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When the map in the Matrix led the Lost Light to the sector of space that belonged to Vria’a-zari – an organic race of insectoids – nobody in the crew thought they will face any serious problems. Vria’a-zari led a secluded life, they didn’t have a seat in Galactic Council – and, therefore, didn’t have any grudge against Cybertronians, their space being too far from the arena of Autobot-Decepticon war. Besides, Optimus Prime was on board! He joined the crew as soon as he heard that the mysterious map was deciphered, and the possible location of the Knights of Cybertron was pinpointed (it was somewhere in Vria’a-zari space). Optimus was the master of negotiations with organic races, and he was an epitome of everything that was good in Cybertronians. All creatures loved Optimus; it was impossible not to love him.
And so it came as a complete surprise when Vria’a-zari, instead of shaking hands with Optimus Prime and letting the Lost Light pass, teleported him out of the bridge right to their capital.
First of all, nobody supposed that the insectoids possessed such technology; an organic race that was more technologically advanced than mechanoid Cybertronians, how shameful! Secondly, nobody thought that the negotiations would fail before even beginning. And finally, the Vria’a-zari’s conditions made the further journey impossible.
“The Queen of the Red Hive will remain with us as a hostage and a guarantee that you will never cross our borders. If a Cybertronian ship enters our space, we won’t hesitate to terminate the hostage,” the Queen of Vria’a-zari screeched from the screen. Optimus was standing beside her, disarmed and cuffed by some unpleasant looking organic material. Despite his mask, the Prime managed to appear apologetic, embarrassed and self-sacrificing. He obviously wasn’t going to tear his bonds, grab a guard’s gun and put it to the Queen’s head before demanding freedom, like Megatron would, were he in Prime’s place.
Maybe that’s why the Vria’a-zari kidnapped Optimus, and not him. Wise move on their part; Megatron was fairly sure that the Lost Light’s crew wouldn’t bother with rescuing him, captain or not.
Anyway, they really needed to rescue Optimus. Fraggin’ Prime, always the source of Megatron’s problems.
Excusing himself for a while (the Queen graciously gave them time to think) and signaling Blaster to break the communications, Megatron turned to his crew.
“Any information on the Vria’a-zari and their possible weaknesses? Traditions, distinctive features, mentality?”
All Autobots present on the bridge exchanged unsure looks.
“They don’t mingle with other races much… Think everyone else is barbaric or something…” Blaster suggested unsurely. “I’ll make a ship-wide announcement for anyone who knows anything to come to the bridge.”
“Those who knew something” happened to be Rung and Swerve. While Megatron was more than happy to listen to the little psychologist, Swerve’s face was a promise of a nearing headache.
“I am no xenopsychologist, so my information is superficial at best,” Rung began, “but one thing about Vria’a-zari is certain: they are very emotional creatures who attach great importance to their feelings. They believe this is what distinguishes them from insentient animals – their ability to feel and act according to emotions that overcome instincts and cold logic.”
“Yeah, and they’re very fond of drama,” Swerve added, his usual grin being a bit out of place, concerning the situation. “A bartender on Hedonia told me a tale of how he saw a group of male Vria’a-zari propose to a female. Not only did they take her to see another planet, they turned the proposal into a performance, with feigning death at the sign of her displeasure, tons of flowers and endless stream of poetry describing her beauty.”
“Emotions that are valued above common sense and a passion for drama, then…” Megatron tapped his chin in thought, and his spark shivered in a sudden chilly grip of dread. A plan was forming in Megatron’ head… And he didn’t like it. At all.
But damn, they really needed to enter the Vria’a-zari space, and their ship was too small to do it by force. And they couldn’t just leave Optimus, the fool was supposed to contact the Knights of Cybertron – after all, they were demigods, and a Prime was better suited for talking to them… Oh, frag everything.
“Blaster,” Megatron lifted his chin, optics gleaming with determination, “open the channel.”
The Queen’s throne room appeared on the screen again.
“I have considered your conditions, your majesty. We accept the wish of your people and will leave immediately. But before we disappear from your sector forever… I ask for your permission to say farewell to Optimus, while he is here and can hear me.”
The Queen moved her mandibles, pondering.
“You have my permission,” she uttered at last.
“Thank you,” Megatron inclined hid head and then turned to Optimus, who shifted uncomfortably in his bindings. Megatron cursed him mentally for the last time and offlined his optics for a moment, concentrating.
Then he looked at the screen again and outstretched his hand, striking a dramatic pose.
“My love for you,” he began, “is like a beacon,
It burns so strong, and yet so far away,
Divided by the color of our symbols,
We’re not together even when we’re close.
And still your every blow feels like a caress,
It’s cherished, it’s desired…it’s a curse.”
Everyone’s jaws dropped. Even Swerve was speechless, which was an achievement of its own. Optimus’s face was protected by his mask, so it was impossible to say if he had the same slack-jawed expression, but the way his optics widened spoke volumes.
But Megatron has only just begun.
“Without you all colors turn to grey,
And through the world of dead I’ll wander,
Not dead and not alive myself,
For what is sunlight when it’s not reflected
With flashes on your plating; what are stars,
If you’re not here to relish in their beauty?
For you they shone and will forever shine!”
“I’m dreaming,” Trailcutter whispered. “I’m slagging dreaming. Ultra Magnus, you’re the sanest mech among us all; please tell me it’s not real.”
“It is real,” Magnus boomed, but even his voice came out constricted.
“And to the farthest edge of space
Your name I’ll carry, and your name alone;
And in the distant stars and constellations
Your visage I shall see, forever haunted.
Farewell, my love; I shall continue our quest,
But there will be no joy for me, no celebrations,
And let all hope and happiness be forlorn.”
Megatron stopped, lowering his head and placing his hand over his spark chamber to strengthen the effect. He stood like this in complete silence for a couple of moments, and then from the screen there came a muffled sound.
The Queen’s facet eyes were watering, which indicated sadness in most organic species; her upper limbs were clasped tightly under her chin, and her mandibles were shaking.
“Don’t stop…” she whispered. “Don’t stop, I beg you!”
Fingers on Megatron’s cannon arm twitched, but he collected himself and even managed to look at the screen again. Optimus squirmed when their optics met. Megatron’s red gaze showed nothing but exalted reverence, but the Prime could feel a promise of death creeping beneath.
“Your perfect optics bear the color
Of Primus’s spark; so may another say.
But this seems like a blasphemy to me,
For it is Primus who had impudently stolen
This purest blue that glimmers in your gaze.
Your smile that only few have ever seen
Is hidden like a priceless treasure…”
“Hey,” Swerve leaned to Rung, giggling nervously. “Does it mean that Megatron wrote a bunch of poems praising Prime’s… beauty?”
“No… I believe this is an improvisation,” Rung’s voice sounded just as strained.
“Wow, man… Somehow it doesn’t make it better.”
“One moment you’re a warrior fierce,
Another – you’re a tender solace bringer,
You have all worldly gifts collected in your palm,
So lovely both in quiet and in tempest.
And though there were too many losses in my life,
It’s you, my spark, that I’ll forever miss.
My only consolation would be this:
The world where you existed is the fairest.”
Megatron made a pause, but, fortunately, it was interrupted by the Queen:
“No more… Please, no more.” She was wiping off tears as her attendants and ministers sniffed behind her throne. The guards who had Optimus at gunpoint were blinking, trying to clear their eyes. “I will send your lover back to you, Queen of Purple Hive. Please… don’t despair.”
At her signal the guards cut Optimus’s bindings, his figure got surrounded by golden light – and vanished.
“Optimus’s energy signature is detected in the cargo bay,” Blaster reported immediately, barely restraining his joy.
To Megatron’s credit, he played his role till the end.
“You have my eternal gratitude, your majesty,” he gave the screen a deep bow.
“Oh, not at all!” the Queen waved her upper limbs. “You have opened my eyes, Queen of Purple Hive. We always considered your people to be the same as the rest of the Galaxy: barbaric and incapable of truly strong feelings. I am pleased to learn that we were mistaken. You may proceed with your journey: our space is open to you. And now… go see your beloved,” she waved her mandibles, which equaled to a smile in Vria’a-zari body language. “It will be cruel to delay your reunion for longer. Farewell!”
And the screen went dark.
Silence hanged over the bridge; Megatron looked over all present mechs slowly, optics smoldering like red angry embers.
“If I learn,” he said quietly, words falling down like heavy chunks of iron, “that any of you recorded this, I will find the glitch and personally disassemble him piece by piece.”
Then he turned away and exited the bridge, doors closing after him with soft “shhk”.
Silence held for a klik more. Then Swerve’s self-control broke.
“Please tell me somebody recorded it!”
“Of course I recorded it!” Blaster looked insulted, if a little worried. “Also I may or may not have just uploaded it to the ship’s intranet…”
“It was an honor knowing you!” Swerve shook his hand and saluted him. “We shall remember you a hero!”
A muted crash resounded somewhere in the ship’s bowels, and the walls shook a bit.
Rung cast a glance at Blaster’s screens that indicated damage done to the cargo bay’s wall.
“I hope they remember not to shoot inside the spaceship,” the psychologist muttered. He wasn’t very concerned, though; after all, it was his profession to know more about people than they themselves realize.