[G1] Serendipity
Sep. 2nd, 2021 07:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: Serendipity
Universe: G1, Season 3
Characters: Rodimus Prime, Galvatron
Rated: T
Description: Rodimus never expected to find a kindred spark in Galvatron, but here they are, on a rocky Oregon shore, talking like people do.
For Keirajo.
Rodimus can’t sleep.
Can’t recharge either, but he likes the term sleep. Likes the shape of it in his mouth and on his glossa, likes the organic sound of it, the way Spike talks about sleeping and beds and pillows and comfort and sweet, sweet dreams.
Rodimus dreams now.
Hot Rod never dreamed, but Rodimus Prime dreams every time he shutters his optics and tries to sleep. Recharge. Drift into a stasis nap. He doesn’t know the things he sees in his dreams. He doesn’t know the mechs, but they are all talking to him, shouting with dozens of voices too indistinct to make out.
Sometimes, he swears he sees Optimus Prime in the crowd, and that’s a voice Rodimus Prime reaches for, but a voice he never hears. Optimus is gone in a wisp, in a blink -- a cycle of his optics, and Rodimus Prime onlines on his bed, his berth, feeling the weight of his own inadequacy clinging to his shoulders.
Rodimus Prime can’t recharge. The Matrix is restless, shifting in its mounts, tugging at his spark chamber, alternating between hot and cold, and it sets his denta on edge.
He gets out of his berth, too-large feet hitting the floor. He hunches his shoulders, ducking his head from a ceiling that’s too low now. He stumbles to the door, taking longer to gain his balance than he used to, and palms it open.
The corridor is quiet.
He used to share a hab with two other mechs, on a hallway lined with doors with other habs, all shared by at least two mechs, and with that many mechs packed into such a small space, noise is inevitable. He used to fall asleep to the sound of bickering next door -- Sideswipe and Sunstreaker -- and Springer’s vents rattling in the bunk on the other side of the room, and Drift tossing and turning on the bunk above him.
Rodimus Prime recharges alone, in a solitary room, at the end of the corridor housing a good third of the Autobot’s command structure. It used to belong to Optimus Prime, and the echoes of a mech who isn’t Rodimus and who Rodimus can never be, clings to every surface, in every shadow of prior furniture and frames on the wall. In the keys rubbed blank by far too much typing, and a console chair that’s a fraction too small even with Rodimus’ upgrades, and a lingering odor of diesel and energon stains from wounds Optimus had been too full of pride to admit.
Rodimus glances up at the security camera, tapping into Teletraan to see who’s on shift this evening.
It’s no one who’ll question him.
Rodimus heads for the nearest exit, the Matrix shifting and shifting, like it can’t get comfortable within his chassis. He grimaces, resisting the urge to rub at his seam, the walls of the Ark pressing in on him, like a cage.
It’s only when he’s outside, in the cool, salty Oregon air that he feels he can ventilate normally. Night hangs over him, dotted by stars, and the land stretches out below him, a dark and still forest clinging stubbornly to the peaks and valleys of the rolling hills.
His tires hit the road before he fully commits to the idea of it, and Rodimus Prime heads south, away from the Ark, away from the Autobots, just away. Mainframe, on shift, sends him a curious ping. Rodimus offers reassurance, but not an explanation, and then he firmly sets his comm to ‘busy’.
Ultra Magnus can reach him if there’s an emergency, but right now, Rodimus wants the solitude. As alone as he can be with a dozen Primes clamoring for attention at the back of his processor, with the Matrix squirming and rattling, hot and cold and burning again.
He drives for an hour, keeping the shore to his right, heading south and south, sticking to back roads where possible. If he gets lost, he gets lost. The Autobots will find him, if only because they like to know where their Matrix is.
Maybe Rodimus isn’t giving them enough credit. Maybe he’s too bitter. Maybe he feels like a vehicle for the Matrix, and not a person, because when they look at him, they see the shadow of Optimus Prime and a dull replacement who will never measure up.
Something pings on the edge of his sensors.
Rodimus slows, curious and wary. He's not sure how to identify the ping -- not human, but Cybertronian, and there isn't a faction identifier in the ping.
It could be a trap. It could just as easily be a lost Cybertronian, who followed an old signal back to Earth, and doesn't quite know what to do with themselves now.
Rodimus is feeling just reckless enough to check it out. Optimus Prime would have done it, right? He would have barged straight into the face of a mech in potential need, damn the consequences.
He veers onto a side road, unpaved, rocks pinging against his undercarriage. It stings, but it's a good sting, a welcome sting. Before the upgrade, he'd have had trouble on this road, but post-Matrix, he's built sturdier, his tires can take it.
The forest thickens and grows around him, dark and imposing. The air is wetter, harsh against his paint -- he's getting closer to the coast. Sand joins the rocks, and Rodimus cringes, the sting no longer welcome. First Aid is going to fuss, and that's the only high point.
First Aid fussing is a good thing. Maybe he'll start to sound like his old self. Not that any of them can really go back to their old selves.
Rodimus hears the Cybertronian long before he sees the mech -- cursing and anger floating on the wind, a fiercely revving engine growling displeasure, and the roil of an energy field he can't read, too chaotic are the electrical impulses.
Chaotic and familiar.
Rodimus reverts to root-mode and proceeds further on foot. Logic dictates he should call for backup. Curiosity compels him.
Galvatron and Megatron are not the same mech, and Rodimus does not feel the consuming need to attack his foes that Optimus Prime seemed to always carry, not that any of his fans would ever admit to Optimus' lust for violence. He is their leader, their paragon, his fight against the Decepticons necessary and relentless.
Rodimus is just tired.
He isn't bothering with stealth, not that it matters. Galvatron is making enough noise to cover his approach. Rodimus' path takes him on a steep descent to a sheltered cove, and there Galvatron is, rage in his vocals, stomping up and down the sandy shore as he snarls at nothing visible.
There are pockmarks in the beach, scorchmarks in the rocky incline, as if Galvatron has been firing into the landscape without a target to soak up his rage. He paces, gesturing in wild motions, his lips twisted into a snarl, spitting fury to no one.
"--don't care, because it's mine. Mine now! You can't tell me otherwise. I am here. You are not, and it is mine!"
What on Cybertron...?
Galvatron jerks to a halt, whirls, and slams a fist into the side of the ravine. "Shut up!" he snarls, and the high-pitch of his engine is audible even to Rodimus across the distance. "Shut up, shut up, shut up!"
Each growl is punctuated by a punch into the rock. It splinters beneath his fist, and the sickening snap of a finger strut echoes above the chaos. Rodimus flinches; Galvatron doesn't.
He's heaving vents, shoulders rising and falling, energon streaking over his knuckles.
"I don't share!" Galvatron howls, only for his frame to jerk away from the ravine wall, staggering backward, like a puppet controlled by drunken fingers. "I don't--"
He cuts off and sinks to his knees, field flaring with a nauseating burst of anger and hatred and loathing and despair.
One of Galvatron's hands goes limp at his side, but the other rises to his face, fingers pressing in, digging hard, piercing the dermal layer. Thin trickles of energon seep free. His free hand forms a trembling fist that bumps against the grip of his blaster.
"Get out of my head!" Galvatron howls and scrapes his talons down his face, ripping furrows in the dermal layers, energon pouring free.
Primus.
Rodimus leaps down before he entirely knows what he's doing, spark hammering in his chassis, a tightness in his vents he can't explain. Galvatron's field is a wild, feral thing, and it lashes at him with physical weight. Rodimus' knees wobble, but he races across the rocky sand and tackles Galvatron, knocking his hand from his face.
And his other hand from the firm grip it had taken on the blaster.
Galvatron's head slams into the ground, hard enough to dent, and Rodimus winces, but it can't be any worse than whatever damage Galvatron has inflicted on himself. The Decepticon thrashes beneath him, bucking up against Rodimus' weight, but his internal struggle must have weakened him. Rodimus pins Galvatron's hands down by the wrist, using his body weight to keep the Decepticon in place.
"Whatever you're doing, stop," Rodimus says.
"Get off me!" Galvatron snarls, energon trickling out of the wounds on his face, his field lashing out like a trapped animal.
"I'm not trying to hurt you," Rodimus snaps. "I'm trying to get you to stop hurting yourself for Primus' sake."
Galvatron's vents roar before he abruptly sags and goes limp. "I'm not trying to hurt myself," he mutters, like a chastened sparkling. "I'm trying to hurt him."
Him?
It takes a moment for the dots to connect, and when they do, Rodimus sighs. "You can't hurt the thing sharing space in your head. Believe me, I've tried." He lets Galvatron go and clambers to his feet, only to offer a hand to the prone Decepticon. "Come on. Get up."
Galvatron stares at the offer as though it's a Sharkticon waiting to strike. "What trickery is this?"
"A weird Autobot thing called kindness." Rodimus wriggles his fingers. "You want to lie in the dirt, or do you want to get up so I can do something about the mess you've made of your face?"
Galvatron sneers at him, ignores Rodimus' hand, and rolls to his feet, ineffectually brushing bits of rocky sand from his armor. "I don't want your kindness. We are enemies."
"Why?" Rodimus asks.
It's a question he's asked himself. Galvatron fights because Unicron made him from Megatron, and Megatron fought for reasons no one remembers anymore. Rodimus fights because Galvatron fights, and no matter how he peels back the layers, Rodimus can't figure out why he's fighting anymore, save that Optimus has fought, and so Rodimus should, too.
He's tired of acting only because of the ghosts in his spark. Surely Galvatron is as well?
Galvatron's optics cycle. "What do you mean why?" he demands as he rocks back a pace, spluttering, "You're an Autobot. I'm a Decepticon! I--" He breaks off and touches his head. "I am Galvatron."
"That's enough reason to fight?" Rodimus asks, folding his arms over his chassis. Galvatron’s energon is tacky on his fingers, and it makes a weird unease settle in his tanks.
"Of course it is!" Galvatron snaps, but he doesn't reach for his blaster, and now he's frowning at the ground, wounds still seeping energon he probably can't afford to lose. "What else is there?"
Rodimus shrugs. "You tell me."
Silence.
Galvatron's orbital ridge furrows. He sneers at the sand, drips energon down his armor, and his vents rattle.
At length, he says, "I was built to fight." Each word sounds carefully chosen as he looks down at his hands, spattered and dented, his fingers bent and broken, his talons frayed and chipped. "Everything I am is a battle. What else is there?"
"That's a good question." Rodimus drops his arms and retreats a step or two, plopping down on a convenient boulder heavily encrusted with shells and drying seaweed. "Dunno the answer myself. I've got too many voices telling me what I'm supposed to be. I'm guessing you do, too."
Galvatron's frown deepens. "Too many." He nods and his fingers curl into awkward fists as he looks at Rodimus. "There is a voice that tells me to rip out your spark right now. You're defenseless and vulnerable and--" He pauses, his field rippling with disgust. "--weak."
"Maybe I am. And maybe I'm just tired." Rodimus leans back on his hands and looks up at the sky, clouds moving at a glacial pace above him. "I fight because it's what Optimus did, and I'm pretty tired of being what Optimus was. It's what everyone wants though."
Galvatron clicks his glossa. "Who cares what everyone wants?" He thumps his own chassis. "I do what I want." He thumps it again, harder. "In spite of this voice."
Rodimus looks at him with a wry grin. "So you're not going to kill me?"
"Not today." Galvatron smiles, baring his denta, fangs and all. "If you die, it will be in battle. I'll defeat you and stand triumphant over your greying corpse where all can see it."
Rodimus laughs. "Fair enough." He sits up and digs into his subspace, producing a small medkit. "Then in the interest of our tentative truce, will you let me do something about your face?"
"There's nothing wrong with my face," Galvatron snaps.
"Except for the seeping furrows you clawed into it."
Galvatron rolls his optics and crosses his arms, looking less like the fearsome Decepticon lord and more like a petulant sparkling. "It'll heal. It always does."
Ouch.
Rodimus' spark gives a sympathetic twinge. He might not take his own discomfort into the realm of self-harm, but he understands a bit of where Galvatron is coming from. Rodimus is lucky enough he only has Optimus and the preceding Primes occasionally rising from the depths of the Matrix. He can't imagine sharing his headspace with someone like Megatron.
"It'll heal faster with a bit of nanite spray," Rodimus points out. Do the Decepticons even have decent medical care right now?
Galvatron glares, but he stomps over and holds out his hand. "Give it to me."
"Take the whole thing. First Aid will give me another."
Galvatron snatches it from him and plops down on the rock next to Rodimus as he rummages through the kit. "Your kindness won't sway me, Prime. I'll still kill you the next time we meet on the battlefield."
"Then I guess I'll just have to make sure that every time I see you, it won't be because we're fighting," Rodimus says.
Galvatron's field, which has been slowly calming, abruptly flares with surprised confusion. "That's ridiculous!" he splutters. "How am I to kill you if you avoid the battlefield?"
Rodimus shrugs. "Maybe you don't kill me at all."
Galvatron stares at him. The look of blank, incomprehension on his face might have been amusing in any other circumstance. Right now, it just fills Rodimus with pity.
"Maybe we find another way," Rodimus says, trying to keep his voice light so it doesn't show the hope building in the depths of his spark, far from the influence of the Matrix. "Something we choose that has nothing to do with the other voices in our head."
Galvatron fiddles with the medkit. "Choose," he repeats, and his field flickers, his face going through a riot of emotions -- some of which Rodimus suggests are not all his own until finally, he grunts a wry laugh. "That'll be a first."
"First time for everything," Rodimus says. He shifts, debates, then rummages in his arm panel, producing a comm chip. "Here."
Galvatron looks at the chip, optics narrowing. "Explain."
"It's my comm code. My personal one." Rodimus holds it out, but doesn't push. Galvatron's moods can be mercurial, and the last thing he wants is to push this unspoken truce back into violence. "For when you want that first."
"Want," Galvatron echoes like he's tasting the word. He takes the chip between his thumb and forefinger, squinting his optics at it. "You are a strange Prime."
Rodimus snorts. "I get that a lot."
"I will take your comm code. Maybe I will use it." Galvatron tucks the chip away, and the medkit with it. His face is still a mess, but at least his nanites have gotten to work, scabbing up the wounds.
He'll probably have Cyclonus fix it for him later. They have some weird relationship Rodimus doesn't want to think about, and he's a bit surprised Galvatron is here on his own, when Cyclonus is usually stuck to him like glue.
"You should go," Galvatron says.
Rodimus cycles his optics. "Because...?"
"Cyclonus is on his way." Galvatron grins with far too much denta, a hint of mischief in his gaze. "He'll be jealous."
Rodimus hops off the stone, turning to scan the sky for the aforementioned Decepticon. "Of you or me?"
"Why don't you stay and find out?" Galvatron asks, and this slyness must be entirely him, because Rodimus can't imagine Unicron or Megatron being this blatantly playful.
There's a riotous argument inside Rodimus. The Matrix shifts in its mounts, tugging at his spark, and Rodimus hides his wince in an equally playful grin.
"Not this time." He backs away, slow enough that Galvatron won't take it as a threat, but fast enough that he can get away before Cyclonus arrives. He soothes over his refusal with a wink. "But use that comm and maybe we can set a date."
Galvatron throws his head back and laughs. "A date," he repeats, genuine joy in his field. "You would not survive me, Prime."
"Call me Rodimus," he says as a glint in the distance catches his optic. Maybe a trick of the light, maybe Cyclonus.
He's not sticking around to find out.
He shifts to alt-mode and hauls aft, spraying rocky sand in his wake as he speeds up the incline and dives into the dubious cover of the beach-side vegetation. His spark in his intake, he keeps one optic on the rough road and the other on his sensors, watching for Cyclonus' approach.
By the time he makes it to the main road, tires firm on asphalt, Rodimus is reasonably sure neither of them are giving him chase. He turns back toward the Ark, suddenly feeling a need to be a bit more protected than his current circumstances.
The Matrix -- and the Primes within -- continue to voice their displeasure, as if peace is anathema and only violence acceptable. Optimus' voice, if there at all, is drowned out by the others, who prefer complete annihilation to a meaningful truce, and Rodimus hates them all.
How had Optimus maintained his sanity when presented with this continuous onslaught of unwanted opinion? Had he agreed with them? Is that why the war had continued in the manner it had?
The questions are enough to drive Rodimus mad.
He is not Optimus Prime. The others want him to be Optimus Prime, but if embracing that expectation means Rodimus must fight, will he defy what they want of him? Or will their voices disturb him in the same way Galvatron is wracked by the echoes of Unicron and Megatron?
Rodimus never anticipated finding a kindred spark in Galvatron, but here is, driving home while leaving behind a private comm code, secretly hoping Galvatron will use it.
He's tired of fighting. He wants to do the one thing Optimus never could. He wants to end the war.
His comm beeps.
Rodimus slows to offer it attention, confused by the code that pops up. "Rodimus here."
"So you weren't lying." Galvatron's voice purrs through his speakers, echoing around his interior. "You may regret offering me such access, Rodimus Prime."
Rodimus' spark grins where his mouth can't. "Is Cyclonus taking good care of you?"
"He offers his thanks for the medkit," Galvatron says, amusement rich in his voice. "For other things, too, but since it's none of your business or his, I'm not passing it along."
Okay. Bit confusing, but then, Galvatron has confused Rodimus from the moment they met across the battlefield.
"Is that the only reason you called?" Rodimus asks.
Galvatron's chuckle vibrates through his interior. "Time will tell, little Prime. So run on home to your Autobots, and we'll see if I call again."
"I told you to use my name," Rodimus reminds him.
"Goodbye, Rodimus," Galvatron says before the comm goes silent, and Rodimus is left with the dead air of a severed connection.
Glee rolls through Rodimus' spark before he can rein it in, and the Primes wail their dissatisfaction. Rodimus, however, ignores them this time.
Let them complain. If Primus disapproves, he'd have never given Rodimus the Matrix in the first place.
He's going to end this stupid war if it's the thing that kills him, and reaching out to Galvatron is the first step. Maybe it won't work. But at least he'll have tried. At least he'll be doing things his own way.
He's Rodimus Prime goddamnit.
It's time they all learn what that means.
***
Universe: G1, Season 3
Characters: Rodimus Prime, Galvatron
Rated: T
Description: Rodimus never expected to find a kindred spark in Galvatron, but here they are, on a rocky Oregon shore, talking like people do.
For Keirajo.
Rodimus can’t sleep.
Can’t recharge either, but he likes the term sleep. Likes the shape of it in his mouth and on his glossa, likes the organic sound of it, the way Spike talks about sleeping and beds and pillows and comfort and sweet, sweet dreams.
Rodimus dreams now.
Hot Rod never dreamed, but Rodimus Prime dreams every time he shutters his optics and tries to sleep. Recharge. Drift into a stasis nap. He doesn’t know the things he sees in his dreams. He doesn’t know the mechs, but they are all talking to him, shouting with dozens of voices too indistinct to make out.
Sometimes, he swears he sees Optimus Prime in the crowd, and that’s a voice Rodimus Prime reaches for, but a voice he never hears. Optimus is gone in a wisp, in a blink -- a cycle of his optics, and Rodimus Prime onlines on his bed, his berth, feeling the weight of his own inadequacy clinging to his shoulders.
Rodimus Prime can’t recharge. The Matrix is restless, shifting in its mounts, tugging at his spark chamber, alternating between hot and cold, and it sets his denta on edge.
He gets out of his berth, too-large feet hitting the floor. He hunches his shoulders, ducking his head from a ceiling that’s too low now. He stumbles to the door, taking longer to gain his balance than he used to, and palms it open.
The corridor is quiet.
He used to share a hab with two other mechs, on a hallway lined with doors with other habs, all shared by at least two mechs, and with that many mechs packed into such a small space, noise is inevitable. He used to fall asleep to the sound of bickering next door -- Sideswipe and Sunstreaker -- and Springer’s vents rattling in the bunk on the other side of the room, and Drift tossing and turning on the bunk above him.
Rodimus Prime recharges alone, in a solitary room, at the end of the corridor housing a good third of the Autobot’s command structure. It used to belong to Optimus Prime, and the echoes of a mech who isn’t Rodimus and who Rodimus can never be, clings to every surface, in every shadow of prior furniture and frames on the wall. In the keys rubbed blank by far too much typing, and a console chair that’s a fraction too small even with Rodimus’ upgrades, and a lingering odor of diesel and energon stains from wounds Optimus had been too full of pride to admit.
Rodimus glances up at the security camera, tapping into Teletraan to see who’s on shift this evening.
It’s no one who’ll question him.
Rodimus heads for the nearest exit, the Matrix shifting and shifting, like it can’t get comfortable within his chassis. He grimaces, resisting the urge to rub at his seam, the walls of the Ark pressing in on him, like a cage.
It’s only when he’s outside, in the cool, salty Oregon air that he feels he can ventilate normally. Night hangs over him, dotted by stars, and the land stretches out below him, a dark and still forest clinging stubbornly to the peaks and valleys of the rolling hills.
His tires hit the road before he fully commits to the idea of it, and Rodimus Prime heads south, away from the Ark, away from the Autobots, just away. Mainframe, on shift, sends him a curious ping. Rodimus offers reassurance, but not an explanation, and then he firmly sets his comm to ‘busy’.
Ultra Magnus can reach him if there’s an emergency, but right now, Rodimus wants the solitude. As alone as he can be with a dozen Primes clamoring for attention at the back of his processor, with the Matrix squirming and rattling, hot and cold and burning again.
He drives for an hour, keeping the shore to his right, heading south and south, sticking to back roads where possible. If he gets lost, he gets lost. The Autobots will find him, if only because they like to know where their Matrix is.
Maybe Rodimus isn’t giving them enough credit. Maybe he’s too bitter. Maybe he feels like a vehicle for the Matrix, and not a person, because when they look at him, they see the shadow of Optimus Prime and a dull replacement who will never measure up.
Something pings on the edge of his sensors.
Rodimus slows, curious and wary. He's not sure how to identify the ping -- not human, but Cybertronian, and there isn't a faction identifier in the ping.
It could be a trap. It could just as easily be a lost Cybertronian, who followed an old signal back to Earth, and doesn't quite know what to do with themselves now.
Rodimus is feeling just reckless enough to check it out. Optimus Prime would have done it, right? He would have barged straight into the face of a mech in potential need, damn the consequences.
He veers onto a side road, unpaved, rocks pinging against his undercarriage. It stings, but it's a good sting, a welcome sting. Before the upgrade, he'd have had trouble on this road, but post-Matrix, he's built sturdier, his tires can take it.
The forest thickens and grows around him, dark and imposing. The air is wetter, harsh against his paint -- he's getting closer to the coast. Sand joins the rocks, and Rodimus cringes, the sting no longer welcome. First Aid is going to fuss, and that's the only high point.
First Aid fussing is a good thing. Maybe he'll start to sound like his old self. Not that any of them can really go back to their old selves.
Rodimus hears the Cybertronian long before he sees the mech -- cursing and anger floating on the wind, a fiercely revving engine growling displeasure, and the roil of an energy field he can't read, too chaotic are the electrical impulses.
Chaotic and familiar.
Rodimus reverts to root-mode and proceeds further on foot. Logic dictates he should call for backup. Curiosity compels him.
Galvatron and Megatron are not the same mech, and Rodimus does not feel the consuming need to attack his foes that Optimus Prime seemed to always carry, not that any of his fans would ever admit to Optimus' lust for violence. He is their leader, their paragon, his fight against the Decepticons necessary and relentless.
Rodimus is just tired.
He isn't bothering with stealth, not that it matters. Galvatron is making enough noise to cover his approach. Rodimus' path takes him on a steep descent to a sheltered cove, and there Galvatron is, rage in his vocals, stomping up and down the sandy shore as he snarls at nothing visible.
There are pockmarks in the beach, scorchmarks in the rocky incline, as if Galvatron has been firing into the landscape without a target to soak up his rage. He paces, gesturing in wild motions, his lips twisted into a snarl, spitting fury to no one.
"--don't care, because it's mine. Mine now! You can't tell me otherwise. I am here. You are not, and it is mine!"
What on Cybertron...?
Galvatron jerks to a halt, whirls, and slams a fist into the side of the ravine. "Shut up!" he snarls, and the high-pitch of his engine is audible even to Rodimus across the distance. "Shut up, shut up, shut up!"
Each growl is punctuated by a punch into the rock. It splinters beneath his fist, and the sickening snap of a finger strut echoes above the chaos. Rodimus flinches; Galvatron doesn't.
He's heaving vents, shoulders rising and falling, energon streaking over his knuckles.
"I don't share!" Galvatron howls, only for his frame to jerk away from the ravine wall, staggering backward, like a puppet controlled by drunken fingers. "I don't--"
He cuts off and sinks to his knees, field flaring with a nauseating burst of anger and hatred and loathing and despair.
One of Galvatron's hands goes limp at his side, but the other rises to his face, fingers pressing in, digging hard, piercing the dermal layer. Thin trickles of energon seep free. His free hand forms a trembling fist that bumps against the grip of his blaster.
"Get out of my head!" Galvatron howls and scrapes his talons down his face, ripping furrows in the dermal layers, energon pouring free.
Primus.
Rodimus leaps down before he entirely knows what he's doing, spark hammering in his chassis, a tightness in his vents he can't explain. Galvatron's field is a wild, feral thing, and it lashes at him with physical weight. Rodimus' knees wobble, but he races across the rocky sand and tackles Galvatron, knocking his hand from his face.
And his other hand from the firm grip it had taken on the blaster.
Galvatron's head slams into the ground, hard enough to dent, and Rodimus winces, but it can't be any worse than whatever damage Galvatron has inflicted on himself. The Decepticon thrashes beneath him, bucking up against Rodimus' weight, but his internal struggle must have weakened him. Rodimus pins Galvatron's hands down by the wrist, using his body weight to keep the Decepticon in place.
"Whatever you're doing, stop," Rodimus says.
"Get off me!" Galvatron snarls, energon trickling out of the wounds on his face, his field lashing out like a trapped animal.
"I'm not trying to hurt you," Rodimus snaps. "I'm trying to get you to stop hurting yourself for Primus' sake."
Galvatron's vents roar before he abruptly sags and goes limp. "I'm not trying to hurt myself," he mutters, like a chastened sparkling. "I'm trying to hurt him."
Him?
It takes a moment for the dots to connect, and when they do, Rodimus sighs. "You can't hurt the thing sharing space in your head. Believe me, I've tried." He lets Galvatron go and clambers to his feet, only to offer a hand to the prone Decepticon. "Come on. Get up."
Galvatron stares at the offer as though it's a Sharkticon waiting to strike. "What trickery is this?"
"A weird Autobot thing called kindness." Rodimus wriggles his fingers. "You want to lie in the dirt, or do you want to get up so I can do something about the mess you've made of your face?"
Galvatron sneers at him, ignores Rodimus' hand, and rolls to his feet, ineffectually brushing bits of rocky sand from his armor. "I don't want your kindness. We are enemies."
"Why?" Rodimus asks.
It's a question he's asked himself. Galvatron fights because Unicron made him from Megatron, and Megatron fought for reasons no one remembers anymore. Rodimus fights because Galvatron fights, and no matter how he peels back the layers, Rodimus can't figure out why he's fighting anymore, save that Optimus has fought, and so Rodimus should, too.
He's tired of acting only because of the ghosts in his spark. Surely Galvatron is as well?
Galvatron's optics cycle. "What do you mean why?" he demands as he rocks back a pace, spluttering, "You're an Autobot. I'm a Decepticon! I--" He breaks off and touches his head. "I am Galvatron."
"That's enough reason to fight?" Rodimus asks, folding his arms over his chassis. Galvatron’s energon is tacky on his fingers, and it makes a weird unease settle in his tanks.
"Of course it is!" Galvatron snaps, but he doesn't reach for his blaster, and now he's frowning at the ground, wounds still seeping energon he probably can't afford to lose. "What else is there?"
Rodimus shrugs. "You tell me."
Silence.
Galvatron's orbital ridge furrows. He sneers at the sand, drips energon down his armor, and his vents rattle.
At length, he says, "I was built to fight." Each word sounds carefully chosen as he looks down at his hands, spattered and dented, his fingers bent and broken, his talons frayed and chipped. "Everything I am is a battle. What else is there?"
"That's a good question." Rodimus drops his arms and retreats a step or two, plopping down on a convenient boulder heavily encrusted with shells and drying seaweed. "Dunno the answer myself. I've got too many voices telling me what I'm supposed to be. I'm guessing you do, too."
Galvatron's frown deepens. "Too many." He nods and his fingers curl into awkward fists as he looks at Rodimus. "There is a voice that tells me to rip out your spark right now. You're defenseless and vulnerable and--" He pauses, his field rippling with disgust. "--weak."
"Maybe I am. And maybe I'm just tired." Rodimus leans back on his hands and looks up at the sky, clouds moving at a glacial pace above him. "I fight because it's what Optimus did, and I'm pretty tired of being what Optimus was. It's what everyone wants though."
Galvatron clicks his glossa. "Who cares what everyone wants?" He thumps his own chassis. "I do what I want." He thumps it again, harder. "In spite of this voice."
Rodimus looks at him with a wry grin. "So you're not going to kill me?"
"Not today." Galvatron smiles, baring his denta, fangs and all. "If you die, it will be in battle. I'll defeat you and stand triumphant over your greying corpse where all can see it."
Rodimus laughs. "Fair enough." He sits up and digs into his subspace, producing a small medkit. "Then in the interest of our tentative truce, will you let me do something about your face?"
"There's nothing wrong with my face," Galvatron snaps.
"Except for the seeping furrows you clawed into it."
Galvatron rolls his optics and crosses his arms, looking less like the fearsome Decepticon lord and more like a petulant sparkling. "It'll heal. It always does."
Ouch.
Rodimus' spark gives a sympathetic twinge. He might not take his own discomfort into the realm of self-harm, but he understands a bit of where Galvatron is coming from. Rodimus is lucky enough he only has Optimus and the preceding Primes occasionally rising from the depths of the Matrix. He can't imagine sharing his headspace with someone like Megatron.
"It'll heal faster with a bit of nanite spray," Rodimus points out. Do the Decepticons even have decent medical care right now?
Galvatron glares, but he stomps over and holds out his hand. "Give it to me."
"Take the whole thing. First Aid will give me another."
Galvatron snatches it from him and plops down on the rock next to Rodimus as he rummages through the kit. "Your kindness won't sway me, Prime. I'll still kill you the next time we meet on the battlefield."
"Then I guess I'll just have to make sure that every time I see you, it won't be because we're fighting," Rodimus says.
Galvatron's field, which has been slowly calming, abruptly flares with surprised confusion. "That's ridiculous!" he splutters. "How am I to kill you if you avoid the battlefield?"
Rodimus shrugs. "Maybe you don't kill me at all."
Galvatron stares at him. The look of blank, incomprehension on his face might have been amusing in any other circumstance. Right now, it just fills Rodimus with pity.
"Maybe we find another way," Rodimus says, trying to keep his voice light so it doesn't show the hope building in the depths of his spark, far from the influence of the Matrix. "Something we choose that has nothing to do with the other voices in our head."
Galvatron fiddles with the medkit. "Choose," he repeats, and his field flickers, his face going through a riot of emotions -- some of which Rodimus suggests are not all his own until finally, he grunts a wry laugh. "That'll be a first."
"First time for everything," Rodimus says. He shifts, debates, then rummages in his arm panel, producing a comm chip. "Here."
Galvatron looks at the chip, optics narrowing. "Explain."
"It's my comm code. My personal one." Rodimus holds it out, but doesn't push. Galvatron's moods can be mercurial, and the last thing he wants is to push this unspoken truce back into violence. "For when you want that first."
"Want," Galvatron echoes like he's tasting the word. He takes the chip between his thumb and forefinger, squinting his optics at it. "You are a strange Prime."
Rodimus snorts. "I get that a lot."
"I will take your comm code. Maybe I will use it." Galvatron tucks the chip away, and the medkit with it. His face is still a mess, but at least his nanites have gotten to work, scabbing up the wounds.
He'll probably have Cyclonus fix it for him later. They have some weird relationship Rodimus doesn't want to think about, and he's a bit surprised Galvatron is here on his own, when Cyclonus is usually stuck to him like glue.
"You should go," Galvatron says.
Rodimus cycles his optics. "Because...?"
"Cyclonus is on his way." Galvatron grins with far too much denta, a hint of mischief in his gaze. "He'll be jealous."
Rodimus hops off the stone, turning to scan the sky for the aforementioned Decepticon. "Of you or me?"
"Why don't you stay and find out?" Galvatron asks, and this slyness must be entirely him, because Rodimus can't imagine Unicron or Megatron being this blatantly playful.
There's a riotous argument inside Rodimus. The Matrix shifts in its mounts, tugging at his spark, and Rodimus hides his wince in an equally playful grin.
"Not this time." He backs away, slow enough that Galvatron won't take it as a threat, but fast enough that he can get away before Cyclonus arrives. He soothes over his refusal with a wink. "But use that comm and maybe we can set a date."
Galvatron throws his head back and laughs. "A date," he repeats, genuine joy in his field. "You would not survive me, Prime."
"Call me Rodimus," he says as a glint in the distance catches his optic. Maybe a trick of the light, maybe Cyclonus.
He's not sticking around to find out.
He shifts to alt-mode and hauls aft, spraying rocky sand in his wake as he speeds up the incline and dives into the dubious cover of the beach-side vegetation. His spark in his intake, he keeps one optic on the rough road and the other on his sensors, watching for Cyclonus' approach.
By the time he makes it to the main road, tires firm on asphalt, Rodimus is reasonably sure neither of them are giving him chase. He turns back toward the Ark, suddenly feeling a need to be a bit more protected than his current circumstances.
The Matrix -- and the Primes within -- continue to voice their displeasure, as if peace is anathema and only violence acceptable. Optimus' voice, if there at all, is drowned out by the others, who prefer complete annihilation to a meaningful truce, and Rodimus hates them all.
How had Optimus maintained his sanity when presented with this continuous onslaught of unwanted opinion? Had he agreed with them? Is that why the war had continued in the manner it had?
The questions are enough to drive Rodimus mad.
He is not Optimus Prime. The others want him to be Optimus Prime, but if embracing that expectation means Rodimus must fight, will he defy what they want of him? Or will their voices disturb him in the same way Galvatron is wracked by the echoes of Unicron and Megatron?
Rodimus never anticipated finding a kindred spark in Galvatron, but here is, driving home while leaving behind a private comm code, secretly hoping Galvatron will use it.
He's tired of fighting. He wants to do the one thing Optimus never could. He wants to end the war.
His comm beeps.
Rodimus slows to offer it attention, confused by the code that pops up. "Rodimus here."
"So you weren't lying." Galvatron's voice purrs through his speakers, echoing around his interior. "You may regret offering me such access, Rodimus Prime."
Rodimus' spark grins where his mouth can't. "Is Cyclonus taking good care of you?"
"He offers his thanks for the medkit," Galvatron says, amusement rich in his voice. "For other things, too, but since it's none of your business or his, I'm not passing it along."
Okay. Bit confusing, but then, Galvatron has confused Rodimus from the moment they met across the battlefield.
"Is that the only reason you called?" Rodimus asks.
Galvatron's chuckle vibrates through his interior. "Time will tell, little Prime. So run on home to your Autobots, and we'll see if I call again."
"I told you to use my name," Rodimus reminds him.
"Goodbye, Rodimus," Galvatron says before the comm goes silent, and Rodimus is left with the dead air of a severed connection.
Glee rolls through Rodimus' spark before he can rein it in, and the Primes wail their dissatisfaction. Rodimus, however, ignores them this time.
Let them complain. If Primus disapproves, he'd have never given Rodimus the Matrix in the first place.
He's going to end this stupid war if it's the thing that kills him, and reaching out to Galvatron is the first step. Maybe it won't work. But at least he'll have tried. At least he'll be doing things his own way.
He's Rodimus Prime goddamnit.
It's time they all learn what that means.
