive,” he says instead.
Mearing whirls toward him, heels making a bright clack against the metal. “Except that he left of his own free will. And that crazy yellow one didn't try to stop him.”
Sensation crawls over Optimus' chassis, scrabbles over his shoulder and drizzles down the other side. His backstrut twitches.
“Prowl is my second in my command,” Optimus states, though surely Mearing must know this. “Sunstreaker is accustomed to obeying his orders.”
It surprises Optimus though. Sunstreaker has never been one for obeying any mech, not even Prime himself. Yet, for Prowl, he’ll bow his head and do as he’s told.
Mearing arches an eyebrow at him and plants her hands on her hips. “Are you blind or merely dumb?” she hisses. “There was no order given.”
Optimus looks past her and down. At the main monitor, a series of images flickering across the screen.
“Perhaps, Director Mearing, it would benefit us to ask Sunstreaker.” He lifts a hand.
“Don't bother.” Mearing dismisses the action. “He's back in solitary.”
It seems to be a common location for Sunstreaker as of late. Just last week, he'd gotten into an altercation with Roadbuster over some imagined slight.
Optimus lowers his hand. “You already questioned him?”
“More or less.” Mearing rolls her shoulders. Her earlier anger seems to bleed away, leaving a resigned annoyance behind. “He refused to answer. I guarantee you, Prime, he knows where Prowl has gone.”
Perhaps.
Optimus makes a noncommittal sound. “I will speak with him.”
Mearing snaps her fingers, and her assistant scrambles forward to stand by her side. But the woman barely even seems to notice as she reaches out.
“See that you do,” she says, her focus now on one of the bags being handed to her. “It’s imperative that we solve this as soon as possible. The President isn’t pleased.”
Optimus merely tips his helm at that statement. “I understand.”
“Good.” Mearing frowns again and gives him a sidelong look. “Find Prowl and you’ll find Ratchet, I’m sure. Find both of them, and we’ll have their Decepticon allies.”
Though Optimus is unsure of Prowl's motivations, Mearing is certainly correct about Ratchet. His former medic hasn’t made any attempts to hide his connection to the Seekers. A year after Ratchet's departure and Optimus has come to the conclusion that the medic has left of his own accord. He has sided with the Decepticons. He has joined their enemies.
It’s like a punch to the chassis. A blade to his processor. A blast to his very spark.
Such betrayal. Such treachery.
It seems to follow him everywhere. Come at him from every quarter.
A part of him wonders who it will be next. Who would turn on him without warning.
But Optimus forces that thought away. Locks it down deep inside his processor and refuses to let it back into the light.
Instead, he watches Mearing descend the catwalk with soft tap-taps of her shoes. She’s no longer wearing the heels, having exchanged them for more sensible footwear. Her assistant scrambles to follow, but Optimus still doesn't know her name. The harried woman keeps her eyes down in the presence of the Autobots. Out of fear or respect, Optimus doesn’t know. He doesn’t dare ask.
A twinge ripples through his substructure. Optimus buries the wince, curls his hand into a fist to keep from prodding at his chassis. It isn’t a pain, not in so many definitions of the word. But it has been more frequent as of late.
The Matrix remains an uncomfortable burden to bear.
Optimus turns away. His proximity sensors alert him to a soldier within range of his pede. He carefully steps around the man and heads out of the command hub. He must speak with Sunstreaker. He’s perhaps the only one on base with any answers regarding Prowl and his departure.
Prowl has been his second in command for vorns. Eons upon eons. He has always been a close friend. Optimus, however, wonders if he ever really knew Prowl.
After all, there has always been something different about him. Something off. Maybe it’s the strangeness of his connection with Jazz, how they seemed like true brothers but weren’t. Perhaps it’s his manner. So cool and contained. Or it could have simply been his nature. His origins.
War-builds and war-inclined bots can so rarely be trusted. If at all. The Decepticons show that even now. Prowl only proves it.
Optimus has long tried to extend his hand to them. Long tried to show them the true path. Only to be rebuffed time and again.
No longer though. He will no more offer the other cheek.
Outside, the sun shines down and quickly heats his exterior armor. It’s approaching summer, and the muggy warmth pulses straight through to Optimus' substructure. His plating lifts, helping to expel extra heat.
The base is a whirlwind of activity. Since Chicago, it has grown less makeshift and more permanent. Housing has been established. Roads have been paved. Sooner or later, it will be renamed and given status as an actual military compound.
The President has suggested that the Autobots remain permanently stationed here. It will be easier on the taxpayers than rebuilding the DC base. Besides, there’s still much work to be done in Chicago.
Optimus has agreed.
This will become their home. He has spent so long without one; he has nearly forgotten what it feels like to have a place to belong.
“Prime!”
He turns at the shout. Wheeled pedes crackle as they roll across the tarmac, and Sideswipe approaches like a mech on a mission. There’s a grim set to his faceplates. His energy field is withdrawn and constricted.
“Do you have a breem?” Sideswipe asks and rolls to a halt.
There can be only one reason Sideswipe would have that look on his faceplate. There’s only one mech who has ever meant more to him than anything, including the Autobots.
“I’m on my way to speak with Sunstreaker.” Optimus gestures to the line of shipping containers in the distance, one of which is currently occupied. “You can come along. Unless this requires privacy?”
Sideswipe's optics dart around, measuring and identifying everything around them. It’s mostly humans. Topspin is out looking for Prowl. Roadbuster is in recharge. Dino is on the targeting range. Leadfoot is in his lab.
Optimus can't remember the last time he saw Bumblebee on base.
“That's what I came to talk to you about,” Sideswipe switches to Cybertronian and lowers his vocals.
Optimus shakes his helm, taking up his stride once again. Sideswipe falls into step beside him.
“Sunstreaker's refusal to speak has gained him his punishment,” he responds but sticks to English. He doesn't wish for the humans to feel uncomfortable.
“Mearing ordered him there!” Sideswipe protests with a bleat of static. “She's not in our chain of command. We shouldn't have to listen to her.”
Heat waves rise from the blacktop in ripples of near-illusion. The smell of tar and construction is heavy in the air. The pang in his chassis starts up again, and Optimus scratches at his chestplate before he can stop himself.
“Director Mearing's questions were reasonable. Sunstreaker has a habit of disobeying.” Optimus drops his hand, though the itch remains. “His punishment stands.”
Sideswipe releases an ex-vent of agitation. His armor is all but ruffled.
“But--”
“He must understand that the humans are our allies,” Optimus states, and it hints with command. “As should you. It’s important that we work together with them. Not against.”
Silence.
Sideswipe tears his gaze away. Optimus can hear the subtle grinding of gears. The click-click of a few systems reset. The crackle of tires over pavement and then gravel as they approach the shipping containers.
“They ask too much,” the younger mech finally allows, though his tones are so quiet Optimus wonders if he’s meant to hear them at all.
Optimus pauses and half-turns toward the warrior. He rests a hand on Sideswipe's shoulder, feeling the warmth beneath his palm.
“It’s their planet, Sideswipe,” he offers gently. “We must never forget that we are the intruders here. We brought war to their home. It’s only fair that we offer concessions in return.”
A shift of his weight and Sideswipe rolls out from beneath his touch, rejecting it and what it represents.
“We’re the only ones who bend.” His energy field draws even tighter, so withheld it might as well not be present. “I know that it’ll come to a point when they ask for something we can't give.”
“It won't come to that.” Optimus gives a brush of his own field for reassurance. “They are our allies. Our comrades in arms. Now that the war is over, we can all enjoy this peace.”
Sideswipe's faceplates are blank. His optics are unreadable, but then, he looks away.
“I understand.” He glances toward their makeshift brig. “I’ll make sure Sunny understands, too. Will you let him out of solitary?”
“If he answers my questions, yes,” Optimus replies and picks up his stride again, coming within auditory distance of the containers. “If not, he will remain in solitary until he’s willing to cooperate.”
He cannot afford to have Sunstreaker ruin their alliance with the humans. The mech will learn to cooperate, or he won’t enjoy freedom. It’s a simple equation.
“I--”
Sideswipe cuts himself off, rocking uneasily on his wheels. He moves as though to say something further but then shakes his helm in a firm human gesture.
“I understand. Thank you, Prime.”
He turns to go.
Optimus is confused.
“You do not wish to accompany me?”
“Mearing assigned me a patrol shift,” Sideswipe tosses over his shoulder, vocals devoid of inflection. “If I'm late, I'll just end up next to Sunstreaker.”
He leaves. Back straight and helm held high.
Optimus simply watches him go. He says nothing.
Sideswipe has been different since Ratchet left. Less reckless and more contained. His mood improved at Sunstreaker's arrival but has since dropped again.
He’s a warrior though, if not a true war-build. This peace must be frustrating. Optimus vows to set some time aside later. He wants all of his soldiers to embrace the peace, to function outside of it. He will speak with Sideswipe.
First, however, is the matter of his brother.
Two soldiers guard the container. They are present for show as Sunstreaker could easily break free. He submits because it’s in his best interest. Not to mention sabot rounds are not easily ignored.
Optimus greets them with a tip of his helm. He doesn’t know either of these men. They are of a new unit, recently assigned to the area.
“I will be questioning Sunstreaker,” he informs them. “Please unlock the doors.”
The younger man on the left gives him a hard look. His dark eyes are under a helmet that covers his hair.
“Give us a moment to confirm.”
Optimus waits as they contact their superior officer, who no doubt contacts Director Mearing. Or perhaps Colonel Lennox. Sometimes, the human chain of command is quite flexible, and Optimus is never sure who really has seniority.
“Alright,” the other man on the right says. He is older appearing, but it’s so difficult to gage human ages. “You're cleared.” He steps aside and nods to his partner.
A chain and padlock are undone, slithering to the ground in a noisy jangle of metal on metal. One soldier twists and pulls the rod lock, sliding it aside. The door opens a few inches with an eerie creak. Stale, heated air puffs out, and there's a susurrus of sound as the mech within stirs.
“It's not been a week,” Sunstreaker rasps, his rich baritone vibrating in the narrow confines of the container.
“No, it has not.” Optimus steps back.
The soldiers also move aside. They tighten their grips on their weapons, however, uneasiness entering their expressions for the first time.
Optimus ignores that.
“I wish to ask you some questions,” he informs his soldier. “Cooperate and you won’t have to return to your confinement.”
A low, bitter chuckle precedes Sunstreaker's appearance. He drags himself out of the container, one much too small for any degree of comfort. His paint is scuffed, streaks of rust marring the once-brilliant shine. His optics are dull and glassy. He rises to his pedes though with an air of dignity, despite an evident wobble.
“Ask me no questions,” Sunstreaker offers with a tone that echoes of Jazz and past misdeeds, “and I'll tell you no lies.”
His confinement has done nothing for his attitude, Optimus decides as he consults the base's database. Sunstreaker has been imprisoned for nearly two days. From the moment the video footage was discovered and his part in it.
Optimus straightens his shoulder. “Director Mearing asked you of the video footage?”
“Yes,” he admits and says nothing more.
Sunstreaker isn’t going to make this easy. Not for the first time does Optimus wonder how Prowl managed to gain this warrior's respect.
“You were the last to see Prowl. Speak with him,” Optimus says for Sunstreaker's benefit. “You must have known he was leaving.”
The other mech rolls his shoulders, defiance rising from his frame in waves. “Maybe I did; maybe I didn't.”
“Sunstreaker--”
“Whatever answer you think I know, I don't,” the warrior interrupts with a sharp burst of air. He rocks back and crosses his arms. “I don't know why Prowl left. I don't know where he went.”
He is lying. The falsity is all but etched into Sunstreaker's features. Yet, his optics are steady and unyielding.
This is a dead end. Sunstreaker's loyalty to Prowl, it seems, is stronger than his tie to the Autobots. A shame that, especially with how good they’ve been to him.
And where does Sideswipe fit into all of this?
“Can I get out of solitary now?” Sunstreaker asks with all of the insubordination a mech can fit into his vocals without turning derogatory.
Optimus sighs heavily. And idly wishes Ironhide were here. He’d always managed to get mechs to answer. Even without resorting to violence.
“No.”
Sunstreaker's optics oscillate wide in indignation. “What? I answered your questions!” He jerks as though intending to gesture broadly but then reconsiders.
“You lied,” Optimus counters.
A burst of agitation and outrage slaps Optimus in the faceplate before Sunstreaker recoils his field just as quickly. It’s the most Optimus has ever sensed from the notably withdrawn mech.
“I did not,” Sunstreaker hisses. “I've told you what I know.”
“You have not.” Optimus steps closer and into the mech's personal space, a tactic Ironhide had once taught him when it came to querulous frontliners.
Not surprisingly, Sunstreaker steps back, colliding with the shipping container in a ring of metal on metal. A low dong that reverberates through the humid air. It resonates in Optimus' audials, too.
He loses his train of thought.
Optimus stops, puts himself back on track. The ache in his chassis returns with a vengeance.
“You haven't,” he repeats. “I am sure you knew of Prowl's intentions when he spoke with you. As I am certain you know where he went.”
“Why?” Sunstreaker demands, optics flashing fire. “Because that woman told you I did?”
The last is better termed a sneer. His armor clamps tight to his frame, as though he expects an attack and must protect his substructure.
Such a strange reaction.
“Director Mearing is an ally, Sunstreaker,” Optimus says firmly. “You will treat her with respect.”
Sunstreaker's faceplates close down, all expression gone. “Maybe you should tell her that. She hasn't given us an ounce of it since we arrived.”
Sunstreaker has no expression, but Optimus knows that tone. He straightens to his full height and locks his hydraulics.
“Sunstreaker! That is enough. You will complete your punishment as given. That’s an order.”
Silence sweeps between them. One of the soldier coughs into his palm, amusement curving his lips.
Sunstreaker does not fail to notice. His sneer deepens, disgust radiating from every ruffled plating. There is violence in his optics, the urge to act.
It’s a look so familiar to Optimus. It’s a look he saw so often in his own brother’s optics. In the cut of Megatron's smirk and the grip he carried on his weapon. It’s the last thing Optimus remembers before the first blow fell and civil war began.
His hand itches to transform into a blade, but Optimus remembers himself at the final instant. He draws discipline from the Matrix and pins his focus on Sunstreaker once more.
“Am I understood?”
The silence is heavy. It weighs on Optimus' shoulders. It itches in his chassis. He reaches up without thinking, scratching between his windshields.
Sunstreaker's optics track the motion. “Yes, sir,” he bites out, but there’s no submission that Optimus can hear.
It’s enough that he obeys. He turns away from Optimus with sullen disregard and sliding back into the dim confines of the shipping container.
Sunstreaker will have to be watched.
Nodding to the two soldiers, who move to relock the container, Optimus moves away. His thoughts are in turmoil.
Sunstreaker isn’t happy here. He’s barely controlled in his fury. He’s insubordinate to the point of treason.
He could have left with Prowl. He did not leave with Prowl. The dichotomy between the two concepts throws Optimus' thoughts into a feedback loop.
Optimus turns away from the main core of the base. He seeks solitude and finds it at observation point delta. It’s the furthest from the command hub and provides the widest view of Chicago's devastation despite the rebuilding.
Mearing has suggested that Autobots provide their services with that as well. Optimus has agreed. Perhaps in working side by side with their organic allies, the two species can at last come to an accord. It can only help.
His comm, however, buzzes within seconds of his arrival. It’s Leadfoot.
--Colonel Lennox is looking for you, Prime.--
He contemplates that for a moment.
--Inform him of my location.--
--Yes, sir.--
No argument. No accompanying glyphs of disdain or disappointment. Leadfoot's professionalism is refreshing. It’s as if Prowl were the one there, running ops. It’s as if Prowl had never left.
Optimus closes that thought with a snap. He settles in to wait. It isn’t long before his sensors and audials detect a golf cart approaching. Colonel Lennox is alone.
“You were searching for me?” Optimus says by way of greeting.
Lennox hops out, brushing his hands over his head. “Yes. I had some plans for you to look over.” He holds up his Blackberry pointedly.
“I see. Send them when you are ready.”
“Already did, Prime.” Lennox grins, a pleasant sight considering the tangible pall of disquiet lingering around their most staunch ally.
No sooner does Lennox speak than Optimus' systems ping him. The file arrives, and he unpacks the data, perusing it. Lennox's tacticians have taken Prowl's unfinished plans and refined them. There’s still a little work to be done, but they should be ready for implementation within a week or two.
“So, uhh, you okay?”
The uncertain query intrudes upon Optimus' study of the search plans. He cycles his gaze, looking down at the human.
“I am functioning, Colonel Lennox.”
He sighs and rubs the back of his head. “That's good to know but not really what I meant.”
Optimus flickers his optics, a longer look assessing the colonel from head to toe. Confusion filters in. Why should Lennox be concerned?
The human shifts as though uneasy. “I mean, first Ratchet and then Prowl. It can't be easy.”
It takes him a moment before understanding dawns. Lennox isn’t concerned for Optimus but hinting to a sadness of his own? He did, after all, lose Ironhide. His guardian. Perhaps he had sought out a replacement in another.
“Did you spend much time with Prowl?”
Lennox frowns at that. His eyes narrow with confusion. As if he has not followed the logic of Optimus’ question.
“No more than anyone else,” he denies. “He wasn't… approachable.”
An apt description if Optimus ever heard one. And also, one utilized by many members of the Autobot fold. It’s still baffling that Prowl has gained the loyalty of one such as Sunstreaker. Or even one such as Jazz before they became as brothers.
And that truly is something Optimus never understood. How two so very different mechs could imprint and bond. Become closer than most true siblings.
Perhaps though it is Jazz’s death that turned Prowl from their path. Perhaps he blames the humans for that loss. He had been unusually withdrawn while on Earth after all.
Optimus angles himself away from Lennox then and looks out across the city. It is beautiful in its brokenness, though he will never admit that to the humans.
“I had not seen Prowl in eons,” he confesses. “He isn’t the mech I used to know. Time affects even us.”
“So you're saying that you don't really know why he left either?” Lennox seems honestly puzzled.
“I do not.” Optimus brushes away the topic and once again peruses the plan that Lennox has given him. “These are good. I've underlined a few places that should be refined. Once they are, we can make assignments and begin the search.”
Lennox nods, visible from a peripheral sensor. “Alright. But… are you sure?” He looks up, expression unreadable. “These are your people, Optimus.”
“Yes,” the Prime agrees with another aching twinge that stretches all through his substructure, “they were.”
Silence settles in the air between them.
Lennox clears his throat noisily. “I'll take your suggestions to our guys,” he says and climbs back into the golf cart. “Don't worry. We'll find them.”
“I have every faith that you will.” Optimus offers the human a smile.
He isn't quite sure what to name the look Lennox gives him in return. He watches as the colonel whips the golf cart around and heads back to the core of the base. In the distance, Optimus can see Roadbuster emerge from a warehouse, shaking off the vestiges of recharge. The Wrecker offers Optimus a distant salute.
The roster scrolls across his HUD.
Topspin is out looking for Prowl. Dino is on the targeting range. Leadfoot is in his lab. Sideswipe is on a patrol route. Sunstreaker is in solitary. Roadbuster intends to join the construction crews in Chicago.
He is missing someone.
Optimus reassesses the list, the nagging sensation that he has forgotten one of his own like an itch in his processor. Not Ratchet. Not Prowl.
Realization dawns.
Bumblebee. He has not seen his scout on base since the aftermath of Chicago's battle. At least, not in abundance. Bumblebee lingered long enough for Ratchet to affect repairs and to stand guard over Sam, but then, he left for the Witwicky homestead. He has been with Samuel since, returning only to refresh his energon supplies and at Mearing's rare summons.
Optimus does recall charging Bumblebee with Sam's safety, but perhaps his scout has taken the matter onto himself. Not that the Decepticons are a threat anymore.
Chicago was the worst of the war here on Earth. They lost many, too many. And then Ratchet was gone with Prowl soon after.
Perhaps that’s what Bumblebee is avoiding.
He can’t be allowed to be so distant for long. Optimus will grant him his solitude for a month more. And then, he will call his scout home.
The war is over. Optimus wants nothing but peace for his Autobots. For them to have a home again without fear of the next battle.
Why could Ratchet and Prowl not understand that? Why did they leave?
The questions haunt him, all the night and all the day.
It is, for Optimus, the past all over again.
It’s watching Megatron, his brother, sneer obscenities and kill the very civilians he had vowed to protect.
It’s standing on the other end of the battlefield, taking blade in hand, because he's the only one who has ever been able to stand up to Megatron's might.
It’s Chicago, Sentinel's betrayal, and his brother's hand in it.
His spark contracts again, and Optimus bows his helm.
It’s him wondering what is broken inside. Wondering what is so terrible about his very existence that the two he loved most both betrayed him in the end.
And now, Ratchet. Who has stood by his side from the beginning. Now, he has gone with the Decepticons. With a pair of murdering Seekers.
Prowl. His most steadfast lieutenant, loyal to the end, has abandoned his post.
The world has gone mad. A world that has already sank into the Pit.
Optimus onlines his optics, tapping a panel on his forearm and opening up a small cache. He withdraws two items that glint in the sunlight.
Leadfoot retrieved these for him. He hadn’t asked for an explanation or seemed bothered by the request. He had done as Optimus asked without argument.
Of all of his Autobots, perhaps only Sideswipe might understand why.
A part of Optimus will always be Megatron. But his brother is no longer of this world. And without the Allspark, there’s nowhere for his essence to have gone.
This fragment of his spark chamber is all that remains. The humans smelted down his frame this time. Just to be sure. And Optimus cannot fault them for it.
Sentinel was buried amongst the others. With Autobot and Decepticon alike. In the dusky waters of the Laurentian Abyss. It was a rite wholly unlike the Prime burial of Cybertron past but apt given the situation.
Optimus carries the only thing that could give Sentinel life once more. He won’t deny that he has considered it once or twice. Once, Sentinel was a good mech. In his own way, Sentinel intended to save Cybertron. His goals were admirable, but he chose the wrong path.
In this, he was much like Megatron.
Brother and mentor and family forged true. All have betrayed him in the end.
“Sir?”
Optimus stirs out of his reflections. His fingers close into a fist around his precious mementos.
Leadfoot has emerged and now stands at Optimus' left side, in Prowl’s normal place. The Wrecker's face is a mélange of emotions, and his energy field reaches out to tentatively brush against Optimus' own.
“Yes?”
“We – myself, Roadbuster, and Topspin – want you to know something.”
Confusion ripples like a heatwave through the air. Optimus turns fully toward the Wrecker.
“You have my attention.”
Leadfoot stares for a moment longer. Then, he begins to kneel. He lowers himself to one knee, an arm braced against his leg.
“You will always have our loyalty,” Leadfoot says, his gruff vocals rumbling through the air. “I speak for my brothers as I say this. We pledge our allegiance always, Optimus Prime.”
Words fail him. His ventilations flutter. Optimus struggles to compute.
It’s a vow he has never demanded. It’s a promise he hasn’t expected. He doesn’t consider himself worthy of such commitment.
“To what do I owe this honor?” Optimus asks, vocals soft by contrast.
“We Autobots owe our survival to you,” Leadfoot explains, his energy pulsing with bursts of fidelity. “And there can be no peace so long as a single Decepticon functions. You understand that. So we will remain at your side.”
Gratitude overflows. It’s nearly enough to wash out the ache in his spark.
Optimus dips his head and rests a hand on Leadfoot's shoulder.
“Your vow is appreciated and accepted,” he says, field flexing into Leadfoot's with blessing. “Peace is at hand. We only need reach out and take it.”
He receives a welcoming pulse of energy in return. One that is familiar but not as familiar as others. Optimus manages to stifle the image of another kneeling before him, one who should be here but threw him away as soon as it was convenient.
Leadfoot, however, doesn’t seem to notice his lapse.
“Until all are one?” he questions instead.
“Yes,” Optimus confirms almost absentmindedly. He withdraws his hand and looks out at Chicago, rebuilding but still scarred. “Until all are one.”
***
a/n: Phew. Optimus is... uh. Yeah, I have no words. *shivers* Feedback is welcome and appreciated. Theories are wonderful to share. :)
Coming up as soon as I edit it is Thundercracker at a wonderful four parts. I'm currently in the writing stage for Skywarp, Drift, and Sunstreaker. Bumblebee might have a few words to say, too. And then we'll be wrapping up this series with Sideswipe.
Title: War Without End – Optimus Prime
Universe: Bayverse, post-DotM, canon-compliant
Characters: Optimus Prime, Charlotte Mearing, Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, Will Lennox, Leadfoot
Rating: T
Warnings: mentions of character death, angst, some language
Desc: The war is over. They've won. But why does victory feel like defeat?
“This is unacceptable, Prime.”
She paces back and forth across the catwalk, her agitation clear, her expression pinched with fatigue and disappointment.
“I understand, Director Mearing,” Optimus replies, leveling his gaze on the small organic with a large grasp on their very existence. “I’ve already assigned a mech to track him down.”
She has not taken Prowl's abandonment of his post very well. She seems even more rattled than the Autobots themselves. Perhaps it’s because her superiors want answers that she’s so adamant about facing Optimus here today.
Mearing frowns and reaches up to adjust her glasses. “You seem to be losing control of your troops,” she says in a carefully controlled tone that hints of the angered swirling beneath. “They’re defecting faster than you can recruit them.”
Optimus shifts his weight, feels the grind and creak of unoiled pistons. Ratchet is missed for more reason than one, but he can’t bring himself to think of that now.
“We aren’t yet certain of the reason behind Prowl's absence. It is possible--”
She raises her voice, not quite yelling but enough to make herself heard over his statement. “He left without proper clearance or informing his commanding officer. He did not use the proper channels and snuck out like a teenager evading curfew. He defected.”
Optimus' helm dips, and he rubs his faceplate. It is concession.
“We are investigating the circumstances behind his departure.”
She makes a noise of skepticism. “Have you bothered to watch the security footage yet? It's quite clear to me.” One hand waves in vague gesture.
The soldiers walk by as they speak, pretending not to notice the exchange of words. The low murmur of conversation in the command center becomes even quieter. Computers beep and chirp updates by the minute, but only humans tend to them. There aren’t enough Autobots to go around.
Mearing begins to pace again. Optimus watches her, counting the steps. Five, six, seven before she stops and turns. Ten, eleven, twelve. Stop and turn.
Optimus cycles a ventilation.
Focus. He needs to focus. Needs to keep flashes of Ratchet’s grim face and Prowl’s seeking optics from overpowering him. He just needs a moment to think.
“The video does not reveal motive,” he says instead.
Mearing whirls toward him, heels making a bright clack against the metal. “Except that he left of his own free will. And that crazy yellow one didn't try to stop him.”
Sensation crawls over Optimus' chassis, scrabbles over his shoulder and drizzles down the other side. His backstrut twitches.
“Prowl is my second in my command,” Optimus states, though surely Mearing must know this. “Sunstreaker is accustomed to obeying his orders.”
It surprises Optimus though. Sunstreaker has never been one for obeying any mech, not even Prime himself. Yet, for Prowl, he’ll bow his head and do as he’s told.
Mearing arches an eyebrow at him and plants her hands on her hips. “Are you blind or merely dumb?” she hisses. “There was no order given.”
Optimus looks past her and down. At the main monitor, a series of images flickering across the screen.
“Perhaps, Director Mearing, it would benefit us to ask Sunstreaker.” He lifts a hand.
“Don't bother.” Mearing dismisses the action. “He's back in solitary.”
It seems to be a common location for Sunstreaker as of late. Just last week, he'd gotten into an altercation with Roadbuster over some imagined slight.
Optimus lowers his hand. “You already questioned him?”
“More or less.” Mearing rolls her shoulders. Her earlier anger seems to bleed away, leaving a resigned annoyance behind. “He refused to answer. I guarantee you, Prime, he knows where Prowl has gone.”
Perhaps.
Optimus makes a noncommittal sound. “I will speak with him.”
Mearing snaps her fingers, and her assistant scrambles forward to stand by her side. But the woman barely even seems to notice as she reaches out.
“See that you do,” she says, her focus now on one of the bags being handed to her. “It’s imperative that we solve this as soon as possible. The President isn’t pleased.”
Optimus merely tips his helm at that statement. “I understand.”
“Good.” Mearing frowns again and gives him a sidelong look. “Find Prowl and you’ll find Ratchet, I’m sure. Find both of them, and we’ll have their Decepticon allies.”
Though Optimus is unsure of Prowl's motivations, Mearing is certainly correct about Ratchet. His former medic hasn’t made any attempts to hide his connection to the Seekers. A year after Ratchet's departure and Optimus has come to the conclusion that the medic has left of his own accord. He has sided with the Decepticons. He has joined their enemies.
It’s like a punch to the chassis. A blade to his processor. A blast to his very spark.
Such betrayal. Such treachery.
It seems to follow him everywhere. Come at him from every quarter.
A part of him wonders who it will be next. Who would turn on him without warning.
But Optimus forces that thought away. Locks it down deep inside his processor and refuses to let it back into the light.
Instead, he watches Mearing descend the catwalk with soft tap-taps of her shoes. She’s no longer wearing the heels, having exchanged them for more sensible footwear. Her assistant scrambles to follow, but Optimus still doesn't know her name. The harried woman keeps her eyes down in the presence of the Autobots. Out of fear or respect, Optimus doesn’t know. He doesn’t dare ask.
A twinge ripples through his substructure. Optimus buries the wince, curls his hand into a fist to keep from prodding at his chassis. It isn’t a pain, not in so many definitions of the word. But it has been more frequent as of late.
The Matrix remains an uncomfortable burden to bear.
Optimus turns away. His proximity sensors alert him to a soldier within range of his pede. He carefully steps around the man and heads out of the command hub. He must speak with Sunstreaker. He’s perhaps the only one on base with any answers regarding Prowl and his departure.
Prowl has been his second in command for vorns. Eons upon eons. He has always been a close friend. Optimus, however, wonders if he ever really knew Prowl.
After all, there has always been something different about him. Something off. Maybe it’s the strangeness of his connection with Jazz, how they seemed like true brothers but weren’t. Perhaps it’s his manner. So cool and contained. Or it could have simply been his nature. His origins.
War-builds and war-inclined bots can so rarely be trusted. If at all. The Decepticons show that even now. Prowl only proves it.
Optimus has long tried to extend his hand to them. Long tried to show them the true path. Only to be rebuffed time and again.
No longer though. He will no more offer the other cheek.
Outside, the sun shines down and quickly heats his exterior armor. It’s approaching summer, and the muggy warmth pulses straight through to Optimus' substructure. His plating lifts, helping to expel extra heat.
The base is a whirlwind of activity. Since Chicago, it has grown less makeshift and more permanent. Housing has been established. Roads have been paved. Sooner or later, it will be renamed and given status as an actual military compound.
The President has suggested that the Autobots remain permanently stationed here. It will be easier on the taxpayers than rebuilding the DC base. Besides, there’s still much work to be done in Chicago.
Optimus has agreed.
This will become their home. He has spent so long without one; he has nearly forgotten what it feels like to have a place to belong.
“Prime!”
He turns at the shout. Wheeled pedes crackle as they roll across the tarmac, and Sideswipe approaches like a mech on a mission. There’s a grim set to his faceplates. His energy field is withdrawn and constricted.
“Do you have a breem?” Sideswipe asks and rolls to a halt.
There can be only one reason Sideswipe would have that look on his faceplate. There’s only one mech who has ever meant more to him than anything, including the Autobots.
“I’m on my way to speak with Sunstreaker.” Optimus gestures to the line of shipping containers in the distance, one of which is currently occupied. “You can come along. Unless this requires privacy?”
Sideswipe's optics dart around, measuring and identifying everything around them. It’s mostly humans. Topspin is out looking for Prowl. Roadbuster is in recharge. Dino is on the targeting range. Leadfoot is in his lab.
Optimus can't remember the last time he saw Bumblebee on base.
“That's what I came to talk to you about,” Sideswipe switches to Cybertronian and lowers his vocals.
Optimus shakes his helm, taking up his stride once again. Sideswipe falls into step beside him.
“Sunstreaker's refusal to speak has gained him his punishment,” he responds but sticks to English. He doesn't wish for the humans to feel uncomfortable.
“Mearing ordered him there!” Sideswipe protests with a bleat of static. “She's not in our chain of command. We shouldn't have to listen to her.”
Heat waves rise from the blacktop in ripples of near-illusion. The smell of tar and construction is heavy in the air. The pang in his chassis starts up again, and Optimus scratches at his chestplate before he can stop himself.
“Director Mearing's questions were reasonable. Sunstreaker has a habit of disobeying.” Optimus drops his hand, though the itch remains. “His punishment stands.”
Sideswipe releases an ex-vent of agitation. His armor is all but ruffled.
“But--”
“He must understand that the humans are our allies,” Optimus states, and it hints with command. “As should you. It’s important that we work together with them. Not against.”
Silence.
Sideswipe tears his gaze away. Optimus can hear the subtle grinding of gears. The click-click of a few systems reset. The crackle of tires over pavement and then gravel as they approach the shipping containers.
“They ask too much,” the younger mech finally allows, though his tones are so quiet Optimus wonders if he’s meant to hear them at all.
Optimus pauses and half-turns toward the warrior. He rests a hand on Sideswipe's shoulder, feeling the warmth beneath his palm.
“It’s their planet, Sideswipe,” he offers gently. “We must never forget that we are the intruders here. We brought war to their home. It’s only fair that we offer concessions in return.”
A shift of his weight and Sideswipe rolls out from beneath his touch, rejecting it and what it represents.
“We’re the only ones who bend.” His energy field draws even tighter, so withheld it might as well not be present. “I know that it’ll come to a point when they ask for something we can't give.”
“It won't come to that.” Optimus gives a brush of his own field for reassurance. “They are our allies. Our comrades in arms. Now that the war is over, we can all enjoy this peace.”
Sideswipe's faceplates are blank. His optics are unreadable, but then, he looks away.
“I understand.” He glances toward their makeshift brig. “I’ll make sure Sunny understands, too. Will you let him out of solitary?”
“If he answers my questions, yes,” Optimus replies and picks up his stride again, coming within auditory distance of the containers. “If not, he will remain in solitary until he’s willing to cooperate.”
He cannot afford to have Sunstreaker ruin their alliance with the humans. The mech will learn to cooperate, or he won’t enjoy freedom. It’s a simple equation.
“I--”
Sideswipe cuts himself off, rocking uneasily on his wheels. He moves as though to say something further but then shakes his helm in a firm human gesture.
“I understand. Thank you, Prime.”
He turns to go.
Optimus is confused.
“You do not wish to accompany me?”
“Mearing assigned me a patrol shift,” Sideswipe tosses over his shoulder, vocals devoid of inflection. “If I'm late, I'll just end up next to Sunstreaker.”
He leaves. Back straight and helm held high.
Optimus simply watches him go. He says nothing.
Sideswipe has been different since Ratchet left. Less reckless and more contained. His mood improved at Sunstreaker's arrival but has since dropped again.
He’s a warrior though, if not a true war-build. This peace must be frustrating. Optimus vows to set some time aside later. He wants all of his soldiers to embrace the peace, to function outside of it. He will speak with Sideswipe.
First, however, is the matter of his brother.
Two soldiers guard the container. They are present for show as Sunstreaker could easily break free. He submits because it’s in his best interest. Not to mention sabot rounds are not easily ignored.
Optimus greets them with a tip of his helm. He doesn’t know either of these men. They are of a new unit, recently assigned to the area.
“I will be questioning Sunstreaker,” he informs them. “Please unlock the doors.”
The younger man on the left gives him a hard look. His dark eyes are under a helmet that covers his hair.
“Give us a moment to confirm.”
Optimus waits as they contact their superior officer, who no doubt contacts Director Mearing. Or perhaps Colonel Lennox. Sometimes, the human chain of command is quite flexible, and Optimus is never sure who really has seniority.
“Alright,” the other man on the right says. He is older appearing, but it’s so difficult to gage human ages. “You're cleared.” He steps aside and nods to his partner.
A chain and padlock are undone, slithering to the ground in a noisy jangle of metal on metal. One soldier twists and pulls the rod lock, sliding it aside. The door opens a few inches with an eerie creak. Stale, heated air puffs out, and there's a susurrus of sound as the mech within stirs.
“It's not been a week,” Sunstreaker rasps, his rich baritone vibrating in the narrow confines of the container.
“No, it has not.” Optimus steps back.
The soldiers also move aside. They tighten their grips on their weapons, however, uneasiness entering their expressions for the first time.
Optimus ignores that.
“I wish to ask you some questions,” he informs his soldier. “Cooperate and you won’t have to return to your confinement.”
A low, bitter chuckle precedes Sunstreaker's appearance. He drags himself out of the container, one much too small for any degree of comfort. His paint is scuffed, streaks of rust marring the once-brilliant shine. His optics are dull and glassy. He rises to his pedes though with an air of dignity, despite an evident wobble.
“Ask me no questions,” Sunstreaker offers with a tone that echoes of Jazz and past misdeeds, “and I'll tell you no lies.”
His confinement has done nothing for his attitude, Optimus decides as he consults the base's database. Sunstreaker has been imprisoned for nearly two days. From the moment the video footage was discovered and his part in it.
Optimus straightens his shoulder. “Director Mearing asked you of the video footage?”
“Yes,” he admits and says nothing more.
Sunstreaker isn’t going to make this easy. Not for the first time does Optimus wonder how Prowl managed to gain this warrior's respect.
“You were the last to see Prowl. Speak with him,” Optimus says for Sunstreaker's benefit. “You must have known he was leaving.”
The other mech rolls his shoulders, defiance rising from his frame in waves. “Maybe I did; maybe I didn't.”
“Sunstreaker--”
“Whatever answer you think I know, I don't,” the warrior interrupts with a sharp burst of air. He rocks back and crosses his arms. “I don't know why Prowl left. I don't know where he went.”
He is lying. The falsity is all but etched into Sunstreaker's features. Yet, his optics are steady and unyielding.
This is a dead end. Sunstreaker's loyalty to Prowl, it seems, is stronger than his tie to the Autobots. A shame that, especially with how good they’ve been to him.
And where does Sideswipe fit into all of this?
“Can I get out of solitary now?” Sunstreaker asks with all of the insubordination a mech can fit into his vocals without turning derogatory.
Optimus sighs heavily. And idly wishes Ironhide were here. He’d always managed to get mechs to answer. Even without resorting to violence.
“No.”
Sunstreaker's optics oscillate wide in indignation. “What? I answered your questions!” He jerks as though intending to gesture broadly but then reconsiders.
“You lied,” Optimus counters.
A burst of agitation and outrage slaps Optimus in the faceplate before Sunstreaker recoils his field just as quickly. It’s the most Optimus has ever sensed from the notably withdrawn mech.
“I did not,” Sunstreaker hisses. “I've told you what I know.”
“You have not.” Optimus steps closer and into the mech's personal space, a tactic Ironhide had once taught him when it came to querulous frontliners.
Not surprisingly, Sunstreaker steps back, colliding with the shipping container in a ring of metal on metal. A low dong that reverberates through the humid air. It resonates in Optimus' audials, too.
He loses his train of thought.
Optimus stops, puts himself back on track. The ache in his chassis returns with a vengeance.
“You haven't,” he repeats. “I am sure you knew of Prowl's intentions when he spoke with you. As I am certain you know where he went.”
“Why?” Sunstreaker demands, optics flashing fire. “Because that woman told you I did?”
The last is better termed a sneer. His armor clamps tight to his frame, as though he expects an attack and must protect his substructure.
Such a strange reaction.
“Director Mearing is an ally, Sunstreaker,” Optimus says firmly. “You will treat her with respect.”
Sunstreaker's faceplates close down, all expression gone. “Maybe you should tell her that. She hasn't given us an ounce of it since we arrived.”
Sunstreaker has no expression, but Optimus knows that tone. He straightens to his full height and locks his hydraulics.
“Sunstreaker! That is enough. You will complete your punishment as given. That’s an order.”
Silence sweeps between them. One of the soldier coughs into his palm, amusement curving his lips.
Sunstreaker does not fail to notice. His sneer deepens, disgust radiating from every ruffled plating. There is violence in his optics, the urge to act.
It’s a look so familiar to Optimus. It’s a look he saw so often in his own brother’s optics. In the cut of Megatron's smirk and the grip he carried on his weapon. It’s the last thing Optimus remembers before the first blow fell and civil war began.
His hand itches to transform into a blade, but Optimus remembers himself at the final instant. He draws discipline from the Matrix and pins his focus on Sunstreaker once more.
“Am I understood?”
The silence is heavy. It weighs on Optimus' shoulders. It itches in his chassis. He reaches up without thinking, scratching between his windshields.
Sunstreaker's optics track the motion. “Yes, sir,” he bites out, but there’s no submission that Optimus can hear.
It’s enough that he obeys. He turns away from Optimus with sullen disregard and sliding back into the dim confines of the shipping container.
Sunstreaker will have to be watched.
Nodding to the two soldiers, who move to relock the container, Optimus moves away. His thoughts are in turmoil.
Sunstreaker isn’t happy here. He’s barely controlled in his fury. He’s insubordinate to the point of treason.
He could have left with Prowl. He did not leave with Prowl. The dichotomy between the two concepts throws Optimus' thoughts into a feedback loop.
Optimus turns away from the main core of the base. He seeks solitude and finds it at observation point delta. It’s the furthest from the command hub and provides the widest view of Chicago's devastation despite the rebuilding.
Mearing has suggested that Autobots provide their services with that as well. Optimus has agreed. Perhaps in working side by side with their organic allies, the two species can at last come to an accord. It can only help.
His comm, however, buzzes within seconds of his arrival. It’s Leadfoot.
--Colonel Lennox is looking for you, Prime.--
He contemplates that for a moment.
--Inform him of my location.--
--Yes, sir.--
No argument. No accompanying glyphs of disdain or disappointment. Leadfoot's professionalism is refreshing. It’s as if Prowl were the one there, running ops. It’s as if Prowl had never left.
Optimus closes that thought with a snap. He settles in to wait. It isn’t long before his sensors and audials detect a golf cart approaching. Colonel Lennox is alone.
“You were searching for me?” Optimus says by way of greeting.
Lennox hops out, brushing his hands over his head. “Yes. I had some plans for you to look over.” He holds up his Blackberry pointedly.
“I see. Send them when you are ready.”
“Already did, Prime.” Lennox grins, a pleasant sight considering the tangible pall of disquiet lingering around their most staunch ally.
No sooner does Lennox speak than Optimus' systems ping him. The file arrives, and he unpacks the data, perusing it. Lennox's tacticians have taken Prowl's unfinished plans and refined them. There’s still a little work to be done, but they should be ready for implementation within a week or two.
“So, uhh, you okay?”
The uncertain query intrudes upon Optimus' study of the search plans. He cycles his gaze, looking down at the human.
“I am functioning, Colonel Lennox.”
He sighs and rubs the back of his head. “That's good to know but not really what I meant.”
Optimus flickers his optics, a longer look assessing the colonel from head to toe. Confusion filters in. Why should Lennox be concerned?
The human shifts as though uneasy. “I mean, first Ratchet and then Prowl. It can't be easy.”
It takes him a moment before understanding dawns. Lennox isn’t concerned for Optimus but hinting to a sadness of his own? He did, after all, lose Ironhide. His guardian. Perhaps he had sought out a replacement in another.
“Did you spend much time with Prowl?”
Lennox frowns at that. His eyes narrow with confusion. As if he has not followed the logic of Optimus’ question.
“No more than anyone else,” he denies. “He wasn't… approachable.”
An apt description if Optimus ever heard one. And also, one utilized by many members of the Autobot fold. It’s still baffling that Prowl has gained the loyalty of one such as Sunstreaker. Or even one such as Jazz before they became as brothers.
And that truly is something Optimus never understood. How two so very different mechs could imprint and bond. Become closer than most true siblings.
Perhaps though it is Jazz’s death that turned Prowl from their path. Perhaps he blames the humans for that loss. He had been unusually withdrawn while on Earth after all.
Optimus angles himself away from Lennox then and looks out across the city. It is beautiful in its brokenness, though he will never admit that to the humans.
“I had not seen Prowl in eons,” he confesses. “He isn’t the mech I used to know. Time affects even us.”
“So you're saying that you don't really know why he left either?” Lennox seems honestly puzzled.
“I do not.” Optimus brushes away the topic and once again peruses the plan that Lennox has given him. “These are good. I've underlined a few places that should be refined. Once they are, we can make assignments and begin the search.”
Lennox nods, visible from a peripheral sensor. “Alright. But… are you sure?” He looks up, expression unreadable. “These are your people, Optimus.”
“Yes,” the Prime agrees with another aching twinge that stretches all through his substructure, “they were.”
Silence settles in the air between them.
Lennox clears his throat noisily. “I'll take your suggestions to our guys,” he says and climbs back into the golf cart. “Don't worry. We'll find them.”
“I have every faith that you will.” Optimus offers the human a smile.
He isn't quite sure what to name the look Lennox gives him in return. He watches as the colonel whips the golf cart around and heads back to the core of the base. In the distance, Optimus can see Roadbuster emerge from a warehouse, shaking off the vestiges of recharge. The Wrecker offers Optimus a distant salute.
The roster scrolls across his HUD.
Topspin is out looking for Prowl. Dino is on the targeting range. Leadfoot is in his lab. Sideswipe is on a patrol route. Sunstreaker is in solitary. Roadbuster intends to join the construction crews in Chicago.
He is missing someone.
Optimus reassesses the list, the nagging sensation that he has forgotten one of his own like an itch in his processor. Not Ratchet. Not Prowl.
Realization dawns.
Bumblebee. He has not seen his scout on base since the aftermath of Chicago's battle. At least, not in abundance. Bumblebee lingered long enough for Ratchet to affect repairs and to stand guard over Sam, but then, he left for the Witwicky homestead. He has been with Samuel since, returning only to refresh his energon supplies and at Mearing's rare summons.
Optimus does recall charging Bumblebee with Sam's safety, but perhaps his scout has taken the matter onto himself. Not that the Decepticons are a threat anymore.
Chicago was the worst of the war here on Earth. They lost many, too many. And then Ratchet was gone with Prowl soon after.
Perhaps that’s what Bumblebee is avoiding.
He can’t be allowed to be so distant for long. Optimus will grant him his solitude for a month more. And then, he will call his scout home.
The war is over. Optimus wants nothing but peace for his Autobots. For them to have a home again without fear of the next battle.
Why could Ratchet and Prowl not understand that? Why did they leave?
The questions haunt him, all the night and all the day.
It is, for Optimus, the past all over again.
It’s watching Megatron, his brother, sneer obscenities and kill the very civilians he had vowed to protect.
It’s standing on the other end of the battlefield, taking blade in hand, because he's the only one who has ever been able to stand up to Megatron's might.
It’s Chicago, Sentinel's betrayal, and his brother's hand in it.
His spark contracts again, and Optimus bows his helm.
It’s him wondering what is broken inside. Wondering what is so terrible about his very existence that the two he loved most both betrayed him in the end.
And now, Ratchet. Who has stood by his side from the beginning. Now, he has gone with the Decepticons. With a pair of murdering Seekers.
Prowl. His most steadfast lieutenant, loyal to the end, has abandoned his post.
The world has gone mad. A world that has already sank into the Pit.
Optimus onlines his optics, tapping a panel on his forearm and opening up a small cache. He withdraws two items that glint in the sunlight.
Leadfoot retrieved these for him. He hadn’t asked for an explanation or seemed bothered by the request. He had done as Optimus asked without argument.
Of all of his Autobots, perhaps only Sideswipe might understand why.
A part of Optimus will always be Megatron. But his brother is no longer of this world. And without the Allspark, there’s nowhere for his essence to have gone.
This fragment of his spark chamber is all that remains. The humans smelted down his frame this time. Just to be sure. And Optimus cannot fault them for it.
Sentinel was buried amongst the others. With Autobot and Decepticon alike. In the dusky waters of the Laurentian Abyss. It was a rite wholly unlike the Prime burial of Cybertron past but apt given the situation.
Optimus carries the only thing that could give Sentinel life once more. He won’t deny that he has considered it once or twice. Once, Sentinel was a good mech. In his own way, Sentinel intended to save Cybertron. His goals were admirable, but he chose the wrong path.
In this, he was much like Megatron.
Brother and mentor and family forged true. All have betrayed him in the end.
“Sir?”
Optimus stirs out of his reflections. His fingers close into a fist around his precious mementos.
Leadfoot has emerged and now stands at Optimus' left side, in Prowl’s normal place. The Wrecker's face is a mélange of emotions, and his energy field reaches out to tentatively brush against Optimus' own.
“Yes?”
“We – myself, Roadbuster, and Topspin – want you to know something.”
Confusion ripples like a heatwave through the air. Optimus turns fully toward the Wrecker.
“You have my attention.”
Leadfoot stares for a moment longer. Then, he begins to kneel. He lowers himself to one knee, an arm braced against his leg.
“You will always have our loyalty,” Leadfoot says, his gruff vocals rumbling through the air. “I speak for my brothers as I say this. We pledge our allegiance always, Optimus Prime.”
Words fail him. His ventilations flutter. Optimus struggles to compute.
It’s a vow he has never demanded. It’s a promise he hasn’t expected. He doesn’t consider himself worthy of such commitment.
“To what do I owe this honor?” Optimus asks, vocals soft by contrast.
“We Autobots owe our survival to you,” Leadfoot explains, his energy pulsing with bursts of fidelity. “And there can be no peace so long as a single Decepticon functions. You understand that. So we will remain at your side.”
Gratitude overflows. It’s nearly enough to wash out the ache in his spark.
Optimus dips his head and rests a hand on Leadfoot's shoulder.
“Your vow is appreciated and accepted,” he says, field flexing into Leadfoot's with blessing. “Peace is at hand. We only need reach out and take it.”
He receives a welcoming pulse of energy in return. One that is familiar but not as familiar as others. Optimus manages to stifle the image of another kneeling before him, one who should be here but threw him away as soon as it was convenient.
Leadfoot, however, doesn’t seem to notice his lapse.
“Until all are one?” he questions instead.
“Yes,” Optimus confirms almost absentmindedly. He withdraws his hand and looks out at Chicago, rebuilding but still scarred. “Until all are one.”
a/n: Phew. Optimus is... uh. Yeah, I have no words. *shivers* Feedback is welcome and appreciated. Theories are wonderful to share. :)
Coming up as soon as I edit it is Thundercracker at a wonderful four parts. I'm currently in the writing stage for Skywarp, Drift, and Sunstreaker. Bumblebee might have a few words to say, too. And then we'll be wrapping up this series with Sideswipe.
