[TF] Consortium 3/10

[dracoqueen22]

Consortium
Chapter Three

Orion Pax had been a mech accustomed to solitude and stacks of datawork. He could get lost in the archives for hours with no one the wiser, speaking only to those who sought him out, while relishing in the peace and quiet.

Optimus Prime has no such luxuries. Everything he does is now under scrutiny, in the public optic, and he can no longer hide in the shadowy, dusty, forgotten corners of a library. There’s no such thing as privacy for a Prime.

Not even for a training session where he’s sure to be tossed around, gaining numerous scratches and dents, which will certainly upset Sunstreaker. Perhaps he’ll be inclined to fix them.

Optimus expected Hot Rod to join the training session. He is surprised when nearly everyone else does as well, some perhaps to observe, others to participate. Even Starscream is present, perched nearby, with a perfect view of the space. Of his Consorts, only Jazz is missing, and Optimus makes a mental note to seek him out.

Optimus does his best to look unbothered by the attention.

“I ain’t worried about marksmanship,” Ironhide says as he surveys a gathered array of practice equipment, all procured from the estate’s armory.

Optimus isn’t sure why the Prime’s private estate has a fully stocked armory. He suspects it has something to do with the grounds doubling as a safehouse in the event of threats to the Prime or the Prime Residence or Cybertron at large.

“We’ll focus on hand to hand for starters,” Ironhide continues as he shakes his head and walks away from the practice equipment. Considering what he’s used to in Nova Cronum, his options here must be substandard. “Might be we’ll move into actual weapons once I’m sure you won’t knock yourself out with one.”

“Surely you do not think I am so clumsy?” Optimus asks.

“I think anyone who is not used to weaponry is awkward enough to hurt themselves,” Ironhide says with a half-curve of a grin, though there’s no malice in the comment. “Relax, Prime. I’ve trained thousands of soldiers in my lifetime. I know what I’m doin’.”

Optimus shakes his head. “I did not mean to imply otherwise,” he says. “And please, feel free to call me Optimus. We do not have to be so formal together.”

“Oh, we do not, do we?” Ironhide says, his tone abruptly proper and far from the casual drawl he effects. “You should take your own advice, Optimus Prime, instead of holding us at arm’s length. Perhaps you might think to loosen your glossa.”

Optimus glances at their audience, some of whom have clumped together, and others who stand apart, avidly watching as they idly sip on their morning’s energon. “I’ll try,” he says, though he admits it’s hard to find that balance between what will earn him respect, and what will cause his Consorts to dismiss him. “I am still very new to this.”

“Yeah. It’s the only reason half of us are even given’ ya a chance,” Ironhide says with a shrug, dropping back into the casual speech pattern he favors. “Just don’t assume my not usin’ it means I don’t know how. It’s a conscious decision, Optimus.”

“You are more than a soldier. I am not so blind as to not see it.” Optimus smiles, and relief loosens his shoulders as Ironhide returns it with a lazy grin. “What do we learn first then?”

Ironhide chuckles and steps closer. “Proper stance. It’s the best foundation. If you get your feet under you, can’t nobody knock you down.” He half-turns to holler over his shoulder. “Pay attention, kiddo, and anyone else who cares. I’m only explainin’ this once.”

“Then speak up, rustbucket!” Hot Rod shouts back, lips curved in a smirk.

“Brat,” Ironhide grumbles, but it’s all in good fun as he turns his attention back to Optimus. “Now, you’re taller than me, and your center of balance is different than mine. You’re gonna be planted a bit differently, but the concept’s all the same.”

Optimus nods as Ironhide starts to explain, demonstrating first with himself, then guiding Optimus through the proper stance. Ironhide relaxes as he falls into an instructive mode, and though he’s gruff, Optimus can see why so many mechs spoke highly of him.

“You’re a quick learner,” Ironhide says after a half-dozen attempts to knock Optimus out of his stance are thwarted. “Either you’re a natural, or the Matrix is helping.”

“I hope it’s more of the former,” Optimus says, his vents coming a little faster from exertion.

He had never been a mech built for physical activities. Even after his ascension, he’s been so thoroughly escorted from one place to another, he hasn’t had the opportunity to test the endurance of his new frame. Part of his exhaustion is due to the fact he still isn’t used to the restructured dimensions.

Ironhide chuckles. “So do I. Means it’ll be more instinctual than trained. Can’t rely on that artifact after all.” He playfully knocks Optimus’ chassis. “It might not always work in your best interest.”

“A fair point.” Optimus manages a smile before drawing up straight, ignoring the hitch in his back cables, and the subtle twinge of his struts. “What next, Instructor Ironhide?”

“Well, for one, you can never call me that again.” Ironhide looses a theatrical shudder before he eyes Optimus. “And I think you need a break. You’re still a soft shell. We’ll have to work on your stamina.”

Optimus sags with relief. “You will not think less of me?”

“Slag, no. You get the gentle training.” Ironhide chuckles and waves Optimus over to one of several benches they’d dragged into places round their makeshift training course. “Have a seat.”

“Thank you.”

Optimus retreats and sinks down gratefully, an ache settling in his cables despite how little physicality he seems to have exerted. He thinks longingly of the plentiful hot oil baths in the manor, and resolves to carve out some time to spend in one.

“Not a bad start, I’d say.” Starscream struts into the middle of the training course, wings flicking with excitement. “Of course, it’s not the only method.”

“Well, don’t let me stop ya from showin’ us a better way,” Ironhide says, waving Starscream forward. “I’ll just have myself a sit down, and you can take on the bratling.”

“Hey, I resemble that remark.” Hot Rod bounces into the course, looking up at Starscream with a bright grin. “What’re you going to teach me, wings?”

“Wings?” Starscream echoes, and his smile turns sharp-edged. “Well, that’s a better nickname than others have given me. I’ll let it slide.”

“Kid can be pretty persuasive.” Ironhide sinks down beside Optimus, offering him some universal coolant.

Optimus accepts with a quiet thanks. “Hot Rod is a force of nature, I have discovered,” he says. “He is the kind of gentle spark Cybertron needs.”

Ironhide grunts. “And your cohort, too.”

“I suppose that was the reason behind his nomination,” Optimus demurs.

He and Ironhide have relative privacy at the moment, most of the Consorts gathered around the training area, offering critique to Starscream and Hot Rod. No one is paying him and Ironhide much attention -- likely because Ultra Magnus is doing a fair job of keeping their gazes focused on the course.

“You don’t know?” Ironhide asks.

“The Senate likes to keep their motivations hidden from me though I have done my best to research their intentions.” Optimus watches Starscream toss Hot Rod from his feet, and the flame-colored mech land on his aft with a visible pout. “It’s why I am aware of how little most of you want to be here.”

Ironhide grunts. “Wasn’t my choice, no.”

“I apologize for that,” Optimus says.

“Wasn’t your fault. Seems to me you didn’t have much choice in being Prime either. I’ve been alive a long time. I know how that works.” Ironhide slouches, reaching one arm across the back of the bench, his gaze distant. “Doesn’t mean I’m about to bend the knee. I’ve been through too many Primes, and I don’t know you.”

Optimus cups the coolant, resting it on his thigh. “A fair assertion.” He drums a quiet, nonsense rhythm with his fingers. “I looked into everyone, Ironhide. I know what they forced you to leave behind. Or whom to be more specific.”

Ironhide goes still, his field shutting down, guarded. “S’that right?”

“Yes.” Optimus glances to the other Consorts, but none are paying them attention, so he shifts the full force of his attention to Ironhide. “I will do everything in my power to ensure you and Chromia can remain together.”

Ironhide’s jaw tics. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, gaze locked on Hot Rod, whose training session has now been joined by Sunstreaker. “I’m bonded to you, Prime. Can’t change that.”

“There is nothing in the law which prohibits a Consort from taking another bond,” Optimus says. “Further, the bond we will have allows for the existence of other bonds concurrently. They operate on different tiers of the spark.”

“Yeah?” Ironhide snorts, eyeing Optimus peripherally. “We both know what’s actually law and what ain’t don’t mean slag to the Senate.”

Optimus lifts his chin. “Then the Senate can spend its time trying to fight me in the legislature, or it can waste its efforts controlling what happens in my home.” Straightforward and blunt is the best way to get through to Ironhide, he’s sure of it. “I would see all of you happy, and for you specifically, I know having Chromia is one of the best ways to ensure such a thing.”

Ironhide barks a bitter laugh. “Yeah. Thanks for that. But Chromia would have my aft if I dragged her all the way to Iacon to sit pretty in some apartment.” His field turns dark and angry. “I’ve resigned myself to letting her go.”

“There is another option.” Optimus shifts to better focus on Ironhide, a quick glance ensuring they still have privacy. All of the action is in the makeshift training area. “I would like Chromia to lead the Primal Guard.”

Ironhide startles, abruptly straightening, his field spiking in a betrayal of his surprise. “What?”

“She’s one of the most skilled soldiers in Cybertronian history. She’s loyal, she’s fearless, and she’s relentless,” Optimus says. “I want people I can trust around me, people who care about Cybertron itself, and as far as I can tell, Chromia is someone I can be comfortable giving that position. That it ensures her nearness to you is a secondary benefit.”

Ironhide squints at him. “You tryin’ to bribe me, Prime?”

“If anything, I’m trying to bribe her,” Optimus corrects in a bit of a dry tone. “I intend to be a Prime the people will love, but the Senate and the nobility will despise. It is only a matter of time before those in the upper echelon decide I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”

Ironhide sits back again, trying to appear casual despite the taut lines of his armor and the harsh set of his jaw. “You think putting Chromia in danger is the way to win me?”

“I think that it is exactly the type of position she would want,” Optimus says carefully. If his information is at all accurate, he knows it is the sort of challenge Chroma would relish. She’s a warrior, through and through.

Ironhide stares at him. “You really did your research.”

“Knowledge is the best way to prepare,” Optimus says.

Ironhide tilts his head back and barks a laugh. “Spoken like a true data clerk. Guess little Orion’s not entirely gone, eh?” He gives Optimus a crooked grin, the corner of his mouth all that softens. “You’re right. Chromia would take that position in a sparkbeat, and she’d have my aft if I tried to keep it from her.”

He glances at the others, but no one is paying them any attention. Ultra Magnus is a large, imposing presence affording them this privacy, and anyway, it seems Hot Rod serves as an adorable distraction. He takes his repeated defeats with cheerful aplomb, even as Starscream and Sunstreaker mercilessly instruct him. Ratchet and Prowl are off to the side, deep in discussion about something, though Optimus can see the storm brewing over the medic’s face with every harsh impact Hot Rod takes.

“I will offer it to her regardless,” Optimus says. “It does not come with any obligations. I do not expect anything of you as a result.”

“S’that right?”

“Yes.” Optimus cycles a ventilation. “Selfishly, I recognize that a truly loyal guardian is more effective than a pressured one, but I also wish for each and every one of my Consorts to be as free and happy as I can manage considering the circumstances.”

Ironhide raps the back of the bench. “Pragmatic of you.”

“I spent many years in the archives. What lessons Cybertron at large has not taken from history, I have learned myself.” Optimus’ field tentatively reaches out, offering every ounce of sincerity he has to give. “Loyalty will never be won by fear or force.”

Ironhide stares at him. “Huh,” he says after a moment. “I think ya actually believe that.”

“I do.”

“Yeah, and I’m thinkin’ I might believe you.” He kicks out, scuffing the ground with his heel. “If you’re half as good a mech as ya claim ta be, the Senate’s gonna hate ya.”

Optimus sinks into the bench, letting his shoulders yield a touch of relaxation. “I am resigned to it. I do wonder how long it will take before their first assassination attempt.”

“They’ll wait at least a deca-orn.” Ironhide scratches his jaw, contemplating. “But they won’t get anywhere near ya if Chromia’s working your security. She’s the best.” Pride and affection both brim in his field. “You couldn’t be any safer. Well…” His grin turns a little crooked. “More self-defense training ain’t gonna hurt.”

Optimus inclines his head. “I will do my part to keep myself safe. I don’t want my guards to put themself in harm’s way needlessly.”

“Primus, ya mean that, too.” Ironhide tosses his hands in the air before dropping them to his thighs with a quiet smack. “Fine, fine. I give in. I concede. Yer not even half the aft I thought ya would be.”

“Time will tell,” Optimus says, amusement threatening to thread into his tone. “This could all be an elaborate mask.”

“True.” Ironhide side-eyes him. “I’ve lived a long-aft time, Prime. I’m a pretty decent judge of character, and right now, I’m decidin’ to see where this goes.” He points at Optimus, orbital ridge drawing down. “But don’t think for a second that means I’m droppin’ my guard.”

“I only ask for a chance,” Optimus says.

“Then you have it.” Ironhide shoves to his feet, stretching his arms over his head, cables creaking and groaning from the effort. “And if you want to stay alive long enough to do whatever lofty goals you’re devising, we’re gonna train every day. First thing in the morning.”

Optimus swallows a wince. Early mornings spent in physical exertion are not his idea of a good time. “... Very well,” he says.

Ironhide barks a laugh. “Now ya sound like a Prime.” He rolls his shoulders, several snaps and pops radiating from his frame. “I’ll let ya off the hook for the rest of today, since I’m sure ya got other mechs ya wanna chat with, but I won’t be so merciful tomorrow.”

For all that it sounds like a threat, Ironhide’s rakish grin and light field are friendly and affectionate.

“I shall make sure to get more than enough rest. Thank you, Ironhide.”

Ironhide grins. “Sure thing, Optimus.” He struts off, looking remarkably lighter than when he first arrived, and Optimus ex-vents quiet satisfaction.

“Alright, kid. Ya want some real trainin’ or not?” Ironhide boasts as he strides into the middle of the training ground, causing the other Consorts to scatter to make room.

Starscream chuffs. “Are you implying I am incapable of teaching a softplate self-defense?”

“Oh, I’m sure yer capable enough. But are ya gonna stick to it?” Ironhide says.

“Mm. Fair point. I have much better things to do than toss myself around a training course every day.” Starscream waves Ironhide off as he retreats back to the fencing, out of the way but left with a decent view. “Allow me to watch a master at work then.” He smirks as he leans back, arms crossed over his cockpit.

Ironhide, for his part, doesn’t seem the least bit ruffled by the scrutiny. Neither is Hot Rod, who’s bouncing on his heelstruts. If he’s bothered by the dents, scrapes, and coating of dust, it doesn’t show. His enthusiasm remains undampened.

Or perhaps Prowl’s warning of danger hangs over his head.

“You do that. Might even learn something,” Ironhide says.

Starscream scoffs.

“Judging by his good humor, your conversation went well,” Ultra Magnus says as he lowers himself next to Optimus, taking the seat Ironhide had vacated.

Optimus nods. “Ironhide has a built in bargaining chip.”

“Chromia?”

“Yes.” Optimus finishes off the coolant and tucks the empty into his subspace, to be disposed of later. “I hope that upon our return to Iacon, I will have an acceptance contract from Chromia, and I will have a new guard captain.”

“It would be the optimal outcome, I agree,” Ultra Magnus says. “For my part, I’m simply glad to see them interacting without an argument.”

Optimus makes a quiet hum of agreement.

Ironhide is currently in the midst of quietly explaining something to a very rapt Hot Rod as Prowl stands nearby, offering commentary. Starscream’s perch on the fence gives off the impression of an avian predator, at least until he pulls out a datapad. Ratchet’s off to the side, aiming a scanner at Sunstreaker at though it is a weapon while Sunstreaker scowls and continues to point imperiously at a scratch on his right arm. Even Soundwave has deigned to join them, though he stands apart from the others.

Optimus counts twice before he realizes they are still short one Consort. He frowns.

“Where is Jazz?”

“I have not seen him today,” Ultra Magnus says. “There is nowhere he can go, and logically, it is too soon for anyone to strike, but his absence worries me.”

“I was thinking much the same thing.” Optimus stands, swallowing his sigh. “Perhaps one of the others has seen him.”

“Good luck.”

Optimus approaches Prowl first, trusting the Enforcer’s observation skills, but Prowl shakes his head. “His room is beside mine. I hear nothing from it, and I have not seen him today.”.

“Can you think of anywhere on the grounds he might prefer?” Optimus asks.

“Honestly, I don’t know. Jazz is the one I understand the least.” Prowl frowns, his arms folding under his bumper as his sensory panels hitch upward. “I don’t know him, and I don’t trust those I can’t know. He makes me uneasy, Optimus.”

“I have noticed,” Optimus says.

Prowl cycles a ventilation. “Be careful around him. Whatever game he’s playing, it’s one few of us, if any, will understand.”

“I will. Thank you, Prowl.”

He tries Starscream next, to little luck, and neither Ratchet nor Sunstreaker have seen Jazz. Hot Rod and Ironhide are in the midst of a complicated grapple, one that Hot Rod seems in no great hurry to escape, so Optimus approaches Soundwave instead.

“Roof,” Soundwave says as Optimus gets within a few paces of him.

Optimus cycles his audials. “Beg pardon?”

Soundwave has yet to look at him. “Jazz. Roof.” He turns his head, the line of his gaze leading back to the mansion proper.

“Oh.” Optimus lingers for a second more, a bit put off by Soundwave’s terse reply. Perhaps he’s not ready to speak yet. “I see. Thank you.”

He walks away feeling unsettled, and doesn’t glance back, though perhaps he should. He knows as much about Soundwave as he does about Jazz, though he suspects the methods behind the information concealment are different between them. Jazz hides himself behind a mask of being ordinary. Soundwave comes from a city-state with shoddy record-keeping, especially when it comes to those of lower status.

Honestly, Optimus is surprised the Senate had accepted Soundwave’s nomination at all. Kaon’s climate has been one of unsettling dissidence as of late, so to give it any voice seems contrary to the Senate’s efforts to silence the outspoken many. Though he’s also heard how persuasive Senator Ratbat can be, and his designation is all over Soundwave’s nomination.

Ah, Cybertron’s government is a political migraine, and Optimus does not look forward to untangling the many threads. It is one of many reasons he’s eternally grateful Ultra Magnus had followed him into this madness. It is the sort of chaos where Ultra Magnus thrives.

Meanwhile, Optimus can only think longingly of dark, dusty stacks of archival information where his largest concern is whether to file them by author or era.

He will never have such peace again.

Optimus pulls up the schematics of the mansion and finds a route to the roof. There are two access points, though he finds it odd there are access points at all, and heads to the nearest one. It is also, conveniently, the only one of the two Optimus can actually squeeze through.

He worries about his mass and whether the roof can support his weight, but it holds strong, without a creak, and thank Primus, Jazz is nearby. He’s staring in Optimus’ direction, a half-smile on his lips, one that broadens to outright amusement.

“Ya could’ve asked me ta come down,” he drawls. “Methinks yer a bit too big to be up here, Prime.”

“The thought occurs to me only a bit too late,” Optimus says. “Would you like company?”

Jazz rises, nimbly crossing the roof to Optimus’ side. “I think you’re a bit too big to come to me as it is, but sure. Why not?” He waves to an open bit of rooftop with a nice view of the training grounds beneath them. “Pretty stable right here, for a big bot like you.”

“I appreciate it.” Optimus lowers himself carefully as Jazz lands in a sprawl next to him, full of casual ease in every line of his relaxed frame.

“Guess that means it’s my turn on the chopping block, eh?” Jazz folds his arms behind his head, crossing one leg over his drawn up knee so that his foot can bob to a tune only he can hear. “Go on. Lemme have it.”

There’s not a spark of fear in his field. His every phrase, every armor twitch, is open and inviting and eager. Optimus doesn’t believe it for a second. Granted, he is comparing Jazz’s actions to Hot Rod’s open enthusiasm and Ultra Magnus’ gentle affection, but still.

He can’t find a spark of genuine sincerity in Jazz’s field. There are a lot of things mechs can fake, but this? Jazz can’t fake sincerity. Not from the Matrix.

“I do not think of it as a chopping block,” Optimus says. “I do wish to get to know you. We are going to be attached to one another for a long time. I would like to do so as friends.”

Jazz’s foot bounce-bounce-bounces. “We can be friends. I don’t see why we can’t. Whatcha wanna know?”

He supposes if he wants to know anything, he’ll have to play the game.

Optimus ex-vents slowly, pushing relaxation into his limbs to strengthen his balance. “I understand you are a musician.”

It passes in an instant, almost too quick for Optimus to catch, but there’s a flash of volcanic anger rippling through Jazz’s field before it’s washed out by pride and delight.

“Sure am,” he says. “I can play just about anything you put in front of me. Got some very talented fingers.” His visor flickers in a playful wink. “You’ll have to let me show you sometime.”

“I think everyone would be interested in hearing you play,” Optimus says. “Do you have a preferred instrument?”

“Hmm.” Jazz taps his bottom lip, dragging the pad of his finger back and forth across it. “I’m pretty fond of my electro-bass, but I know the crowds like the synth.”

“I think I speak for everyone when I say we would enjoy whatever you choose to play for us,” Optimus says. He can’t imagine anyone turning down a live performance from a talented musician.

“Right then.” Jazz flashes him a bright, salacious grin. “How about a show after dinner then? A little concert for whoever wants to listen. I can do that.”

“I think that sounds like a good plan,” Optimus says.

Jazz straightens out his leg and stretches them both, before crossing them at the ankles, drawing out the lines of his frame in a languorous stretch. “And then after, I can give you a private show, if you want,” he murmurs.

Optimus can’t put into words why Jazz’s obvious flirtations leave him unsettled compared to the obvious flirtations Hot Rod throws at him, but they leave a discomfort in his tanks, and an urge to run in the other direction.

“I think everyone else should be allowed to appreciate your talents as well,” Optimus says, careful to keep the unease out of his voice and field. The Matrix is helpful for both. “It would be selfish to keep such things to myself.”

Jazz snorts. “Sure thing, boss.” He gives Optimus a sidelong look. “Is that all you wanted to talk to me about? My tunes?”

“Not entirely.” Optimus runs a brief system check, struggling to find the words. Jazz puts him off balance like no one he has ever met. “I do want you to know that despite the circumstances of our meeting, I want to do my best to ensure your comfort here and make the best of a complicated situation.”

“Oh, don’t you worry that pretty head about me, Optimus. I’m flexible, adaptable, and know how to make myself at home. I’m gonna be just fine.” Jazz smiles at him, all brightness and intrigue and enthusiasm, and it makes Optimus cold to his spark.

“I am glad to hear it,” Optimus says. He feels he’s at something of a standstill. Jazz isn’t giving him anything to work with, not like the others. “Most of us are gathered at the training grounds, some to practice, some to observe. You are welcome to join us.”

Jazz folds his arms behind his head, his visor going dim. “Nah. I’m good right here for now. Soakin’ up summa of that good false-light if ya know what I mean.”

No, Optimus really doesn’t.

It’s a continued point of contention, Cybertron’s wobbly orbit around a dark star, where the slightest eruption could tear them away, forcing their planet to hurtle through space, with or without their moons. The glow from within is not nearly enough to combat the choking grasp of the blackness of space, and the miles upon miles of false-light designed to mimic the solar cycle is only a stark reminder of what they’re soon to lose.

“Very well,” Optimus concedes. He stands, brushing bits of rustdust from his armor, that and gathered grit from the duststorm that hit prior to their arrival. “Will I see you at the gathering tonight then?”

“Course. I’ll bring my electrobass, and I might even wear bells.” Jazz winks and grins a giant grin.

Optimus isn’t sure what he means by ‘bells’, but he suspects it’s an implication he won’t like.

“I look forward to it,” Optimus says, for lack of anything better to say, and excuses himself before Jazz can confuse him any further. He honestly can’t tell if he’s made any progress, or if he’s only played right into Jazz’s hands.

He’d thought, initially, Starscream might be the most troublesome of his Consorts to meet on neutral ground. It might be time to re-evaluate his estimations because Jazz is playing an entirely different game than Optimus.

He’ll have to discuss it with Ultra Magnus later. For now, Optimus returns to the training grounds though there are fewer of his Consorts present. Prowl and Soundwave are both gone, while Sunstreaker and Ironhide currently circle each other in the pit, their expressions more intent and serious than a casual spar might suggest. Starscream studies them, orbital ridges drawn down.

Ratchet and Hot Rod are off to the side, Ratchet muttering too quiet to hear while Hot Rod sulks, looking more than worse for wear.

Optimus joins Ultra Magnus at the fence, his attention drawn by Ironhide and Sunstreaker’s fierce spar. Ironhide looks focused, but entertained, his field sparking joy in all directions. Sunstreaker’s lips are twisted in a scowl, but there’s no hiding the delight in his field either. He throws himself at Ironhide, again and again, and despite what should be an obvious difference of skill between them, he’s more than holding his own.

“I knew Sunstreaker fought in the pits, but I didn’t realize how skilled he actually was,” Optimus murmurs.

“I believe that was a deliberate deception,” Ultra Magnus says, optics narrow, contemplation written across his brow. “His official file only labels him as an artist, though any mech could see that as a falsehood simply by watching him. No artist moves with the awareness of their surroundings the way that Sunstreaker does.”

Optimus is not much of a fighter himself, but even he can tell Ironhide is not going easy on Sunstreaker, not like he had with Hot Rod. He’s not pulling his punches, and when Sunstreaker does knock him down, there’s surprise in Ironhide’s optics.

“Still, he’s not classically trained. His skills seem to be an eclectic collection, likely learned through a lifetime of necessity.” Ultra Magnus’ lips form a thin line, his engine giving a small rev. “He cleaned up nicely, and I suspect that was the point.”

Optimus frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I think you’ve been given a very pretty assassin,” Ultra Magnus says.

“You said the same thing about Jazz, and I still don’t think either of them are assassins,” Optimus pauses to correct, “Spies, maybe, meant to entice and distract, but not assassinate. It would be too obvious.”

“Mm.” Ultra Magnus vents a sigh and some of the tension in his armor bleeds out. “Jazz, I suspect, comes from very high political channels. Sunstreaker is here from something else.”

Optimus chews on that for a second. “Organized crime, you mean.”

“It would not surprise me.”

Optimus folds his arms. “Sunstreaker is not behaving like he’s happy to be here. If this were a job to him, wouldn’t he be trying to curry my favor rather than attempting to avoid it?”

“You and I both know family can be a powerful coercion,” Ultra Magnus says, quieter still, as if he thinks someone might be eavesdropping on them or doesn’t wish his voice to carry. “Sunstreaker is very pretty. If they wanted to put someone enticing in front of you, I doubt they could have chosen better, especially with his built-in leverage.”

Anger thickens in Optimus’ chassis before he swallows it down. “We’ll look into it further when we get back to Iacon. Until then…”

“You’ll have to do your best to get Sunstreaker to open up and secure his loyalty,” Ultra Magnus says.

In the arena, Ironhide slams Sunstreaker down, twisting around the golden mech, pinning him firmly. A cloud of dust rises up, the sound of metal clashing against metal echoing around them.

“Yield!” Ironhide growls.

“Watch the paint!” Sunstreaker snarls.

Ironhide shifts, only a fraction, and pain flickers over Sunstreaker’s face before the tension in his frame abruptly goes slack.

“Fine,” Sunstreaker snaps. “I yield. Now get the frag off me.”

Ironhide chuckles, but Ratchet’s voice cuts across the training grounds, clear as a bell. “All right, that’s enough! I’ve already pulled out more dents than I care to, and I’m not fixing up anymore.”

“We’re done, Ratch. Calm yer rusty aft down,” Ironhide grumbles. He climbs to his feet and offers Sunstreaker a hand, which the golden mech accepts.

“We’ll talk later,” Optimus says as Ratchet and Ironhide exchange a few good-natured snipes at each other. “I had a conversation with Jazz you’ll find interesting, too.”

“Yes, Prime,” Ultra Magnus says, but his hand on Optimus’ shoulder is affectionate and teasing, before it slips away.

“Ratchet has a point,” Optimus says, loud enough for everyone else to hear him. “Perhaps we could all do with some washing up and some rest before the evening refuel.”

Ironhide sweeps a towel off the fence and gives his armor a cursory brush. “That an order, Prime?”

“A friendly suggestion only,” Optimus says.

“Think of it as an order from me then,” Ratchet says as he shoos off Hot Rod, and tries to snag Sunstreaker, but the latter is already stalking toward the mansion, glowering at a significant streak on his right arm.

“Sir, yes, sir.” Ironhide sketches a mocking salute, but rather than growl, Ratchet rolls his optics and starts to pack up his supplies.

Apparently, he goes everywhere with a medical kit. Or perhaps he’d known how much trouble they’d get into it and came prepared. Either way, he’s a medic after Optimus’ spark.

The Consorts disperse; Ratchet lingers. It is as good a time as any to approach Ratchet, with this built in opening available for Optimus to take advantage of.

“I appreciate you looking after everyone,” Optimus says as Ratchet examines something with a critical optic before tossing it back into his kit.

“It’s what I do,” Ratchet says. He gives Optimus a sidelong look. “Was wondering when you were going to get around to me.”

Optimus eyes Ratchet’s packing, but sees nowhere he can offer assistance. “You could have approached me.”

“And happily submit to this farce? Frag that.” Ratchet flicks a hand and snorts. He squints at Optimus. “I’m sure you know all about me, so I’ll tell you this, stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours.”

Well. Optimus can say this much, Ratchet certainly doesn’t pull any punches, and unlike some of the others, he’s not interested in playing any political games, or bothering with a verbal spar.

It’s refreshing.

“Does that mean friendship is out of the question?” he asks.

Ratchet shoves something else into his kit and closes the lid with a loud snap. “I don’t have a good track record with those. Might be in your best interest to keep me at arms length.”

“I believe it is never too late for a fresh start. I am willing to make the effort,” Optimus says.

Ratchet snorts again, but this time, there’s amusement rather than derision in his field. “You say that now, but you’ve only known me for a few days. Give it time.”

“Time is something we have in abundance. I would rather be on your side than against you,” Optimus says.

“Well, you’re not stupid then.” Ratchet barks a laugh and throws the kit over his shoulder, hefting the heavy crate as if it weighs nothing. Perhaps what they say about a medic’s inbuilt strength is true. “I know a thousand ways to kill you and make it look like an accident.”

Despite himself, Optimus chuckles. “Have you considered that pointing out such things may be why your track record with friends is poor?”

“Are you suggesting I scare them away?” Ratchet squints.

Optimus holds up his arms in surrender before he tucks them behind his back, falling in step beside Ratchet. “No, I think you prefer not to waste your time on empty relationships. You only bother to deepen those which matter.”

“Or I’m just an aft.”

Optimus makes a non-committal noise. “I stand by my assessment.” He watches Ratchet in his periphery. “I know the circumstances of our interaction are not ideal, but I would still like the opportunity to prove my intentions are true.”

“Mm.” Ratchet looks up at him, head tilted, and Optimus feels the distinct tingle of a scan wash over his armor. “How’s that feeling, by the way? It’s been, what, a month since they shoved that thing inside of you?”

“A little over it, yes,” Optimus says, though he’s amused Ratchet has reduced the most revered relic of all Cybertronians to ‘that thing’. “I will admit it is an odd sensation. The Matrix shifts from time to time, as though settling to get comfortable, and it stirs as if it has a sentience of its own.”

“You don’t know for sure?”

Optimus frowns, contemplating. “It did not come with a manual, and when I ask the priests, they have no experience to draw upon. Only a Prime knows how it feels to carry a Matrix, and there is only ever one living at a time.”

“Pity,” Ratchet drawls unconvincingly. “What about your frame? Most mechs don’t go through a rapid reformat like you did.”

“I am still getting used to the change in my center of balance,” Optimus admits. “I am more massive and taller than I used to be. I am also stronger. It took me a few tries to grip an energon cube without shattering it.”

“Night purges?”

“None,” Optimus says, and it isn’t quite a lie. He does dream, but they are not memory echoes, or if they are memories, they are not his own. They are shadows of things he has never experienced, and distant voices speaking in a language he does not understand.

These he blames on the Matrix, and since no one has any concept of how a mech is meant to properly interact with the Matrix, there’s no point in bringing it up to Ratchet.

“Hmm.” Ratchet looks him up and down. “Who’s your physician?”

“I was hoping it would be you,” Optimus says.

Ratchet stops in his tracks, blinking up at Optimus, his field buzzing with disbelief. “Come again?”

“There is a reason you were slated to become Chief Medical Officer before you were nominated to my cohort,” Optimus says, slowing to a stop and turning to face Ratchet. “You are ranked in the top of your field, and you are more than qualified. I cannot think of anyone else I would rather trust.”

“Trust?” Ratchet scoffs, his gaze distant, over Optimus’ left shoulder. “You don’t know the first thing about me, Prime. That’s a pretty bold assertion considering we just met.”

“Your record speaks for itself, and if we are going to be friends at the very least, it starts with an extension of trust,” Optimus says. “I would put my frame and my spark in your hands before I would any other.”

Ratchet stares at him for a long moment before he chuffs a vent and drags a palm down his face. “You’re an idiot,” he says, behind his hand, before he drops it. “But fine. I know when I’m beaten. You’re too earnest for me.” He thrusts out a hand. “I guess I’m willing to see where this goes.”

Optimus takes the hand with a firm shake. “And I am determined to earn your trust in return.”

“You’re making a pretty good effort of it now, though we’ll have to see where it goes before I sign on the dotted line.” Ratchet’s shake is firm before he takes his hand back and starts toward the manor again, adjusting the crate on his shoulder.

“I can live with that,” Optimus says.

They part ways inside the main hall, Ratchet toward his room, and Optimus toward his own. There’s grit in his joints, in his gears, and a long soak in the heated oil pool will do much to soothe his aching cables before he joins the others tonight.

He has made progress with Ironhide and Ratchet today and that feels like a victory, no matter how small. He’s at a standstill with Jazz, but there is time yet to determine how to crack that icy wall.

Optimus steps into his own berthchamber, giving it a cursory glance as has become his habit now he is Prime and therefore a target. All seems well, save that his console is blinking at him, indicating he has a message.

This private time with his Consorts is meant to be a disconnect from the outside world, to give him the opportunity to focus on them and their new relationships. Optimus also suspects it is an excuse for the Senate to do whatever they like without the oversight of a Prime to potentially disrupt them. That the isolation is likely to exacerbate the already tense relationship between the Prime and his Consorts would only be a benefit to them.

Optimus should not be receiving any communications at all, except emergency situations, but there is a particular exception in his case.

He logs into the console, skimming the message. Not an emergency, but a notification, as he’d suspected. Skyfire’s transport will arrive first thing in the morning, as the nominate from Altihex, he will complete Optimus’ retinue of Consorts.

And potentially disturbing the tentative balance they’ve established.

Starscream has history with Skyfire, one fraught with tension and potential discord . He’ll have to give Starscream a warning, lest he ruffle the Seeker’s proverbial feathers.

Optimus acknowledges the notification and powers down his console with a sigh. This is frustrating and stressful, but on the upside, diplomatically dealing with his Consorts is excellent practice for the eventual diplomacy he’ll have to mete out to the Senate and its related enterprises.

For now, however, there’s an oil bath calling for him, and he could do with a bit of relaxation.

***