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Peace never came to him easily.
Even before the war, before the Matrix, before the loss of… everything Orion knew. There had always been the bustle of information needing to be archived. The whispers of revolution drawing his optics beyond the knowledge available to the public. The yearning that would prick at his spark as he looked out beyond the spires of Iacon, towards the Sea of Rust, with an almost primal sensation running through his struts.
Now though.
Cybertron was held in the servos of another Council, another generation that did not live through the war as he. A generation able to walk, drive, fly—exist—in a world that no longer clamored for spilt energon to rust among the streets and among the stars.
It was a paradise that he had fought to bring to pass, a single dream that had all but faded away in the melee. But after millennia of fighting, of leading soldiers—fellow Cybertronians—into war, Optimus felt nothing more than a ghost among the newly birthed souls from the Allspark.
No, not merely a ghost. He was a haunting from a bygone era. Either he was seen as the embodiment of the war itself, of all the strife and spite that the early insurgents experienced, or a symbol of archaic glory. A relic of the past meant solely for display, to be forgotten, left to rust.
The war had gone on for so long that Optimus no longer knew how to live without the constant pressure of fighting, of holding the weight of lives upon his shoulder plates. In an era where they had reached over the horizon of victory, he was no longer sure of his place in the new world. Too much had occurred to allow him to return to the simple life of an archivist. He had become so much more.
And yet without the Matrix, without the pulse of fighting moving protecting—
How was he to live now as Orion?
A knock at his door shook him out of his thoughts and he sensed a familiar head of colorful hair peer through his window. The handle to the passenger side rattled with a string of discontented mutters. He suppressed an amused hum as he unlocked the door and the disgruntled young woman tumbled into his cabin, arms flailing with the memories of younger years.
“Miko,” he greeted with a contented rumble of his engine. Never mind the lateness of the hour or his supposed need to rest or the frazzled glances thrown over her shoulder. Her presence was welcome regardless.
“Boss Bot,” she said in lieu of greeting, “you think you can step on it? Please?”
There were no yells, no uproars heard, so Optimus indulged the request, the silence of the base filling up with the muffled sounds of his engine running. The stillness gave way to the buzz of the desert night as he rolled out the base. Asphalt turned over into loose sediment and sand, and he could feel the young woman’s tension melt out of her body as the artificial lights from behind faded into the background. She let out a sigh.
“That was a close one.”
“Is there cause to raise concern?”
“C’mon Optimus, would I really?”
This time he did chuckle along with her as she let herself stretch across the large seat. From the familiar banter, it almost escaped his notice how much the human had changed. She had kept the bright colors adorning her clothing and hair—streaks of pink, blue, and green intertwined with the black of her hair. However, she wore a dark jacket, one that appeared to belong to the base.
Her fingers tapped a stray melody on the door handle. A restless rhythm.
“They want me to sign all this NDA stuff,” she blurted, “all ‘cause ‘We can’t have unauthorized civilians having access to classified technology or engage in unsanctioned correspondence with non-Terran beings,’” Miko dropped her voice to imitate one of the officers and rolled her eyes. “Which is stupid ‘cause me and Jazz’ve already had our Soundcloud up and running for months now. And he’d promised that he’d take me and Bulkhead to one of Rosanna’s gigs as payment for the Slasher Monkey concert we went to last time he visited.”
She gave a frustrated exhale towards her bangs. “I’ve been here since the beginning. Why do I gotta join their club or get kicked out ‘cause they’re moving the base?”
He rumbled in sympathy. He had no control over the decisions of the military, nor did Fowler, but he could understand Miko’s frustration in being micromanaged.
“So,” she said, “I just need to get away from the dream-killers before they ruin something else.”
“I appreciate your trust Miko, but why come to me?”
A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.
“You’ve been cooped up at the base for weeks? And if Ratchet’s drunken stories mean anything, you’ve got some energy to burn off too.”
Optimus revved his engines.
It felt as if an eternity had passed as Optimus let himself drive freely across the stretch of emptiness, his human companion cheering at the leniency of his speed. The laughter washed over him like a warm wind, reminiscent of easier times. He nearly missed Miko’s somber tone of voice as she spoke.
“Hey…Optimus?”
“Yes, Miko?”
“How do you—well, hypothetically—how would you know if you’re doing what’s best for your life?” Optimus paused at the question, but Miko kept on going. “My parents are telling me to come home and finish university, that I’ll be able to make a life of myself if I do which, doy, Raf’s already finished like three degrees and he’s got a whole bunch of people calling him. But spending five years paying for something that I don’t even know I want to do? Why would I want to do that?”
“What is it that you want?”
She stilled; eyebrows furrowed as she stared out at the starlight sky. “Honestly… I don’t even know.” Something burned in his spark at her words. “I’ve always been so sure about trying new things. I mean, I came to Jasper of all places. I’d always thought I’d be like this cool rockstar and travel the world, but…” she snorted. “I’m halfway through my twenties and I have no idea what I'm doing with my life apart from bothering Jack and Ratchet. How’s college gonna help with that?” A sigh. “I guess that’s why I wanted to steal a joyride from you. For advice or whatever. ‘Cause you’re like a billion years old. No offense.”
“None taken, young Miko,” he said, and she giggled at his emphasis. “Although I seem to find myself in similar straits.”
“Really? But you’re like, Optimus Prime! Leader of the Autobots! Everyone looks up to you.”
“I merely rose to the role that was asked of me.” The rearview mirror swiveled towards the ratted book in her hands. “There was a time before the war that I could not envision myself beyond a simple archivist. And now…”
Now though.
“And now it has become difficult to envision myself beyond the war. Beyond Optimus Prime, leader of the war. To move on from that life…”
Who are you to be, here and now?
“What do you want, Optimus?” came the quiet voice. Optimus looked up at the stars. What did he want? Peace? An eternity of silence apart from the pulsing of his spark? Purpose? Home? All abstract notions. What did having any of them mean?
“I am… unsure,” he finally admitted. “I can no longer return to the life I once had; I can no longer be who I used to be. What is left, however… even I do not know what is left of myself.”
“'It's no use going back to yesterday,’” Miko said, running a nail on the edge of the page, “’because I was a different person then.'”
Silence fell between them. Optimus had rolled to a stop and the girl had curled up against the window.
Now though.
Optimus thought of Alpha Trion, the Council, the elite he’d struggled to emulate. He thought of Megatron, the grounders who’d sought for change. He thought of past friends and fellow soldiers who’d lost their lives in a heedless war. He thought of the countless planets drawn into their crossfires.
He thought of the warm sun on this planet, the gritty particles of sand and dirt caught underneath his plating, the droplets of water spilling from the clouds, the overlapping sounds of a planet thriving with diverse life. He could stand still and let it all wash over him.
Was that what it felt like to feel alive?
“I think…” Miko began, “I think… I still have more to learn about myself. Who I am. What I’m meant to do. Twenty-seven years isn’t long enough to figure all that out yet.”
“I assure you Miko,” he said, the burning in his spark settling for the first time in millennia, allowing himself the moment to simply exist. “Seven millennia is not quite enough as well.”