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“Our ship is haunted.” Rodimus loudly proclaimed as he slammed open the door to the bridge.
It was getting late into the cycle, most of the bridge crew had already clocked off of work leaving the small handful of night shift technicians and the remaining members of high command.
The co-captain strolled up to the centre podium to meet with the others. His face was solemn, an expression that he only wore in the select few times he got serious. The word ‘serious’ being a generous, all encompassing term for anything that made Rodimus upset.
He heard a disgruntled groan escape Megatron’s lips, bringing his digits up to massage his temples. “Finally. Magnus had been searching all day for you. Nice of you to finally show.”
“Enough of that. This is serious business Megs. Incase you didn’t hear me the first time, clean out your audials and listen closely. This. Ship. Is. Haunted.” He reiterated, stressing every word to increase its impact.
“Roddy, if this is about that sparkeater case, I’m telling you, that really was a simple case of oversight.” Drift called out from his position behind the other co-captain. He raised his helm to meet Rodimus’ gaze briefly, but then quickly return to his duty at the console.
“No! You guys aren’t- augh!!” Rodimus let out a strangled cry, twisting his servos in a strained manner to further elucidate his frustration.
“We have an archive.” He tried again, hoping the mention of the storage room would bring some sort of interest to the other high command members.
“We are aware.”
“No, as in a fully functioning, fully staffed archive.”
That drew Megatron’s attention. Despite the ships vast numbers, there had yet to be a single passenger willing to deal with the absurdly large quantity of data discarded in the lower levels. Even Magnus had yet to prioritise the problem despite it having already been flagged, which was saying less about their inefficiency as a command centre, and more of the difficulty of the task they had to tackle.
“Huh, I believe I have underestimated Magnus’ efficiency yet again. I’ll be sure to send him your thanks.” He replied curtly in the face of Rodimus’ growing annoyance.
“You’re doing this on purpose just to irritate me aren’t you.”
“Glad you noticed. Now, should we be concerned?”
“Kind of? I mean it’s pretty strange that none of us here have noticed the massive overhaul below deck, and no one else seems to have a clue how or when it got there.” Rodimus shot his amica a knowing look, wiggling an optic ridge at his long term accomplice.
“So what you’re saying is…” Drift started, returning the look in awe.
“I swear to Primus if you say ‘magic’ one more time.”
“Magic!” The captain proudly exclaimed, a smirk tugging on the edge of his lips. The satisfied expression he donned in the face of Megatron’s exasperation was all too telling. It was a promise, one of adventure.
Megatron sighed, pulling open his comms. Sometimes he wondered why he even bothered fighting against his co-captains decisions. “Give me a cycle or two. I’ll inform Magnus.”
—-
The story goes like this.
It wasn’t easy being a captain. Technically he was a co-captain, but the conflict remains. His office got stuffy after a while. Mountains of data work being shovelled onto his desk every cycle, leaving him chained to his extremely inconvenient, circle-indent-ridden table. His co-captain and second in command alike were downright stifling, coming back every so often to force him to focus on the task at hand.
Whenever it got a little too much for Rodimus to handle, he would sneak off. Sometimes he headed over to Drifts room for a chat, other times he would discretely take a shuttle out for a bit of meteor surfing. Whatever it was, he just needed something to take his processor off of the mind numbingly repetitive tasks.
It was that exact line of thinking that had him barreling down the hallways of the Lost Light, the shrill cry of Ultra Magnus calling him back to his desk soon covered up by the loud roar of his engine as transformed, flooring it down the hallway of the dormitory.
The breeze flowing past his hood combined with the adrenaline pumping through his system from the high speed chase was doing wonders for his mood. Ultra Magnus might have been a great tracker, but Rodimus was sure he would lose to no one, bar Blurr, when it came to speed.
The loud sound of tires scraping against the flooring echoed through the corridor as he hit the breaks. He found himself in one of the desolate hallways in the basement, always a great choice to escape the wrath of his second in command. Between his perfectionist tendencies to clear up and sort each pile of untouched rubble and growing concern for the structural integrity of the vessel, it usually distracted him enough for Rodimus to get some ‘me time’ alone in the rooms.
It had been a while since his last escapade, between the hectic dealings with Megatron becoming part of the crew to the infuriating mutiny executed by the worlds worst narcissist, he had plenty on his mind that fuelled his motivation. Now that all of that had settled, they fell back into their usual game of cat and mouse.
He let out a low chuckle at the audible frustration of the rigid mech, slowly cruising down the dimly lit path on the lower levels of the ship. He was partial to more action, anything that could get his spark pumping. But Drift had been busy nowadays with his newly bonded conjux, and the unfortunate addition of Megatron to high command had left him little choice in leaving the ship. He should have expected the ex-warlord to run a tight ship, but really, setting an alarm specifically for blocking his usual routine was a total mood killer.
So for now, he found himself hiding out below deck, peaking into the storage rooms lining the halls every so often. Each room was filled to the brim with junk, broken tables from the regular brawls, spare parts discarded by the Med bay whenever a replacement happened, the list of items went on.
He considered flagging some of the completely unnecessary storage spaces, but the thoughts were immediately banished when he realised that it would only end up as further work for him to sign off on.
As he continued to browse the floor, the sound of a disgruntled Magnus only grew louder, which was his signal that it was time to dip. He raced off to the next unlocked door, taking precautions not to kick his engines in to high gear out of habit, and transformed back into his root mode before gently sliding past the door and shutting it behind him in a single fluid motion.
The dim room reacted to his presence, lights flickering to life on the ceiling as his motion activated the sensors.
He surveyed the room cautiously, none of the previous chambers had functioning lights, mainly because the storage area was barely maintained in the first place, but this place was more than just maintained.
It had been fully furnished, desk and chairs lined up neatly for visitors, and datapads neatly arranged on shelves he wasn’t even aware they had. In hindsight, that should have been a little unsettling considering his status as the captain, but half the things that happened on this ship went through Magnus anyways, so it wasn’t unusual for him to be in the dark regarding the status of their renovations.
This was the data storage room, the place where high command usually banished any of their communications logs to make space for their every growing list of operations to undertake.
He had seen it before. Everyone aboard the ship had. It was included in he standard Lost Light newbie tour package that Drift compiled upon purchasing the ship, only the room felt so much more foreign than before.
The previously messy, sorry excuse of a dumpster had been transformed into a semblance of a functional archive, complete with a working projector and search engine for detailed queries.
He took a moment to stare at the scenery in awe, the pristine and orderly structures were a feast for the optics, vast stores of information stretching from corner to corner, ceiling to floor. It gave it an illusion of splendour, a level of professionalism that had no place on a floating disaster of a voyaging vessel like the Lost Light.
The heavy sounds of pede falls only got closer as he continued to stroll through the labyrinth of a library, prompting him to duck for cover. He transformed back into his alt-mode, making himself scarce as he tucked himself away in a tiny corner of the vast expanse of the archive, waiting for the sounds to fade.
He waited with baited breath, hoping that Magnus hadn’t caught the glimpse of light that seeped through the cracks in the door as Rodimus entered the room.
As luck would have it, it would seem that his second in command was just as clueless as he was when it came to the revamped storage facility, grumbling the entire way as he walked by the door without bothering to check the contents of the room.
Triumphant glee spread through his being as he transformed back into his root mode once again. This time, he didn’t bother masking the horribly loud noise made by the gears interlocking, letting his plating snap back into place comfortably as he flexed his joints.
The relief and excitement at the successful escape dulled his senses to his surroundings. If he had been slightly more observant, he would have noticed the mech drawn in by the ruckus caused at his transformation.
“Riptide? You have arrived earlier than I expect-” Rodimus whipped his helm around and the sudden intrusion, lowering his stance in an effort to prepare himself to dash off incase he had been figured out.
The faint shadow of a large set of pedes peaked out from under the shelf, close to rounding the corner. He didn’t wait for a second more, the foreign voice was enough to set off alarm bells in his head. You don’t survive seven years aboard the Lost Light without either the devils luck or uncanny survival instincts. Needless to say, Rodimus fell well within the latter category.
He raced off without a second thought, pushing down on the accelerator as far as it would go. Magnus might find him, but he sure as hell wasn’t about to let himself become a sitting duck to whatever lurked in their basement just to doge work.
This all cumulated into the conversation at the bridge. The spooky thought of their ships archive being replaced without the knowledge of their own crew was enough to rev up some of the other curious characters amongst the Lost Lighters. As the news began spreading, other mechs began volunteering their services.
Brainstorm and Perceptor had been an obvious one, the microscope had been a vehement denier of all things supernatural, and he was rarely seen without the curious jet peering over his shoulder.
Drift and Ultra Magnus had also joined in. The reason Drift came along was in equal parts to his intrigue over the fantastical nature of his amica’s story and his concern for said amica’s recklessness.
Ultra Magnus, on the other hand, was incredibly alarmed at the idea that a complete renovation could occur without his knowledge. Did it pass the safety requirements? Proper fire escape planning? Were the materials even verified before being used? So many questions and more that had to be answered.
A few other starry-eyed members signed up for the event, filling the roster slowly but surely. There was no shortage of enthusiasm from the ever lively crew, especially when a mystery was involved.
What Rodimus didn’t expect though, was to be awoken a full cycle before their expedition in the early hours of the morning by an incessant banging on his door.
“Open up! I know you’re in there!” The muffled voice yelled, repeatedly slamming a servo against the door without a care for its delicacy.
Rodimus got out of berth groggy, shuffling over to the entrance to hastily key in the entry code. “What?! Can’t a mech get a little beauty sleep around here.” He snapped. He let out a great yawn, stretching his joints slowly as the door slid open.
“We need to talk about that little adventure of yours.” The familiar voice snapped his optics back to focus on the figure. In the doorway stood the ex-Chief Medical Officer, the medic was heavily exventing, gripping onto the sides of the doorway to steady himself as if he had just ran a marathon.
“Ratchet? What wrong?” He asked, unsure if he was in trouble or about to be called to solve some.
“Cancel it. Right now.” The medic replied resolutely. The stern tone of his voice was enough to tip Rodimus off that something was amiss here. Ratchet was panicking. Ratchet never panics.
“Woah woah woah, slow down there. Listen, I know you don’t exactly have the highest opinion of spiritual forces, but you don’t have to go out of your way to kill the mood for us too alright? You can even come along too! And in the off chance that we find evidence of magical intervention then Drift can finally say his peace. Capiche?”
“No! You don’t know what you’re doing right now.” The medic hurriedly replied, walking further into the room to carry on the conversation.
Ratchet was getting dangerously close to him, invading his personal space as he spoke with increasing urgency, nearly yelling at the captain. In retaliation, Rodimus gently took hold of the medics pauldrons, pushing the other mech back in the direction of his work station until the back of Ratchet’s legs hit the chair legs in front of his unkempt desk.
“Duh, that’s why we’re ‘exploring’. It’s in the name. Try to keep up.” He pushed the medic down onto the plush cushion, patting him lightly on the cheek as if chiding the senior doctor before taking a seat across from him on the edge of his berth.
The medic took a moment to pause at the audacity of the statement, the insinuation of his lack of intelligence being the limiting factor of their conversation made him take a double take.“…I don’t know how Drift puts up with you all the time.”
The timeframe in which he was caught in his own stupor allowed his spark beat to slow, adrenaline slowly dissipating as it finished running its course. He calmed down, letting his helm hang limply as he braced his arms against his legs while seated. He took a long, exaggerated intake before continuing. “Okay, let’s try that again.”
Rodimus nodded, casually leaning back towards the wall as he waited for Ratchet’s explanation.
“You need to talk to him.” The medic deadpanned. He spoke plainly as if Rodimus was expected to understand the context of his words
“Who?” Came a genuine reply. Rodimus had precisely zero knowledge about what Ratchet was talking about. He wasn’t, however, about to let his concern slip to the medic.
He had a reputation to uphold as the indomitable captain of the Lost Light, the debonair leader who remained unfazed even in the face of certain doom. Worse comes to worse, he could always fake his understanding to stop the conversation from getting any more awkward for him than it already was.
“Pax.” It was Rodimus’ turn to allow his processor to stall. That was an uncommon name, one that he could only every recall one bot going by in his over 4 million years of functioning. Except that mech was already dead.
“Huh. And you wouldn’t happen to mean Orion Pax, Mr. Optimus Prime himself? Would you?” He joked, snickering awkwardly and humourlessly at the thought of confronting the now disgraced leader.
“The very same.” Ratchet replied, expression unchanging.
“Okay, I’m gonna have to stop you there buddy. I feel like I’m missing something here.” He leaned forward, narrowing his optics suspiciously at the ambulance. “And I don’t like that.”
Ratchet only looked back, puzzled at Rodimus’ confusion. “You… did enter the archives did you not? And you… saw the employee, yes?” He was reciting the information that was handed out in the recruitment form.
So Rodimus may or may not have embellished a detail or two in the recount of his experience that was penned down in the information segment of the form, but the mystery of the spontaneously occurring archive remained nonetheless, and he certainly hadn’t expected it to affect anyone’s perception of the events given the lack of volunteers providing information to high command.
“Orion Pax is the librarian.” Rodimus state, piecing together the bits of information Ratchet had laid out for him.
He half thought of it as a joke. The idea that their late commander was back from the dead and now staffing their abandoned archives was an interesting thought, but the absurdity of the idea had him thinking Ratchet might have been going senile from the length of their voyage.
He gave Ratchet time to respond, lazy grin still plastered on his face at the familiar back and forth. When he received no response, he glanced back at Ratchet’s tense expression. “Oh. You’re serious.”
—-
It didn’t matter how or why Optimus decided to come on board. They hadn’t exactly left on the most amicable note, from his ardent refusal to take Megatron aboard his ship, to their ‘conversation’ on the topic of Rodimus shirking his responsibilities. It didn’t exactly bode well for their future encounters, but he was confident that wouldn’t matter anymore.
He assumed Optimus died during Unicron’s invasion. Every bot did. His funeral was broadcasted to the end of the galaxy, detailing in full his heroic sacrifice for the sake of his ideals.
Was it sad watching his idol and mentor figure die and have his image tainted by the rage and scorn of the council he had so desperately tried to defend? Of course! A tragedy of galactic proportion no doubt.
But things like that happened all the time! The death of a martyr like Optimus was only a matter of time. Alas, they had to push past their anguish and carry on with the lives their glorious leader would have, no doubt, wanted them to live.
At least that was the official statement he made to the crew upon the the arrival of the news.
He held a fair bit of complex emotions on the subject, not that he would ever reveal it. Their relationship had never been simple. Hot Rod of Nyon was a wanted terrorist turned war hero, and Orion Pax was the ruthless officer that Rodimus had managed convinced over to their side.
Their relationship developed from there, becoming something of a mentor-mentee situation. Only this time, he was the mentee. At some point, young little Hot Rod had come to idolise the now repenting cop, basing his own ideals and beliefs on the figure he wholeheartedly worshipped.
It was strange. Seeing the way his mentors visage was disgraced, being used as an example of ‘going too far’ for his ideals didn't have as big of an impact on him as he expected. In fact, Megatron had been marginally more outraged than him.
He, on the other hand, couldn’t bring himself to really care. The perfect image of a leader that had been crafted in his processor had long since fizzled out, and the revelation that he might not have been as good of a mech as originally thought barely phased him.
He knew this. He knew Orion Pax and all of his flaws far before Optimus had even come to be. But it was the sight of his coffin, the confirmation of his idols death that really hit him.
The emotions came in waves when the news first arrived. His nonchalance soon turned to a churning deep within his fuel tanks. It was a complex thing he couldn’t quite comprehend himself. He didn’t feel the intense sorrow that some of the other crew member felt. The grief that Thunderclash displayed was almost alien to him. It just didn’t feel real.
The feeling of loss was evident, but never quite as pronounced as his compatriots. There was another feeling. Not one of sadness, but something else altogether. It only got stronger as the days passed, the sight of Ratchet’s face scrunched up in an attempt to hold back the flood of sorrow that drowned his spark and Drift who had been with him every step of the way, resting a comforting servo over his conjux’s. It only served to pile on more and more of that unease settling deep within his system.
The feeling had a name. Disgust. He vaguely recalled a conversation he once had, a discussion that had brought about a similar sensation. It came to him in a foggy haze, as if his processor was clouded, a memory he was sure he was not supposed to retain.
“Maybe what’s really making you angry is the fact that you didn’t defeat Overlord yourself.”
“They saved everyone; Not you. And you hate it. And you hate that you hate it.”
The disembodied voice in his head spoke in clear and concise terms, nailing every bit of doubt he ever harboured with tactical precision.
He couldn’t bring himself to shed a tear like Ratchet, because at his very core, he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was every bit the self-centred narcissist of a mech everybody thought him to be. He didn’t feel bereaved. And he absolutely despised himself for it.
The streaks of coolant that painted his face were further confirmation. Each tear shed not in the name of his fallen mentor, but rather wallowing in his own self pity. It made his fuel tanks churn. The abject horror at his inability to feel anything at the sight of the coffin instilled a fear like no other.
What about Magnus? Drift? Megatron? Would he have felt any different if it was any of their carcasses laying on a cold metal slab?
He began asking himself questions he very much did not want to know the answers to. He knew what the correct answer should be, but was unsure of whether what he believed to be right would align with how he truly felt. And that scared him more than any quantum mishap or sparkeater ever could.
It had been a challenge to deduce where exactly their relationship stood in the first place. Aside from the shifting of their dynamics, their infrequent conversation never really inspired hope within the Rodimus.
He felt abandoned. After spending three long years on that organic planet while being forced to cohabitate with the ungrateful humans. It made perfect sense that he would feel anger towards the mech he had seen as a mentor choosing the organics over him.
He protested, he complained, yet he only ever fell on deaf ears. No matter what, Optimus would always choose his ideals over him, and that realisation had stung.
It felt better to reason with himself using that line of logic. Optimus hated him, was disappointed in him, so why should he feel any different now that the only mech who vehemently denied his ascension to prime hood was gone?
It still felt so incredibly wrong, staring at the still image on his HUD without a trace of grief. No matter how much he bargained with himself, the feeling of discomfort had stayed with him in every waking moment. Did he really care at all for Orion at all? He would love to say yes, but he couldn’t really tell.
So he did what he always does when faced with a moral dilemma that could possibly break him apart if left to fester. He buried it.
Days turned to weeks, weeks turned to months, and by the time the next solar cycle commenced, the sinking feeling of dread had been completely purged from his system, something he would never have to come to again for the foreseeable future.
That was, until the moment Ratchet came banging on his door.
“Uh huh… So if I’m getting this right, you’re saying that the quantum jump we made into the next universe rebooted the matrix copies that reconstructed Pax after Unicron swallowed him and now we’re stuck on this ship with a technically kidnapped Prime who is now living in our basement like a gremlin?” He took a large intake following the long run-on sentence, taking his time to catch his breath. Ratchet only nodded approvingly, thinking through the facts that Rodimus had neatly summarised from his convoluted explanation.
He felt like his logic systems were crashing. First, the revelation that Optimus had been revived, again, Second, that he was aboard the Lost Light, and third, that they had a basement dweller that even Magnus hadn’t caught on to. His systems were rebooting, slowly letting the situation catch up to him.
If he was anyone else, he might have fainted. The sheer impossibility of the predicament he found himself in was enough to boggle even Megatron he was willing to bet. But he was Rodimus, captain of the Lost Light where getting attacked by a planet devouring weapon of mass destruction was just another Tuesday. He could handle a little insanity.
So off he trotted, strolling past the caution tape he himself had set up to prevent anyone from accessing the basement before their scheduled departure. He took the time to structure his arguments, confidently navigating himself towards the data dump in leisurely steps.
He pushed past the doorway, announcing his arrival in a boisterous manner. The volume of his speech did its job, alerting the singular active archivist to his arrival.
The archive made his way over, attracted by the interruption to his otherwise quiet day. It was unusual for people to find their way towards his abode normally, and the hand-few who did either came in knowing of his presence, or ran away at the unsettling sight.
He quickly reached the scene, taking hurried steps towards the commotion where he saw Rodimus standing at the entrance, posture confident. His flair for dramatics was already a well known fact, yet his sudden appearance seemed to have a strong effect on Orion.
He didn’t moved an inch at upon first contact, optics staring blankly at the captain. He still struggled to find his words, stammering out half complete sentences before doubling back in consideration. He just seemed so utterly lost. Confused, even.
Rodimus coughed, clearing his intake in an exaggerated motion to capture the archivists attention. “I’m, uh, here to negotiate the packing order.”
Despite himself, there were things he cared about more than his own image and self-worth. It had taken a long, long journey, but he was no longer ashamed to admit it. He love his crew.
That was the one statement he could make unabashed. Come hell or high water, they were there for each other through it all. The one thing he could bring himself to believe despite the mountain of lies he buried himself under to soothe his already rotting spark. The well of the all-spark could run cold before he’d let someone like usurp his position again.
He had been ready to fight against the ghost of his past, to face retribution for his countless mistakes he had been running from. Yet that battle never came.
“You’re alive… you’re really alive…” Orion stuttered out, his optics glazing over with what Rodimus assumed to be coolant. He reached out an open servo tentatively, slowly extending it forward to test the waters for the captain’s reaction.
Datapads in hand clattered helplessly to the ground, slipping out of his limp grasp. The archivist beared it no mind, continuing in the direction of the captain without taking a second look back at the mess around him.
Rodimus didn’t react, his stupor at the visceral reaction from the ex-prime left him locked in the upright position he had assumed. The lack of a negative reaction was confirmation enough for Orion.
“Thank Primus.” He whispered, vocaliser trembling as pulled Rodimus into a crushing hug.
He pulled away slightly to take a second look at the flamboyant captain, taking his cheek into a servo to run his thumb down the side of his face, analysing the little details adorning his expression.
He took a shuddering intake, embracing the captain once more with an iron grip holding the smaller bot firmly in place. He held on tightly, grasp tightening with every movement Rodimus made as if he was afraid that the red and yellow mech would disappear if he let his hold slip for even a moment.
“Let me go! What do you think you’re doing? What’s gotten into you?!” The captain complained, writhing in the painfully tight embrace.
The larger mech’s hold immediately loosened upon hearing the wail, optics turned down apologetically as he looked on in concern for the other’s safety.
“I thought I had lost you.” Orion began, more coolant pooling behind his optic covers as he recounted the incident. “I received your message, the one from the hollow planet.”
The pieces began to click in Rodimus’ processor. They never did send a follow up message after he overthrew the traitorous escape artist, so everyone back on Cybertron probably, no, definitely assumed they were dead.
“Ratchet assured me you were fine, but…” Orion shook his helm, lining his thoughts up carefully before proceeding. “Thank Primus…”
He continued to reiterate the sentiment, pulling Rodimus’ helm closer to his chest in a protective gesture.
“You’re… not here to judge me?” He questioned in his hazy stupor. “I don’t know, we just left on such a hostile note. The whole ‘you should have quit’ thing was pretty intense, and the other mechanical life form war that we meddled in was also pretty bad…”
He rambled on, listing out the crews countless crimes and intergalactic laws they had broken along the way. Perhaps he expected Orion to lash out. To punish him for the actions he never would have registered as bad things himself, because he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold himself accountable for them. Maybe he thought that by pushing his buttons, he would get some semblance of the retribution that he believed he deserved.
“You foolish, foolish sparkling. You have your flaws. You have made your mistakes. But never, never would I have wished such an ill fate upon you and your crew. You were all I had left, and I am glad I still do.” Came a swift reply, chastising him for the thinly veiled attempt at self degradation. The embrace tightened, Orion taking careful measures to avoid knocking the wind out of the smaller bit within his grasp.
“You were worried about me?” Rodimus hesitated to say, words punctuated was a sharp inflection at the end of his sentence. His confusion showed, even if his expression didn’t betray his thoughts.
“Of course. How could you ever believe I would think otherwise?”
All it took was that simple sentence to clarify all the doubts swirling around in his processor. Rodimus had it all wrong. This wasn’t about his worthiness, his ability as a captain, not even his growing list of what could technically be considered treason. This was about Rodimus himself. Hot Rod. That was what mattered to Orion.
Embrace lasted an eternity, and yet still felt far too short. Rodimus stilled, letting his mentor take a hold of his frame with his shaky servos. He needed it. He needed something tangible to hold on to, to prove that the mechling under his touch was real, spark still beating brightly within his chassis.
It felt as if a dam had broken somewhere in his processor, all his bottled up emotion threatening to burst at the seams. The once distant and confusing mix of emotions now streamlining into a thought he could understand. It was so simple.
Optimus cared?
Rodimus hadn’t wanted to admit it, but his inability to feel sorrow stemmed from a problem that was very much personal.
The denial he kept within him held back any sense of remorse he could have felt for his deceased mentor.
He never once truly believed in the illustrious titles the war hero had been bestowed. It wasn’t his self-imposed image of his idol being shattered that left him devoid of emotion towards his mentor. It was because of the betrayal he felt, being left on that organic planet to rot. Having his opinions dismissed by one of the mechs he considered to be his closest companions.
He hated Optimus because he wanted Orion back. His Orion.
The Orion that stood by him even as he remained in the crusty ruins of his fallen city. The figure that took him in despite the desperate circumstances that plagued their planet.
Rodimus allowed his frame to relax slightly, leaning in to the touch. Optimus had never displayed affection. He never made an effort to disguise his disappointment when it came to Rodimus and his shortcomings. But none of that mattered in the moment. Despite everything, he cared. It didn’t matter how traitorous Rodimus acted, how much he would lash out towards the larger mech. Orion acknowledged every inch of Rodimus’ rotten core and embraced it regardless.
—-
“You’re nervous. What did he say to you?”
Rodimus felt like a deer caught in headlights, the inquiry struck straight into his core. He felt like he was made of glass, every bit of his spark beared to the medic involuntarily as he peered into his soul. He found himself back at the dormitory, inviting himself into Ratchet’s abode without forewarning.
He expected more pushback from the infamously cranky old medic, but his face betrayed his unease. The medic welcomed him, pulling a seat for him to settle in and listened for Rodimus to detail his concerns regarding his rendezvous below deck.
“He said he was glad I was live, and that I was foolish for assuming he was coming for my head on a pike.” He attempted to feign nonchalance, averting his gaze from meeting Ratchet’s own. He shifted over to the berth on the other side of the room, settling down on the edge of the slab with his body still facing the medic.
“Sounds like him alright.” The medic sighed. “And for the record, he’s right.”
“What do you mean?” He pressed, eager to get a response out of the tired ambulance. He shifted forward, leaning over in a show of interest.
The medic only looked back in utter bafflement, one optic ridge raised higher than the other. “Are you seriously asking that? Kid. You sent the closest mech he had to a sire to the scrap heap and he yet he still feared for your safety above all else. He didn’t even hold it against you.”
Rodimus recoiled at the bluntness of the reply. Ratchet wasn’t usually one to drag up uncomfortable memories, especially not ones as scaring as Ironhide’s untimely passing.
“Hey! That was-” He tried opening his mouth to reason, all sorts of different excuses lock and loaded for him to avert the blame from the accusations. Nevertheless, the medic continued.
“No. You listen. You plotted to exile him in front of his face the moment you were given power and he still handed you the matrix.”
“He’s a generous and forgiving guy! Geez, I get it, don’t have to be so rude about it. Get to the point.” Rodimus interrupted, the mention of his past crimes only getting further under his plating.
“The point? He’s not just a ‘generous and forgiving guy’. He did all of that because it’s you.” Ratchet yelled unceremoniously.
The medic had his moments. A few fits littered throughout the years mostly sprung over his unfortunately still ongoing arguments with his conjux regarding the existence of a higher power. But never had he pointed his anger towards the crew. Exasperation? Yes. Frustration? Of course! But Anger? White hot rage? Now that was new.
“Even if you’ll never be able to get it through that thick helm of yours, you and Bumblebee were probably the closest thing he ever got to a family. He doesn’t coddle you because he knows that’s the only way you’ll ever learn. Because no one else would so resolutely put their foot down the same way. He’ll continue to stand by you regardless of how much of an aft you make of yourself because the love feels for you is unconditional. Kid, He would tear his own spark out if it meant you were safe, and I’m pretty darn sure he doesn’t expect you to do the same.”
The intensity of Ratchet’s proclamations only increased. He punctuated each sentence with silence, giving Rodimus time to digest the information. The medic breath ran ragged as he took a moment to calm down from his outburst.
“What are you trying to say?” He asked, chewing on his bottom lip as he considered the information he was provided.
“I’m saying,” the ambulance took another deep intake as he he shook his helm in disappointment. “that you’ve been given a second chance. You’ve been running from every single little inconvenience you stumble across, and it’s killing you. You’ve made horrible decisions along the way that you may never be able to sleep with the knowledge of making. And yet you continue bottle it all up because your thick, pigheaded helm can’t get it through that not every bot is out there looking at how you present yourself.”
The rational dissection of his psyche should have disturbed him. He had a sneaking suspicion that little voice in his head had said something similar once, in a quaint room with a collection of model space crafts. He should be angry, willing to lash out at the medic for pulling out such a scathing critique of his character. An unhelpful voice entered his head. This time, it was a familiar one. His own.
“But you have. You let Drift take the fall knowing this was all he had left. How many more have died from your incompetence that the others are willing to look past?”
He knew it was wrong. Being let off the hook so lightly because he was indispensable to their already dysfunctional crew. Maybe that’s another reason why he hated Optimus so much. The leader had so readily told him off, laid the truth bare, and yet he himself was able to acknowledge his own shortcomings. He was willing to repent. That was where Rodimus fell short. He couldn’t do that, and he hated himself for it.
“He harbours a mountain of regrets on his plate just as big, if not bigger, than your own. And not being there for you when you needed him is one of them. He’s trying to make up for it. He’s trying to change. And if you really want to do the same, then don’t leave him. Not again. Because if you do, you may never find another spark willing to devote themself to you so unconditionally as he does.”
The conversation stayed with him, turning over in his processor even as he tried to recharge. Something about the wistful way the medic had spoke made him think the ambulance wasn’t doing this just for his sake. It ate him up inside, the feeling of emptiness that accompanied the holographic image of a coffin seared into his memory.
He felt absolutely nothing at the moment of Optimus’ death, yet Orion still seemed so overwhelmed from finding out Rodimus was still alive. He hated how selfish that made him feel, how apathetic he could be to someone that would, or rather, had already given up everything him had to keep them safe.
He really was a horrible, incorrigible piece of slag. He genuinely contemplated burying it again, dismissing the doctors advice in favour of removing the unnecessarily painful emotions weighing down his spark.
But then he thought about it again. The idea creeping into his processor before he even realised. What if it was Orion? That simple tweak in thought process changed everything. Not the idealised version of his acquaintances, but the vulnerable and powerless cop that stopped by his doorstep. And suddenly, it felt so much more painful.
He found himself sneaking back towards the archives alone, nervously pushing past the door and retracing his frantic path from before. When he came face to face with Orion at the end of the hall, the archivist pulled him into another embrace, this one far gentler than the desperate one he had been caught in before.
“You returned.” Orion said, offlining his optics to better feel the thrumming of the captains spark, frame relaxing at the confirmation of his vitality.
“Yeah, I realised I forgot something when I dropped by the first time.” He replied easily. He gazed upon Orion’s confused expression, and steeled himself for his next string of actions. His own dainty servos wrapping around the larger mech’s torso.
He returned the gesture.
The action took Orion by surprise. The archivist froze at the contact, allowing Rodimus to pull him in to a strained hug. The captain only reached up to his chest, tenderly pressing his face plate closer to the larger mech’s chassis.
“Welcome back, Pax. I know we’ve had our- differences, but for now, I’m glad you’re back.” He let the dam break, his emotions now settled. All he ever wanted was confirmation that he still mattered. That deep down, the Orion that sat with him as he mourned the loss of his city was still there by his side. But now he understood, that facet of Orion had never left his side to begin with. He just never bothered reaching out to it
“I’m so glad you’re back…”
He reiterated. This time, he would live with no more regrets. No more words left unspoken. He jumped at the opportunity he had been blessed with, not willing to let it slip past him again.
“Welcome aboard the Lost Light.”
—-
“I come bearing unfortunate news.” Rodimus declared, waltzing back onto the bridge with the same confident gait as before.
This time, the expedition crew had already gathered, excitedly pulling together a plan of action for how to tackle the situation.
“The investigation is off. We’ve caught the offender. As it turns out there’s a fair bit of lax regulation when it comes to recycling existing furniture from the scrapheap below deck, so there isn’t much of a story to it. Though we may have gotten lucky in our preliminary search, it may not always be such smooth sailing in the future. Keep vigilant, and remember, till all are one.”
A loud series of groans erupted from the crowd, a mixture of disappointment from the cancellation, as well as the tiring line from the captain did little to soothe the unhappy crowd.
“I beg your pardon?” Ultra Magnus asked, scandalised by Rodimus’ firm decision. “Rodimus, this is a serious matter. A security hazard. It is imperative that we find out how this slipped past us and patch any vulnerabilities in our security before it becomes a threat to our safety.”
“Nuh uh.”
Magnus’ optics twitched, forcefully calming himself at the complete lack of urgency displayed by the captain. He wished Megatron was here.
“What do you mean ‘nuh uh’. That’s not a real sentence.”
“Is too. Besides, it’s only a problem if we don’t know why it happened. I figured it out, so we’re gonna seal the case. End of story. Pack it up folks, we’re going home.” Rodimus ended his sentence with two claps, shooing off the other crew members who grumbled in complain at the sudden change of plans. Magnus gave him a suspicious side eye, but otherwise stayed silent. There were definitely going to be questions, but those could wait for behind closed doors.
“I hope you know what your doing. I hate to be the one to say it, but Magnus is right about this. Whatever it is, I hope you don’t regret it.” Drift whispered into his audials, bringing an empty servo up to cover the direction of the other crew members in a weak attempt to conceal the sound. Sometimes he worried for his reckless amica.
Rodimus hummed an upbeat tune, turning over to the swordsmech and gave him a broad grin. A wide smile that stretched from one side of his face plate to the other. “I know. And I don’t think will.”
The captain returned to his seat, pulling out a familiar, shiny trinket. A gold plated medallion with the likeness of the captain plastered onto the front that every member of the crew had received at some point of their journey. Drift tilted his helm over to steal a glance at his amica’s handiwork, noticing a dull, scalpel-like object twirled within his servo.
He got to work, etching a set of characters neatly above the empty line he left on the standers template, taking the time to uniformly space out the letters his carved.
‘Most Number Of Own Funerals Survived’
Drift turned back to his friend with a quizzical look, raising an optic ridge to signify his confusion. Rodimus understood the look, turning over to his friend with an exasperated expression whilst waving the offending Rodimus Star in hand as if airing the object.
“What? Phrasing matters! Look, now I don’t even have to change Thunderclash’s!”