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dracoqueen22Title: Undaunted
Universe: G1/IDW, Crown the Empire
Characters: Soundwave/Optimus, Hound/Ravage, Grimlock/Starscream, Ensemble, Multiple Pairings
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Description: It’s only been five years, but for a society ravaged by war and desperation, it might as well be a lifetime. What better way to celebrate the lasting peace but with a celebration to last all through the night?
Undaunted – Chapter One
Five years barely counted as a blip in the lifetime of a Cybertronian, but Optimus had spent too much time on Earth. He’d grown too used to the human way of marking time, and so much had happened to him so quickly now, that five years seemed far longer than it aught.
This wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
Five years since the end of the war, since the brief enslavement of the Autobots, since Megatron’s death at the hands of Grimlock, since Cybertron and all of its inhabitants had moved into a new status quo. Autobots, Decepticons, and Neutrals alike, all sharing what little bit of the planet was habitable, forging new paths together.
Soon, Optimus wagered, they would be rid of badges altogether. Eventually, they would truly be one people again.
Five years was plenty of time now to change many things. It just wasn’t enough time to change everything. Which was acceptable, in Optimus’ opinion, so long as they had forward motion. Continuous forward motion.
“Optimus brooding again?”
“I am not,” Optimus retorted, but it lacked any heat. He turned his head, offering a gentle smile to his partner. “If anything, I am reflecting.”
“Same meaning.” Soundwave swept a polishing cloth over the back of Optimus’ shoulders, the gentle rub of the mesh making Optimus’ armor tingle. “This not good day?”
Optimus hummed and leaned back toward Soundwave, soaking in his embrace. Soundwave, former Decepticon and now his Director of Security, was all too willing to accept it, the polishing cloth laid aside as he wrapped his arms around Optimus from behind. The polishing was a formality at this point anyway. Optimus was as shiny as he could get.
“It’s a very good day,” he murmured, shuttering his optics and cycling a long ventilation.
Soundwave was very warm and present behind him, his arms a shelter rather than a cage. His field pulsed against Optimus’, bright with affection and pride. He pressed his head against Optimus’, his engine purring.
“I was, in fact, reflecting on why it is,” Optimus added as he turned and pressed a kiss to the corner of Soundwave’s mouth. He always kept his battlemask open when they were alone now. So much so that Optimus often startled to see him wear it in public.
The battlemask, for both of them, was removed from who they were now.
“Not brooding then.” Soundwave’s lips flirted over the curve of Optimus’ jaw. “Celebrating.”
“Mmm. Of a sort.” Optimus shivered as Soundwave pressed several small kisses down the side of his intake.
It would be all too easy to just stay here, wouldn’t it? To surrender to Soundwave’s embrace, stumble over to their berth, and love on his partner until the sun set and fireworks lit the night.
But Optimus was still Prime until voted otherwise or another was found, and that meant he had responsibilities. Fortunately, for today, all of his responsibilities were good ones. Besides, he would hate to disappoint Hound. The tracker had waited long enough. He and Ravage both, in fact.
Optimus turned his head toward Soundwave’s, capturing the former Decepticon’s lips with his own, savoring the sweet kiss. He sighed into it as Soundwave’s hands stroked down his arms, leaving tingles in their wake, and Soundwave’s field nudged his, ripe and warm and loving.
“Optimus is tempting,” Soundwave murmured against his mouth, head tilted against his in a nuzzle.
“So are you.” Optimus chuckled and made himself withdraw, though his spark hummed and twirled happily. “But we both have obligations that neither of us wish to miss, and so we most refrain.”
A laugh rattled out of Soundwave’s chassis. “Unfortunate but true.” Soundwave leaned back and flicked the polishing cloth toward the recycle bin. It would be collected later, washed, dried, and folded to be reused.
They had learned not to be wasteful. The war had taught them as much.
“And you?” Optimus asked as he turned toward Soundwave, capturing his partner’s hand and drawing it up to his lips. “I know letting Ravage go was hard even then. Giving her to another permanently is a different matter entirely, yes?”
Soundwave’s field softened. “Ravage missed,” he admitted, and his thumb brushed over Optimus’ wrist. “But Ravage’s happiness to be celebrated.”
“Yes, it is.” Optimus brushed his lips over Soundwave’s knuckles and felt the loving touch of Soundwave’s field against his. “And right now, I am happy for every celebration we manage.”
Agreement echoed in Soundwave’s field. He leaned in, as though intending to kiss Optimus once more, but a chime rang throughout their shared quarters, startling them both.
“And that would be Jazz,” Optimus said with a chuckle. “Here to remind us that we are expected to be somewhere.” He reluctantly loosed his grip on Soundwave’s hand, though the desire to cuddle his partner on the berth rang strongly through him.
“Jazz often inconvenient,” Soundwave commented.
“I think he prides himself on having the perfect – or in our case awkward – timing.” Optimus laughed again and moved to the door, thumbing the panel so that it would slide open. “Good evening, Jazz.”
“Heya, OP!” the black and white mech, still ostensibly Optimus’ third in command and head of a no-longer-necessary Special Ops unit, sauntered inside with a bebop to his step. “I ain’t interruptin’ anythin’ am I?” He leaned past Optimus to give a pointed look to Soundwave.
“Nothing that didn’t need to be drawing to an end anyway,” Optimus replied, bemusement thick in his field. “Were you worried I would be late?”
Jazz grinned, his visor sparkling. “Nah. You and Sounders both are impeccably punctual mechs. I just thought I’d walk with ya.”
“And fill me in, I assume, on something important,” Optimus mused aloud. He gave his third a fond look before he turned toward Soundwave. “Are you ready?”
“Affirmative.” Soundwave stepped up beside him. “Name: Soundwave.”
“I know that.” Jazz’s smile was cheeky as always. It was a point of contention between the two, this insistence on mangling Soundwave’s name.
Optimus often wondered if it even bothered Soundwave anymore, and he only made a growl about it because it was part of the game he and Jazz played. For they indulged in many of them, most of which Optimus knew he was not privy to. Soundwave and Jazz did not dislike each other.
On the contrary, they seemed to have formed something of a cabal, one fully invested in Optimus’ good health. It could be irritating, when they worked in tandem to ensure he was well rested and well fueled and well-maintained.
Optimus shook his head and eased out of his quarters, knowing Soundwave and Jazz would follow without having to be told. Best not to get in the middle of them. He’d learned to let them handle their own squabbles, no matter how much it might sound like they were two seconds from clawing each other’s optics out.
Starscream’s words, not his. The Seeker found it endlessly amusing, though sometimes Optimus did catch Starscream shooting Jazz the most sympathetic looks. As if Optimus was the most difficult mech in the room.
“What do you have to report?” Optimus asked, once they were in the hall, Soundwave at his right and Jazz at his left, seemingly unbothered by walking alongside two mechs who cast large shadows.
“Nothin’ too serious, so don’t get your struts all bent outta shape,” Jazz said, his field warm where it brushed against Optimus’. “Just gotta echo on our forward sensors. Thinkin’ another ship comin’ home to roost.”
“Are they claiming a badge?”
“Dunno. Hadn’t heard a peep from them. Might want to get yer loverboy on it.”
Optimus bit back a sigh, even as Soundwave’s engine grumbled with irritation. “Blaster was unable to establish contact?”
“He tried, but they ain’t answerin’. Might be ‘cause they’re Cons wantin’ to come in from the cold and don’t believe ole Screamer’s tale of woe.” Jazz shrugged, but didn’t look the least bit concerned. “Sensors say it’s a small ship, probably ten, twenty bots. No matter who’s aboard, we can take ‘em. Still, better ta be prepared.”
Optimus made a noncommittal noise and looked at Soundwave, sliding his fingers into his mate’s. “You do have a better reputation than Starscream,” he said. “Perhaps you can convince them to identify themselves?”
“Attempt will be made.” Soundwave tipped his head in a decisive nod. “After festival.”
“Of course.”
They emerged from the residential quarters into a crisp evening, the street lamps casting a pale glow down on the refurbished roads of Polyhex. Emergency runners – always lit – and the lighted buildings helped illuminate the night, as stars twinkled above them. It was a good, clear night, without threat of acid storm in sight.
The perfect evening for a celebration.
Perceptor had reassured Optimus they were getting closer to figuring out how to navigate Cybertron toward a star that would once again provide them solar power and help stabilize their seasons.
It was easier, he’d commented, now that they were more focused on science and advancement, then war and death. Especially since he could pluck the minds of those Neutral and Decepticon alike. He’d formed something of a close friendship with Quark, one of the Neutrals, and Brainstorm, who had arrived with Ultra Magnus’ unit five years prior.
“I shall be glad when we can finally abandon these badges,” Optimus commented, to one in particular, merely an observation.
He was relieved to find that the few mechs they passed in the streets were a variety of all three: Autobot, Decepticon, and badgeless Neutral. But he still lamented that they needed to label themselves.
“Only when we can cast those aside and stand together, will we truly be one,” Optimus added and vented a sigh. “That, I fear, is still a long time coming.”
“Hey, we’re getting better.” Jazz nudged him with an elbow, his field turned soft and comforting. “We’re miles from where we were, and we still got miles to go, but it’s the progress that counts, right?”
Optimus smiled and rested a hand on Jazz’s shoulder, giving it a pat. “Indeed. The progress, I believe, is worth more than everything.”
Soundwave squeezed Optimus’ hand as if to offer agreement, his field warm and tender where it brushed against Optimus’ own.
Optimus was determined to do whatever necessary means to ensure they did not return to the conditions which sparked war in the first place. He never again wanted to see his mechs suffer through war.
They had all suffered enough.
~
Hound fidgeted.
As much as he tried to comport himself with some measure of dignity, he couldn’t stop fidgeting. His armor rattled. His spark thrummed. His field was a wild mess. His fingers kept tangling tightly together until his knuckle joints creaked.
Behind him, sweeping a soft buffer cloth over those fiddly spots Hound couldn’t reach, Trailbreaker chuckled. “Are you nervous?”
Hound ducked his head, feeling heat steal into his face. “Why should I be? This is a formality. We’re already one where it counts.”
“Yes, but...”
“I’m nervous,” Hound finished for him. The admission seemed to ease some of his anxiety, and the clattering in his armor quieted. He looked into the mirror in front of him, seeing Trailbreaker behind him, steady and unwavering. “I’m nervous, Trails.”
A soft smile curved his best friend’s lips. “I know.” The buffing cloth was tossed aside as Trailbreaker leaned forward, embracing Hound from behind. “It’ll go perfectly. Trust me.”
“I do.” Hound lay a hand over one of Trailbreaker’s, drawing strength from his field, from his warmth, familiar and welcome. “I believe you. I just… I never thought I’d be happy again. But here I am.”
After the end of the war, after losing the war, after finding himself captured by the Decepticons, given over to their voracious appetites of humiliation and degradation…
There had been times he’d longed for death. There’d been moments he would have clawed his own spark out if only to end the pain. When he’d drowned in his own hopelessness, sinking further into the dark, until a pair of crimson optics, peering at him from a small vent, reminded him he wasn’t alone.
He only had to be patient. To wait. That his dear one wouldn’t leave him like this. Victory would be found, however late. He could be free again. If she could survive it, so could he.
If not for Ravage…
Hound would be dead. He knew this with certainty. If she had not come to him, in some of his darkest hours, whispering softly through the vents while Hound’s rapists snored in their exhausted recharge, Hound would have ripped out his own spark.
She had saved him in more ways than one.
“Here you are indeed,” Trailbreaker echoed, giving him a strong squeeze of an embrace, one that made Hound’s armor creak and air squeeze out of his vents. He chuckled, because that was what Trailbreaker did and it was comfort to him. “Shining like a newforged. About to be officially mated to the love of your life. Sounds perfect, if you ask me.”
Hound grinned, the last of his tension whooshing away with Trailbreaker’s hug. “So long as I don’t show myself to be a graceless idiot and trip over my own two feet.”
Trailbreaker’s rolling laugh vibrated both of their frames. “Even if you did, it wouldn’t be any less perfect.” He sounded so certain, so steadfast.
Hound’s spark throbbed, swollen with love and affection for Trailbreaker, his best and closest friend, somewhere between brother and mate, without the intimacy of romance.
He gently turned in Trailbreaker’s embrace and cupped a hand around Trailbreaker’s head. “You’re too tall,” he teased as he pulled Trailbreaker down, pressing their foreheads together.
“Maybe you’re just short,” Trailbreaker teased in return.
Hound’s smile was soft as it curved his lips. “I want to thank you, too,” he said, quite sure he could say it a thousand times and it still wouldn’t be enough. “You held me together just as much as she did. You’ve been my rock for all these years, and I don’t know what I did to deserve that. I’m just glad for it.”
Trailbreaker’s field blushed, and he shifted his weight. “Aw, now you’re getting mushy,” he said, tone abashed. “You’re my friend, Hound. And you don’t make me feel like I’m weird or an outcast. For that, I’d do anything.”
“You’re not weird. You’re just you.” Hound rested his hands on Trailbreaker’s shoulders and looked up at his dearest friend. “So… thanks. All right? I wouldn’t have made it without you either.”
Trailbreaker’s face heated, light dancing across his visor. He ducked his head as if trying to make himself smaller, as he often did. He had always existed in a curious state of not wanting to be noticed, but desperate to be recognized.
“What’s this? Canoodling behind my back?”
Hound rolled his optics as he turned his head, though he left his hands on Trailbreaker’s shoulders. “Canoodling,” he echoed. “Since when have you decided that was a word you could bear to say?”
“Oh, I’ve grown rather fond of it now,” Ravage purred as she hopped onto the nearby bench, her armor gleaming like polished onyx. She sniffed theatrically. “I feel left out now, the two of you in here cuddling while I pace in the hallway waiting for a rather tardy Prime.”
Hound snickered. “Something tells me a certain laconic mech may be to blame for that.” He stepped out of Trailbreaker’s embrace, but didn’t get very far before Trailbreaker tugged him back and tackled one of his arms with a polishing cloth.
Ravage lifted her chin, her optics flashing warmly at him. “Soundwave arrives precisely when he means to. If anyone is the cause, it’s your Prime.”
“Wait a minute, isn’t it supposed to be bad luck for the groom to see the bride?” Trailbreaker asked, his voice rich with humor.
Ravage shot him a flat look. “Call me a bride one more time, and we’ll see how durable your armor is to my claws.”
Hound chuckled and expanded his field, enveloping them both in it. The repartee was nothing more than witty teasing, he knew. Five years in each other’s company had made the two rather disparate Cybertronians come to something of an accord. Ravage had all but adopted Trailbreaker as one of her own.
“Truthfully, I think we’ve exhausted a lifetime’s worth of bad luck for our relationship. We should be fine,” Hound said. He reached for Ravage with his field, since Trailbreaker’s grip on his arm was quite firm. “I’m worried about nothing.”
It was almost surprising how true that was.
Sometimes, the anxiety caught him in the wee hours of the night, when he was most vulnerable, trusting and in recharge. It stole into his dreams, woke him screaming and thrashing, but those were few and far between now.
Mostly these days… he felt a peace. A contentment. The war was over, and they’d paid a terrible price for that end, but still, the truth remained. The war was over, they lived in a peace growing more solid by the year, Earth would rise again, as would the humans, and Hound was about to publicly announce his bond to the love of his entire functioning.
“Neither am I,” Trailbreaker said cheerfully, with one last swipe of his cloth. “And you’re as shiny as I can make ya.”
Hound grinned, turned, and pressed a kiss to Trailbreaker’s cheek. “Thanks.” He turned to look at Ravage, without bothering to hide the affection swelling in his field. “Are you ready to do this?”
Ravage rose up with a languid stretch of her back, her armor fluffing and settling around her, as shiny as a new penny. “I’ve been ready for millennia.”
Truer words had yet been spoken.
~
“If you boys get any slower, you’ll start driving backward!”
Kup’s laughter nearly drowned out the twin snarls of anger and shouts of “shut up!” from the two mechs who had been trusted to his supervision. Though perhaps supervision was the wrong word.
Kup had a soft spot for mechs like these. Former Decepticons. Younglings really. Newsparks brought into Megatron’s influence before they knew what was what, taught that only Megatron knew the right way, taught to fear and hate before they knew what it meant to tolerate and love.
Mechs like the Stunticons.
Once Kup had heard how they came into being, he’d been outraged. Just where had Megatron been stashing those stolen frames? How dare he steal sparks to turn them into monsters? How dare he ruin what hadn’t had a chance to grow?
Megatron knew how to speak pretty words. To twist lies into truth. What had he told them, to make them hate the Autobots so much? How hard had he fanned their rage? He’d kept them ignorant, of course, because dumb soldiers were obedient soldiers. And they’d only ever known what they’d been taught.
If Megatron told them to jump, they’d ask how high and how far. They loathed Optimus, not because of something Optimus had done, but because Megatron loathed him. Though, in Motormaster’s case, his reasoning was a bit more personal.
One would have to be stupid to miss the similarities. The same alt-mode. Similar frame design. Megatron had opted to change Motormaster’s color, to give him a few bits of kibble, but the truth was there, writ in Motormaster’s existence.
Megatron wanted Optimus, obedient and subservient. He settled for Motormaster. Kup didn’t ask his new charge how often Motormaster had spent in his master’s berth. He didn’t have to. He knew the answer.
So the Stunticons didn’t know any better. That wasn’t an excuse. It didn’t get them off the hook, but it explained a lot. They were sparks that could be saved. Kup was sure of it. Just look at Breakdown! Kid had already seen the light.
He’d been the gentlest of them from the start, Kup figured. Probably the one the others beat down when he didn’t hop to obey fast enough. He’d learned to keep his mouth shut. He’d hated, too, just a little, and that hate fed into resentment and anxiety and fear. Powerful motivators, those emotions were.
There were only three Stunticons left. One was making a good run of it, on his own, attached hip and hip to that Decepticon medic and their shared Dinobot. Breakdown would be all right without any convincing on Kup’s part.
But the last two, Motormaster and Drag Strip, they were stubborn afts. It just so happened Kup liked stubborn afts. He liked seeing what they were made of, deep down inside, down past the indoctrination and the hate.
They could be saved. He was sure of it. Rehabilitated, maybe, was the word. Either way, Kup wasn’t going to give up on them without a fight. No one had ever given them two shakes in the world. They’d been sparked into an existence of hatred. They needed the chance to see the light, not thrown to rust in the dark like Barricade.
Now that was a mech who was never going to learn. That was a mech rotten to the core of his spark. Kup had advised they take Barricade out back, put him down like the rabid scraplet he was. Optimus had changed a lot, but not enough to argue for execution. So Barricade lived, locked away in his prison cell.
It would have to be enough.
Motormaster and Drag Strip though, Kup had put his foot down. Someone had to do it. And if he couldn’t, well, he didn’t think there was a mech alive who could.
Kup was old. Older than anyone knew how to count. If he couldn’t help these mechs see what a real future they could have, maybe no one could. And because Kup was old, he didn’t see badges.
Those boys, they’d behaved badly. Very badly. Unforgivably, depending who you asked. But it was hard to blame a child for misbehaving if their parent didn’t tell them not to. They had to learn what they did was wrong, before they could learn not to do it again, or even realize they needed to ask forgiveness. Just telling them they were wrong wasn’t going to do it either.
Not for these boys.
They’d spent too long hearing Megatron as the word of Primus and Unicron and all the little gods in between. Peeling them apart would take time. Finesse. And sometimes, a good, old-fashioned aft-kicking. Fortunately, Kup was skilled and had plenty of all three.
“Hurry up!” Kup barked again, and took a puff of his cygar, the filtered medicines filling his vents with a cool wash. “You’re going to miss the festivities at this rate. And make me miss ‘em, too. And do ya have any idea what’s gonna happen if I don’t get my promised mug of engex from Springer?”
“I can guess,” Drag Strip said sourly as he finally came into view, the length of a thick, heavy chain slung over one shoulder as he soldiered onward, manually tugging a flatbed of supplies for Cybertron.
Motormaster was just behind him, his flatbed piled thrice as high.
Oh, it would’ve been much easier if Kup let them tow the flatbeds in their alt-modes. But the easy route meant they didn’t learn anything. Like the value of good, hard labor. Working with your own two feet and hands to build what you helped break.
Kup planted his hands on his hips and cocked his head to the side. “You want to smart off to me again? Or do you wanna race tonight?”
Drag Strip’s gaze fell. His lips twisted into a scowl, and he muttered something that might have been an apology, if Kup was feeling generous. Well, it was progress. At least he’d stopped trying to run away.
Coming up the hill behind Drag Strip, Motormaster’s mouth was set in a mutinous line. His optics bled murder, his hands clenched around the double chains draped over his shoulders. The flatbed’s wheels creaked and rattled, weighted down as it was by the mined materials they were hauling to Cybertron.
The spacebridge was another ten miles away.
“Just shut up, Drag Strip,” Motormaster muttered, though it lacked heat. Anger boiled inside of him, but it was an exhausted anger. A resigned one.
Felt abandoned, that one did. Felt betrayed by his master. A couple more nudges, and Kup knew he could get Motormaster to start thinking for himself. Drag Strip was just being impertinent because he could. Kid was scared, worried about his future, hated being thought of as weak, hated even more that he was pitied.
Neither of them had apologized for their abysmal behavior and treatment of the Autobots they’d assaulted. It would come in time. Kup was sure of it. Consent was still a tricky subject. They both labored under the misconception so common in Decepticons under Megatron’s spell.
If you were strong enough to take it, it was yours. No one had ever explained that just because you could do something, didn’t necessarily mean that you should.
Kup would get it through their thick heads eventually. He’d only had them for half a year after all. The lessons were only beginning.
“You shut up,” Drag Strip retorted, but it sounded reflexive. Right now, all they had was each other, since Breakdown abandoned them.
Their words, not Kup’s.
He’d told them, you want to be like your brother, you want to actually enjoy life rather than rot in a cell, then you can come with me. He’d given them that choice. They’d taken it. They’d assumed, wrongly, it would be an easier life than prison.
They could go back to prison if they wanted. Funny how neither of them seemed keen on taking that opportunity. They whined about how much they were suffering, despite only doing as much work as any other free mech on New Cybertron trying to rebuild their planet as quickly as possible.
Children. They were sparklings through and through. How could Kup look at them with anything but pity? Hate would’ve been easier, but forgiveness… Ah. Now there was a tough fight. Kup had always preferred those anyway.
Kup leaned over and grabbed the chain attached to his own flatbed. Alright, maybe his load was a bit lighter. He was old and rusty. Of course he couldn’t keep up with the younglings. And that was his excuse if anyone asked.
“Come on now,” he urged as he started up the old, unpaved road again, wheels of the flatbed creeping behind him. “Cybertron’s relying on these supplies. And if you make it on time without any more whining, I’ll see what I can do about getting ya both a couple of passes.”
As in, free time away from Kup. They’d still be monitored, as a matter of course, by either an Autobot or Decepticon member of the Unified Cybertronian forces. But it would be a rest day. A chance for leisure without Kup peering over their shoulders.
Both of them perked up at this, and exchanged a commiserating glance. Somehow, they managed to find a spurt of energy, there in the middle of such lazy fatigue, and put some pep in their step.
Kup swallowed down a laugh, but only just.
Worked every time. He’d get these younglings on the right path. He was sure of it.
There was hope for them yet.
~
Ultra Magnus was not a mech prone to fidgeting. So as he waited outside the main gate to the festival grounds, it was with absolute stillness and ease.
Xaaron was not yet late. If anything, the current Neutral leader was always perfectly punctual. It was something Ultra Magnus greatly appreciated. He felt a leader should always be on time, no matter the circumstances.
Optimus, Ultra Magnus reflected, could always be counted on to be early. Mostly because there was rarely a time Optimus was not working, though that had become different as of late. Romantic entanglements, Ultra Magnus supposed. They served as a distraction.
Optimus still tended to arrive early, but now, more often than not, it was because Soundwave kept him on a tight schedule. A very good assistant that one made, even if he used to be a Decepticon and now had duties of his own. Ultra Magnus suspected that Laserbeak was largely to thank for Optimus’ continued good behavior. She was never far from Optimus’ shoulder.
By contrast, Jazz could always be relied upon to be late. By Ultra Magnus’ standards at any rate. He’d stroll in, a few minutes past the designated time, with ease in his shoulders and a song on his lips. He always looked surprised, too, at Ultra Magnus’ firm look of disapproval. He always grinned.
“Oh, I’m late?” he said and laughed because what was punctuality to a spy? They operated on entirely different timetables.
Grimlock arrived on time to their multi-factional meetings, Starscream at his heels. But there were occasions when the both of them were late. Smug and all too satisfied at that. Ultra Magnus didn’t need an investigative service to know why. Apparently the rumors that they couldn’t keep their hands off each other was true. Lucky for the both of them, Cyclonus could be counted on to arrive precisely on time with a constancy that Ultra Magnus appreciated.
Speaking of punctuality…
Precisely on time, Xaaron strode into view, the gleam of his gold armor nearly outshining that of the street lamps that provided ambient illumination. It was a garish choice for a factional leader, but Ultra Magnus could hardly fault him for it. To each his own.
“Ultra Magnus, good evening,” Xaaron greeted, with a politician’s smile and a politician’s handshake, firm and yielding.
Ultra Magnus tipped his head. “And the same to you.”
They fell into step together, striding through the open gates into the sparsely populated festival grounds. The celebration had yet to officially begin, and those they spotted were running around performing last minute preparations. It gratified Ultra Magnus to see all sorts busily working: Autobot, Decepticon, and the badgeless Neutrals.
Five years was not so long for a Cybertronian, but on New Cybertron, it was apparently long enough to start making a dent in the walls the long war had built.
“Will Metalhawk be attending tonight?” Ultra Magnus asked, more out of courtesy than any genuine interest.
Metalhawk had not attended any of the celebrations for the last four years, despite how small they’d been. Ultra Magnus sincerely doubted Metalhawk would be present for this one. Metalhawk had been a ghost since his arrest and conviction, occasionally outspoken to the Neutrals, but a mostly silent partner otherwise.
Though to call what had emerged the last four years a grand festival would be wildly overstating its grandeur. This year, the fifth year, was truly the first festival they had to celebrate the treaty. In the years before, it had been loosely arranged affairs. Spontaneous, really. And kept mostly inter-factional.
The massive celebration many would attend tonight was actually Xaaron’s master plan. He insisted they all needed something that would bring them together in joy, remind everyone on New Cybertron how far they had come, and what could be accomplished if they set aside their grievances to work together.
“Sadly, he will not,” Xaaran replied with a nearly inaudible sigh. “I’ve explained to him multiple times that his absence does not win him any favors, but he’s quite insistent that he does not belong at any celebration.” Xaaron tucked his hands behind his back. “It is a losing battle.”
“How unfortunate,” Ultra Magnus said, though he did not mean it. He’d always loathed politics, no matter how skilled he was. “Though I must congratulate you. Winning your third election term? That’s quite a feat.”
Xaaron’s head dipped in a show of humility. “I’m honored by their faith in me. I am pleased that I continue to be allowed to serve my citizens to the best of my ability.”
“They’ve elected you three times in a row, with an overwhelming majority I might add.” Ultra Magnus smiled approvingly. “If you ask me, that is proof you are doing an excellent job of it.”
“Thank you.” Xaaron cycled a ventilation and made a point to look around them. “This celebration is very important to the entirety of Cybertron. I had envisioned something grand, but this has surpassed my expectations.”
Ultra Magnus chuckled. “Never let it be said that we’ve lost our ability to have fun. I think everyone has looked forward to a night where we can relax. I’ve already seen bids for several of the evening’s festivities to become a staple in the future.”
“Let me guess: the race and the invitational tournament.”
“The war may be over, but we will always be competitive,” Ultra Magnus confirmed with a small laugh. “Frankly, I prefer that they ease their aggression with such a thing as opposed to attacking one another.”
They passed through a path lined with vendor’s stalls, most of whom would be offering tasty treats and drinks, but also small items to commemorate the occasion. No one was required to work this evening, save those in emergency services, but many of the small-time sellers saw an opportunity they didn’t want to miss. Ultra Magnus hadn’t seen any harm in allowing the pop-up stalls their one night.
“Indeed,” Xaaron said as he paused by one of the stalls. It was almost completely prepared, and the quickly assembled shelves contained a variety of delicate treats. The owner was likely a neutral, given he carried no badge. “As more of our people return, we must rely on those who have already assimilated to help guide them into this new era of peace.”
Xaaron often spoke as though he were reading from some inspirational manuscript. Ultra Magnus attributed that personality tic to the fact he’d been some member of the clergy in the past. One of the Clavis Aurea, Ultra Magnus believed.
He was also right.
More of their scattered citizenry returned by the day. Coming in ships, large and small, Autobot and Decepticon alike. A few had chosen to leave again, unwilling to bend to this yet-uneasy peace. Setting aside past grievances to work near those one had once considered enemies was no easy task. Ultra Magnus could not fault them for their hesitation.
The returning citizens were still only the smallest fraction of what Cybertron had once been. Not even one percent of Cybertron’s population at the height of its glory. They were on the brink of extinction, Ultra Magnus knew.
Not even two thousand mechs lived on New Cybertron now. And without the Allspark, the Well, the Matrix, without any of the traditional or ancient means of reproduction once available to them, in time, Cybertronians as a species would cease to exist. It was a sobering thought.
Though Ultra Magnus held out hope that a solution might be found. Perhaps Primus might one day forgive them, offer a second chance to his descendants.
Or perhaps, for the sake of the universe, it was better that He didn’t.
“I agree,” Ultra Magnus said as they started walking again, moving out of shopper’s row toward the monolith in the center, the memorial similar to the Obelisk in Polyhex, but one for all of Cybertron to honor the fallen in the entirety of the war.
“We may never achieve the greatness of what we once were,” Xaaron said as he clasped his hands behind his back. “And maybe that’s for the best, as what we used to be, is to blame for what we become. So then, the only thing we can do is be better.”
‘Better’ certainly seemed within reach. Ultra Magnus wasn’t keen on repeating the mistakes of the past, and he knew the leadership was not either. All of them were weary of war, and if they looked out for one another and handled events with a rational processor, perhaps they might avoid a disastrous future.
Ultra Magnus inclined his head. “So long as we continue to work together, I think that future is definitely something we achieve.”
Xaaron grinned. “As do I.” He gestured toward a distant building, within walking distance, one freshly built and brightly lit. “Shall we attend the ceremony?”
“Of course.”
And so they did. Bright future and all.
****
a/n: There are six parts in all. Feeedback is always welcome and appreciated. :)
Universe: G1/IDW, Crown the Empire
Characters: Soundwave/Optimus, Hound/Ravage, Grimlock/Starscream, Ensemble, Multiple Pairings
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Description: It’s only been five years, but for a society ravaged by war and desperation, it might as well be a lifetime. What better way to celebrate the lasting peace but with a celebration to last all through the night?
Five years barely counted as a blip in the lifetime of a Cybertronian, but Optimus had spent too much time on Earth. He’d grown too used to the human way of marking time, and so much had happened to him so quickly now, that five years seemed far longer than it aught.
This wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
Five years since the end of the war, since the brief enslavement of the Autobots, since Megatron’s death at the hands of Grimlock, since Cybertron and all of its inhabitants had moved into a new status quo. Autobots, Decepticons, and Neutrals alike, all sharing what little bit of the planet was habitable, forging new paths together.
Soon, Optimus wagered, they would be rid of badges altogether. Eventually, they would truly be one people again.
Five years was plenty of time now to change many things. It just wasn’t enough time to change everything. Which was acceptable, in Optimus’ opinion, so long as they had forward motion. Continuous forward motion.
“Optimus brooding again?”
“I am not,” Optimus retorted, but it lacked any heat. He turned his head, offering a gentle smile to his partner. “If anything, I am reflecting.”
“Same meaning.” Soundwave swept a polishing cloth over the back of Optimus’ shoulders, the gentle rub of the mesh making Optimus’ armor tingle. “This not good day?”
Optimus hummed and leaned back toward Soundwave, soaking in his embrace. Soundwave, former Decepticon and now his Director of Security, was all too willing to accept it, the polishing cloth laid aside as he wrapped his arms around Optimus from behind. The polishing was a formality at this point anyway. Optimus was as shiny as he could get.
“It’s a very good day,” he murmured, shuttering his optics and cycling a long ventilation.
Soundwave was very warm and present behind him, his arms a shelter rather than a cage. His field pulsed against Optimus’, bright with affection and pride. He pressed his head against Optimus’, his engine purring.
“I was, in fact, reflecting on why it is,” Optimus added as he turned and pressed a kiss to the corner of Soundwave’s mouth. He always kept his battlemask open when they were alone now. So much so that Optimus often startled to see him wear it in public.
The battlemask, for both of them, was removed from who they were now.
“Not brooding then.” Soundwave’s lips flirted over the curve of Optimus’ jaw. “Celebrating.”
“Mmm. Of a sort.” Optimus shivered as Soundwave pressed several small kisses down the side of his intake.
It would be all too easy to just stay here, wouldn’t it? To surrender to Soundwave’s embrace, stumble over to their berth, and love on his partner until the sun set and fireworks lit the night.
But Optimus was still Prime until voted otherwise or another was found, and that meant he had responsibilities. Fortunately, for today, all of his responsibilities were good ones. Besides, he would hate to disappoint Hound. The tracker had waited long enough. He and Ravage both, in fact.
Optimus turned his head toward Soundwave’s, capturing the former Decepticon’s lips with his own, savoring the sweet kiss. He sighed into it as Soundwave’s hands stroked down his arms, leaving tingles in their wake, and Soundwave’s field nudged his, ripe and warm and loving.
“Optimus is tempting,” Soundwave murmured against his mouth, head tilted against his in a nuzzle.
“So are you.” Optimus chuckled and made himself withdraw, though his spark hummed and twirled happily. “But we both have obligations that neither of us wish to miss, and so we most refrain.”
A laugh rattled out of Soundwave’s chassis. “Unfortunate but true.” Soundwave leaned back and flicked the polishing cloth toward the recycle bin. It would be collected later, washed, dried, and folded to be reused.
They had learned not to be wasteful. The war had taught them as much.
“And you?” Optimus asked as he turned toward Soundwave, capturing his partner’s hand and drawing it up to his lips. “I know letting Ravage go was hard even then. Giving her to another permanently is a different matter entirely, yes?”
Soundwave’s field softened. “Ravage missed,” he admitted, and his thumb brushed over Optimus’ wrist. “But Ravage’s happiness to be celebrated.”
“Yes, it is.” Optimus brushed his lips over Soundwave’s knuckles and felt the loving touch of Soundwave’s field against his. “And right now, I am happy for every celebration we manage.”
Agreement echoed in Soundwave’s field. He leaned in, as though intending to kiss Optimus once more, but a chime rang throughout their shared quarters, startling them both.
“And that would be Jazz,” Optimus said with a chuckle. “Here to remind us that we are expected to be somewhere.” He reluctantly loosed his grip on Soundwave’s hand, though the desire to cuddle his partner on the berth rang strongly through him.
“Jazz often inconvenient,” Soundwave commented.
“I think he prides himself on having the perfect – or in our case awkward – timing.” Optimus laughed again and moved to the door, thumbing the panel so that it would slide open. “Good evening, Jazz.”
“Heya, OP!” the black and white mech, still ostensibly Optimus’ third in command and head of a no-longer-necessary Special Ops unit, sauntered inside with a bebop to his step. “I ain’t interruptin’ anythin’ am I?” He leaned past Optimus to give a pointed look to Soundwave.
“Nothing that didn’t need to be drawing to an end anyway,” Optimus replied, bemusement thick in his field. “Were you worried I would be late?”
Jazz grinned, his visor sparkling. “Nah. You and Sounders both are impeccably punctual mechs. I just thought I’d walk with ya.”
“And fill me in, I assume, on something important,” Optimus mused aloud. He gave his third a fond look before he turned toward Soundwave. “Are you ready?”
“Affirmative.” Soundwave stepped up beside him. “Name: Soundwave.”
“I know that.” Jazz’s smile was cheeky as always. It was a point of contention between the two, this insistence on mangling Soundwave’s name.
Optimus often wondered if it even bothered Soundwave anymore, and he only made a growl about it because it was part of the game he and Jazz played. For they indulged in many of them, most of which Optimus knew he was not privy to. Soundwave and Jazz did not dislike each other.
On the contrary, they seemed to have formed something of a cabal, one fully invested in Optimus’ good health. It could be irritating, when they worked in tandem to ensure he was well rested and well fueled and well-maintained.
Optimus shook his head and eased out of his quarters, knowing Soundwave and Jazz would follow without having to be told. Best not to get in the middle of them. He’d learned to let them handle their own squabbles, no matter how much it might sound like they were two seconds from clawing each other’s optics out.
Starscream’s words, not his. The Seeker found it endlessly amusing, though sometimes Optimus did catch Starscream shooting Jazz the most sympathetic looks. As if Optimus was the most difficult mech in the room.
“What do you have to report?” Optimus asked, once they were in the hall, Soundwave at his right and Jazz at his left, seemingly unbothered by walking alongside two mechs who cast large shadows.
“Nothin’ too serious, so don’t get your struts all bent outta shape,” Jazz said, his field warm where it brushed against Optimus’. “Just gotta echo on our forward sensors. Thinkin’ another ship comin’ home to roost.”
“Are they claiming a badge?”
“Dunno. Hadn’t heard a peep from them. Might want to get yer loverboy on it.”
Optimus bit back a sigh, even as Soundwave’s engine grumbled with irritation. “Blaster was unable to establish contact?”
“He tried, but they ain’t answerin’. Might be ‘cause they’re Cons wantin’ to come in from the cold and don’t believe ole Screamer’s tale of woe.” Jazz shrugged, but didn’t look the least bit concerned. “Sensors say it’s a small ship, probably ten, twenty bots. No matter who’s aboard, we can take ‘em. Still, better ta be prepared.”
Optimus made a noncommittal noise and looked at Soundwave, sliding his fingers into his mate’s. “You do have a better reputation than Starscream,” he said. “Perhaps you can convince them to identify themselves?”
“Attempt will be made.” Soundwave tipped his head in a decisive nod. “After festival.”
“Of course.”
They emerged from the residential quarters into a crisp evening, the street lamps casting a pale glow down on the refurbished roads of Polyhex. Emergency runners – always lit – and the lighted buildings helped illuminate the night, as stars twinkled above them. It was a good, clear night, without threat of acid storm in sight.
The perfect evening for a celebration.
Perceptor had reassured Optimus they were getting closer to figuring out how to navigate Cybertron toward a star that would once again provide them solar power and help stabilize their seasons.
It was easier, he’d commented, now that they were more focused on science and advancement, then war and death. Especially since he could pluck the minds of those Neutral and Decepticon alike. He’d formed something of a close friendship with Quark, one of the Neutrals, and Brainstorm, who had arrived with Ultra Magnus’ unit five years prior.
“I shall be glad when we can finally abandon these badges,” Optimus commented, to one in particular, merely an observation.
He was relieved to find that the few mechs they passed in the streets were a variety of all three: Autobot, Decepticon, and badgeless Neutral. But he still lamented that they needed to label themselves.
“Only when we can cast those aside and stand together, will we truly be one,” Optimus added and vented a sigh. “That, I fear, is still a long time coming.”
“Hey, we’re getting better.” Jazz nudged him with an elbow, his field turned soft and comforting. “We’re miles from where we were, and we still got miles to go, but it’s the progress that counts, right?”
Optimus smiled and rested a hand on Jazz’s shoulder, giving it a pat. “Indeed. The progress, I believe, is worth more than everything.”
Soundwave squeezed Optimus’ hand as if to offer agreement, his field warm and tender where it brushed against Optimus’ own.
Optimus was determined to do whatever necessary means to ensure they did not return to the conditions which sparked war in the first place. He never again wanted to see his mechs suffer through war.
They had all suffered enough.
Hound fidgeted.
As much as he tried to comport himself with some measure of dignity, he couldn’t stop fidgeting. His armor rattled. His spark thrummed. His field was a wild mess. His fingers kept tangling tightly together until his knuckle joints creaked.
Behind him, sweeping a soft buffer cloth over those fiddly spots Hound couldn’t reach, Trailbreaker chuckled. “Are you nervous?”
Hound ducked his head, feeling heat steal into his face. “Why should I be? This is a formality. We’re already one where it counts.”
“Yes, but...”
“I’m nervous,” Hound finished for him. The admission seemed to ease some of his anxiety, and the clattering in his armor quieted. He looked into the mirror in front of him, seeing Trailbreaker behind him, steady and unwavering. “I’m nervous, Trails.”
A soft smile curved his best friend’s lips. “I know.” The buffing cloth was tossed aside as Trailbreaker leaned forward, embracing Hound from behind. “It’ll go perfectly. Trust me.”
“I do.” Hound lay a hand over one of Trailbreaker’s, drawing strength from his field, from his warmth, familiar and welcome. “I believe you. I just… I never thought I’d be happy again. But here I am.”
After the end of the war, after losing the war, after finding himself captured by the Decepticons, given over to their voracious appetites of humiliation and degradation…
There had been times he’d longed for death. There’d been moments he would have clawed his own spark out if only to end the pain. When he’d drowned in his own hopelessness, sinking further into the dark, until a pair of crimson optics, peering at him from a small vent, reminded him he wasn’t alone.
He only had to be patient. To wait. That his dear one wouldn’t leave him like this. Victory would be found, however late. He could be free again. If she could survive it, so could he.
If not for Ravage…
Hound would be dead. He knew this with certainty. If she had not come to him, in some of his darkest hours, whispering softly through the vents while Hound’s rapists snored in their exhausted recharge, Hound would have ripped out his own spark.
She had saved him in more ways than one.
“Here you are indeed,” Trailbreaker echoed, giving him a strong squeeze of an embrace, one that made Hound’s armor creak and air squeeze out of his vents. He chuckled, because that was what Trailbreaker did and it was comfort to him. “Shining like a newforged. About to be officially mated to the love of your life. Sounds perfect, if you ask me.”
Hound grinned, the last of his tension whooshing away with Trailbreaker’s hug. “So long as I don’t show myself to be a graceless idiot and trip over my own two feet.”
Trailbreaker’s rolling laugh vibrated both of their frames. “Even if you did, it wouldn’t be any less perfect.” He sounded so certain, so steadfast.
Hound’s spark throbbed, swollen with love and affection for Trailbreaker, his best and closest friend, somewhere between brother and mate, without the intimacy of romance.
He gently turned in Trailbreaker’s embrace and cupped a hand around Trailbreaker’s head. “You’re too tall,” he teased as he pulled Trailbreaker down, pressing their foreheads together.
“Maybe you’re just short,” Trailbreaker teased in return.
Hound’s smile was soft as it curved his lips. “I want to thank you, too,” he said, quite sure he could say it a thousand times and it still wouldn’t be enough. “You held me together just as much as she did. You’ve been my rock for all these years, and I don’t know what I did to deserve that. I’m just glad for it.”
Trailbreaker’s field blushed, and he shifted his weight. “Aw, now you’re getting mushy,” he said, tone abashed. “You’re my friend, Hound. And you don’t make me feel like I’m weird or an outcast. For that, I’d do anything.”
“You’re not weird. You’re just you.” Hound rested his hands on Trailbreaker’s shoulders and looked up at his dearest friend. “So… thanks. All right? I wouldn’t have made it without you either.”
Trailbreaker’s face heated, light dancing across his visor. He ducked his head as if trying to make himself smaller, as he often did. He had always existed in a curious state of not wanting to be noticed, but desperate to be recognized.
“What’s this? Canoodling behind my back?”
Hound rolled his optics as he turned his head, though he left his hands on Trailbreaker’s shoulders. “Canoodling,” he echoed. “Since when have you decided that was a word you could bear to say?”
“Oh, I’ve grown rather fond of it now,” Ravage purred as she hopped onto the nearby bench, her armor gleaming like polished onyx. She sniffed theatrically. “I feel left out now, the two of you in here cuddling while I pace in the hallway waiting for a rather tardy Prime.”
Hound snickered. “Something tells me a certain laconic mech may be to blame for that.” He stepped out of Trailbreaker’s embrace, but didn’t get very far before Trailbreaker tugged him back and tackled one of his arms with a polishing cloth.
Ravage lifted her chin, her optics flashing warmly at him. “Soundwave arrives precisely when he means to. If anyone is the cause, it’s your Prime.”
“Wait a minute, isn’t it supposed to be bad luck for the groom to see the bride?” Trailbreaker asked, his voice rich with humor.
Ravage shot him a flat look. “Call me a bride one more time, and we’ll see how durable your armor is to my claws.”
Hound chuckled and expanded his field, enveloping them both in it. The repartee was nothing more than witty teasing, he knew. Five years in each other’s company had made the two rather disparate Cybertronians come to something of an accord. Ravage had all but adopted Trailbreaker as one of her own.
“Truthfully, I think we’ve exhausted a lifetime’s worth of bad luck for our relationship. We should be fine,” Hound said. He reached for Ravage with his field, since Trailbreaker’s grip on his arm was quite firm. “I’m worried about nothing.”
It was almost surprising how true that was.
Sometimes, the anxiety caught him in the wee hours of the night, when he was most vulnerable, trusting and in recharge. It stole into his dreams, woke him screaming and thrashing, but those were few and far between now.
Mostly these days… he felt a peace. A contentment. The war was over, and they’d paid a terrible price for that end, but still, the truth remained. The war was over, they lived in a peace growing more solid by the year, Earth would rise again, as would the humans, and Hound was about to publicly announce his bond to the love of his entire functioning.
“Neither am I,” Trailbreaker said cheerfully, with one last swipe of his cloth. “And you’re as shiny as I can make ya.”
Hound grinned, turned, and pressed a kiss to Trailbreaker’s cheek. “Thanks.” He turned to look at Ravage, without bothering to hide the affection swelling in his field. “Are you ready to do this?”
Ravage rose up with a languid stretch of her back, her armor fluffing and settling around her, as shiny as a new penny. “I’ve been ready for millennia.”
Truer words had yet been spoken.
“If you boys get any slower, you’ll start driving backward!”
Kup’s laughter nearly drowned out the twin snarls of anger and shouts of “shut up!” from the two mechs who had been trusted to his supervision. Though perhaps supervision was the wrong word.
Kup had a soft spot for mechs like these. Former Decepticons. Younglings really. Newsparks brought into Megatron’s influence before they knew what was what, taught that only Megatron knew the right way, taught to fear and hate before they knew what it meant to tolerate and love.
Mechs like the Stunticons.
Once Kup had heard how they came into being, he’d been outraged. Just where had Megatron been stashing those stolen frames? How dare he steal sparks to turn them into monsters? How dare he ruin what hadn’t had a chance to grow?
Megatron knew how to speak pretty words. To twist lies into truth. What had he told them, to make them hate the Autobots so much? How hard had he fanned their rage? He’d kept them ignorant, of course, because dumb soldiers were obedient soldiers. And they’d only ever known what they’d been taught.
If Megatron told them to jump, they’d ask how high and how far. They loathed Optimus, not because of something Optimus had done, but because Megatron loathed him. Though, in Motormaster’s case, his reasoning was a bit more personal.
One would have to be stupid to miss the similarities. The same alt-mode. Similar frame design. Megatron had opted to change Motormaster’s color, to give him a few bits of kibble, but the truth was there, writ in Motormaster’s existence.
Megatron wanted Optimus, obedient and subservient. He settled for Motormaster. Kup didn’t ask his new charge how often Motormaster had spent in his master’s berth. He didn’t have to. He knew the answer.
So the Stunticons didn’t know any better. That wasn’t an excuse. It didn’t get them off the hook, but it explained a lot. They were sparks that could be saved. Kup was sure of it. Just look at Breakdown! Kid had already seen the light.
He’d been the gentlest of them from the start, Kup figured. Probably the one the others beat down when he didn’t hop to obey fast enough. He’d learned to keep his mouth shut. He’d hated, too, just a little, and that hate fed into resentment and anxiety and fear. Powerful motivators, those emotions were.
There were only three Stunticons left. One was making a good run of it, on his own, attached hip and hip to that Decepticon medic and their shared Dinobot. Breakdown would be all right without any convincing on Kup’s part.
But the last two, Motormaster and Drag Strip, they were stubborn afts. It just so happened Kup liked stubborn afts. He liked seeing what they were made of, deep down inside, down past the indoctrination and the hate.
They could be saved. He was sure of it. Rehabilitated, maybe, was the word. Either way, Kup wasn’t going to give up on them without a fight. No one had ever given them two shakes in the world. They’d been sparked into an existence of hatred. They needed the chance to see the light, not thrown to rust in the dark like Barricade.
Now that was a mech who was never going to learn. That was a mech rotten to the core of his spark. Kup had advised they take Barricade out back, put him down like the rabid scraplet he was. Optimus had changed a lot, but not enough to argue for execution. So Barricade lived, locked away in his prison cell.
It would have to be enough.
Motormaster and Drag Strip though, Kup had put his foot down. Someone had to do it. And if he couldn’t, well, he didn’t think there was a mech alive who could.
Kup was old. Older than anyone knew how to count. If he couldn’t help these mechs see what a real future they could have, maybe no one could. And because Kup was old, he didn’t see badges.
Those boys, they’d behaved badly. Very badly. Unforgivably, depending who you asked. But it was hard to blame a child for misbehaving if their parent didn’t tell them not to. They had to learn what they did was wrong, before they could learn not to do it again, or even realize they needed to ask forgiveness. Just telling them they were wrong wasn’t going to do it either.
Not for these boys.
They’d spent too long hearing Megatron as the word of Primus and Unicron and all the little gods in between. Peeling them apart would take time. Finesse. And sometimes, a good, old-fashioned aft-kicking. Fortunately, Kup was skilled and had plenty of all three.
“Hurry up!” Kup barked again, and took a puff of his cygar, the filtered medicines filling his vents with a cool wash. “You’re going to miss the festivities at this rate. And make me miss ‘em, too. And do ya have any idea what’s gonna happen if I don’t get my promised mug of engex from Springer?”
“I can guess,” Drag Strip said sourly as he finally came into view, the length of a thick, heavy chain slung over one shoulder as he soldiered onward, manually tugging a flatbed of supplies for Cybertron.
Motormaster was just behind him, his flatbed piled thrice as high.
Oh, it would’ve been much easier if Kup let them tow the flatbeds in their alt-modes. But the easy route meant they didn’t learn anything. Like the value of good, hard labor. Working with your own two feet and hands to build what you helped break.
Kup planted his hands on his hips and cocked his head to the side. “You want to smart off to me again? Or do you wanna race tonight?”
Drag Strip’s gaze fell. His lips twisted into a scowl, and he muttered something that might have been an apology, if Kup was feeling generous. Well, it was progress. At least he’d stopped trying to run away.
Coming up the hill behind Drag Strip, Motormaster’s mouth was set in a mutinous line. His optics bled murder, his hands clenched around the double chains draped over his shoulders. The flatbed’s wheels creaked and rattled, weighted down as it was by the mined materials they were hauling to Cybertron.
The spacebridge was another ten miles away.
“Just shut up, Drag Strip,” Motormaster muttered, though it lacked heat. Anger boiled inside of him, but it was an exhausted anger. A resigned one.
Felt abandoned, that one did. Felt betrayed by his master. A couple more nudges, and Kup knew he could get Motormaster to start thinking for himself. Drag Strip was just being impertinent because he could. Kid was scared, worried about his future, hated being thought of as weak, hated even more that he was pitied.
Neither of them had apologized for their abysmal behavior and treatment of the Autobots they’d assaulted. It would come in time. Kup was sure of it. Consent was still a tricky subject. They both labored under the misconception so common in Decepticons under Megatron’s spell.
If you were strong enough to take it, it was yours. No one had ever explained that just because you could do something, didn’t necessarily mean that you should.
Kup would get it through their thick heads eventually. He’d only had them for half a year after all. The lessons were only beginning.
“You shut up,” Drag Strip retorted, but it sounded reflexive. Right now, all they had was each other, since Breakdown abandoned them.
Their words, not Kup’s.
He’d told them, you want to be like your brother, you want to actually enjoy life rather than rot in a cell, then you can come with me. He’d given them that choice. They’d taken it. They’d assumed, wrongly, it would be an easier life than prison.
They could go back to prison if they wanted. Funny how neither of them seemed keen on taking that opportunity. They whined about how much they were suffering, despite only doing as much work as any other free mech on New Cybertron trying to rebuild their planet as quickly as possible.
Children. They were sparklings through and through. How could Kup look at them with anything but pity? Hate would’ve been easier, but forgiveness… Ah. Now there was a tough fight. Kup had always preferred those anyway.
Kup leaned over and grabbed the chain attached to his own flatbed. Alright, maybe his load was a bit lighter. He was old and rusty. Of course he couldn’t keep up with the younglings. And that was his excuse if anyone asked.
“Come on now,” he urged as he started up the old, unpaved road again, wheels of the flatbed creeping behind him. “Cybertron’s relying on these supplies. And if you make it on time without any more whining, I’ll see what I can do about getting ya both a couple of passes.”
As in, free time away from Kup. They’d still be monitored, as a matter of course, by either an Autobot or Decepticon member of the Unified Cybertronian forces. But it would be a rest day. A chance for leisure without Kup peering over their shoulders.
Both of them perked up at this, and exchanged a commiserating glance. Somehow, they managed to find a spurt of energy, there in the middle of such lazy fatigue, and put some pep in their step.
Kup swallowed down a laugh, but only just.
Worked every time. He’d get these younglings on the right path. He was sure of it.
There was hope for them yet.
Ultra Magnus was not a mech prone to fidgeting. So as he waited outside the main gate to the festival grounds, it was with absolute stillness and ease.
Xaaron was not yet late. If anything, the current Neutral leader was always perfectly punctual. It was something Ultra Magnus greatly appreciated. He felt a leader should always be on time, no matter the circumstances.
Optimus, Ultra Magnus reflected, could always be counted on to be early. Mostly because there was rarely a time Optimus was not working, though that had become different as of late. Romantic entanglements, Ultra Magnus supposed. They served as a distraction.
Optimus still tended to arrive early, but now, more often than not, it was because Soundwave kept him on a tight schedule. A very good assistant that one made, even if he used to be a Decepticon and now had duties of his own. Ultra Magnus suspected that Laserbeak was largely to thank for Optimus’ continued good behavior. She was never far from Optimus’ shoulder.
By contrast, Jazz could always be relied upon to be late. By Ultra Magnus’ standards at any rate. He’d stroll in, a few minutes past the designated time, with ease in his shoulders and a song on his lips. He always looked surprised, too, at Ultra Magnus’ firm look of disapproval. He always grinned.
“Oh, I’m late?” he said and laughed because what was punctuality to a spy? They operated on entirely different timetables.
Grimlock arrived on time to their multi-factional meetings, Starscream at his heels. But there were occasions when the both of them were late. Smug and all too satisfied at that. Ultra Magnus didn’t need an investigative service to know why. Apparently the rumors that they couldn’t keep their hands off each other was true. Lucky for the both of them, Cyclonus could be counted on to arrive precisely on time with a constancy that Ultra Magnus appreciated.
Speaking of punctuality…
Precisely on time, Xaaron strode into view, the gleam of his gold armor nearly outshining that of the street lamps that provided ambient illumination. It was a garish choice for a factional leader, but Ultra Magnus could hardly fault him for it. To each his own.
“Ultra Magnus, good evening,” Xaaron greeted, with a politician’s smile and a politician’s handshake, firm and yielding.
Ultra Magnus tipped his head. “And the same to you.”
They fell into step together, striding through the open gates into the sparsely populated festival grounds. The celebration had yet to officially begin, and those they spotted were running around performing last minute preparations. It gratified Ultra Magnus to see all sorts busily working: Autobot, Decepticon, and the badgeless Neutrals.
Five years was not so long for a Cybertronian, but on New Cybertron, it was apparently long enough to start making a dent in the walls the long war had built.
“Will Metalhawk be attending tonight?” Ultra Magnus asked, more out of courtesy than any genuine interest.
Metalhawk had not attended any of the celebrations for the last four years, despite how small they’d been. Ultra Magnus sincerely doubted Metalhawk would be present for this one. Metalhawk had been a ghost since his arrest and conviction, occasionally outspoken to the Neutrals, but a mostly silent partner otherwise.
Though to call what had emerged the last four years a grand festival would be wildly overstating its grandeur. This year, the fifth year, was truly the first festival they had to celebrate the treaty. In the years before, it had been loosely arranged affairs. Spontaneous, really. And kept mostly inter-factional.
The massive celebration many would attend tonight was actually Xaaron’s master plan. He insisted they all needed something that would bring them together in joy, remind everyone on New Cybertron how far they had come, and what could be accomplished if they set aside their grievances to work together.
“Sadly, he will not,” Xaaran replied with a nearly inaudible sigh. “I’ve explained to him multiple times that his absence does not win him any favors, but he’s quite insistent that he does not belong at any celebration.” Xaaron tucked his hands behind his back. “It is a losing battle.”
“How unfortunate,” Ultra Magnus said, though he did not mean it. He’d always loathed politics, no matter how skilled he was. “Though I must congratulate you. Winning your third election term? That’s quite a feat.”
Xaaron’s head dipped in a show of humility. “I’m honored by their faith in me. I am pleased that I continue to be allowed to serve my citizens to the best of my ability.”
“They’ve elected you three times in a row, with an overwhelming majority I might add.” Ultra Magnus smiled approvingly. “If you ask me, that is proof you are doing an excellent job of it.”
“Thank you.” Xaaron cycled a ventilation and made a point to look around them. “This celebration is very important to the entirety of Cybertron. I had envisioned something grand, but this has surpassed my expectations.”
Ultra Magnus chuckled. “Never let it be said that we’ve lost our ability to have fun. I think everyone has looked forward to a night where we can relax. I’ve already seen bids for several of the evening’s festivities to become a staple in the future.”
“Let me guess: the race and the invitational tournament.”
“The war may be over, but we will always be competitive,” Ultra Magnus confirmed with a small laugh. “Frankly, I prefer that they ease their aggression with such a thing as opposed to attacking one another.”
They passed through a path lined with vendor’s stalls, most of whom would be offering tasty treats and drinks, but also small items to commemorate the occasion. No one was required to work this evening, save those in emergency services, but many of the small-time sellers saw an opportunity they didn’t want to miss. Ultra Magnus hadn’t seen any harm in allowing the pop-up stalls their one night.
“Indeed,” Xaaron said as he paused by one of the stalls. It was almost completely prepared, and the quickly assembled shelves contained a variety of delicate treats. The owner was likely a neutral, given he carried no badge. “As more of our people return, we must rely on those who have already assimilated to help guide them into this new era of peace.”
Xaaron often spoke as though he were reading from some inspirational manuscript. Ultra Magnus attributed that personality tic to the fact he’d been some member of the clergy in the past. One of the Clavis Aurea, Ultra Magnus believed.
He was also right.
More of their scattered citizenry returned by the day. Coming in ships, large and small, Autobot and Decepticon alike. A few had chosen to leave again, unwilling to bend to this yet-uneasy peace. Setting aside past grievances to work near those one had once considered enemies was no easy task. Ultra Magnus could not fault them for their hesitation.
The returning citizens were still only the smallest fraction of what Cybertron had once been. Not even one percent of Cybertron’s population at the height of its glory. They were on the brink of extinction, Ultra Magnus knew.
Not even two thousand mechs lived on New Cybertron now. And without the Allspark, the Well, the Matrix, without any of the traditional or ancient means of reproduction once available to them, in time, Cybertronians as a species would cease to exist. It was a sobering thought.
Though Ultra Magnus held out hope that a solution might be found. Perhaps Primus might one day forgive them, offer a second chance to his descendants.
Or perhaps, for the sake of the universe, it was better that He didn’t.
“I agree,” Ultra Magnus said as they started walking again, moving out of shopper’s row toward the monolith in the center, the memorial similar to the Obelisk in Polyhex, but one for all of Cybertron to honor the fallen in the entirety of the war.
“We may never achieve the greatness of what we once were,” Xaaron said as he clasped his hands behind his back. “And maybe that’s for the best, as what we used to be, is to blame for what we become. So then, the only thing we can do is be better.”
‘Better’ certainly seemed within reach. Ultra Magnus wasn’t keen on repeating the mistakes of the past, and he knew the leadership was not either. All of them were weary of war, and if they looked out for one another and handled events with a rational processor, perhaps they might avoid a disastrous future.
Ultra Magnus inclined his head. “So long as we continue to work together, I think that future is definitely something we achieve.”
Xaaron grinned. “As do I.” He gestured toward a distant building, within walking distance, one freshly built and brightly lit. “Shall we attend the ceremony?”
“Of course.”
And so they did. Bright future and all.
a/n: There are six parts in all. Feeedback is always welcome and appreciated. :)
