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After a dozen rounds of drinks too many, when the voices at table start to rise, Animus goes and rescues the strange little purple Megatron from the dartboard. The little mech initially blusters and protests as he’s being let down, but as soon as the last dart is pried out, he clings to the Prime’s armor like a barnacle, allowing himself to be tucked securely in the crook of the bigger mech’s elbow. Realizing that the diminutive dinobot is probably the only member of both their parties to still be sober— save for whatever he might’ve absorbed when he was dunked in a tankard— Animus carefully deposits him on the bar top and asks the bartender (who looks so familiar, though the name keeps slipping away) for three shots for the other and, as an afterthought, a coolant seltzer for himself.
The beastformer Megatron eyes him calculatingly as he sips, “You’re an odd one. Tell me, would you be interested in working for me? I could use a big, strapping mech like you around.”
Animus doesn’t think he can go back with him, but he says, “I’ll consider it. I still have duties to fulfill as an Autobot, you know.”
As he finishes the seltzer, another drink is placed at his elbow by a server who seems to vanish the moment he turns his helm. It’s light, sweet, familiar in a way he can’t quite place despite having never tried anything like it before.
“Pah. No matter. Some of my ancestors were Autobots.” Beast-Megatron beckons for Animus to lower his helm, who obliges, leaning down. “The Maximals don’t like it well known, but more of them are descended from Decepticons than they’d like to admit.”
Really. The taller mech glances over his shoulder to the Primes’ table, spotting a somewhat exasperated Primal trying to console his weepy-opticked ancestor. “So there aren’t any Autobots or Decepticons where you’re from?” He recalls Primal saying as much earlier, though it had been difficult to hear the smaller mech over the din. It’s much quieter here up at the bar.
“None whatsoever,” Beast-Megatron sighs, mournfully.
“Then your Great War is…”
“Over, yes, and long done with. I assume yours is still ongoing, given the” one clawed servo gestures at the Autobrand placed on Animus’ left pauldron.
“No, actually,” he admits, freely, for the first time since he’d arrived. “In my world, the Great War has been over for centuries.”
The littler mech’s optics go wide. “Really? But unless you are much older than you appear, then you weren’t…” Animus shakes his helm, and his optics somehow get even bigger. “I see. Fascinating. Why do you retain a faction symbol, then?” Almost all pomposity and posturing has fled his mien, eradicated by the avid, undisguised enthusiasm of a fellow student of history.
Animus has to search his processor for a klik or so, the once familiar and close-held knowledge of history having been crowded aside by exabytes of data on Quintesson ciphers and energon supply routes. A shame dying apparently didn’t clear your cache. “After the mass-exile of the remaining Decepticons outlined in the Feldspar Accords, the Autobot Commonwealth established a partial stratocracy, with the leaders of the military working in concert with elected civilian leaders as members of the High Council. We’re told there were efforts to defactionalize, but it was decided by unanimous vote that the symbols would stay as a reminder of our past.”
“And to remind each and every citizen that they function only by the actions of the victors,” quips the beastformer.
“Something like that,” he mutters into his cube.
“Altogether not unusual,” muses the purple mech. “Very much the outcome my Cybertron might have arrived at, had the decision not been to attempt to fully reintegrate both factions instead.”
“Which I’m assuming didn’t work.”
“Oh, not at all!” Beast-Megatron cackles. “Instead, what we now have is factionalization applied judiciously in such a manner as to create a convenient underclass on which to scapegoat all of society’s ills. Granted, my Decepticon ancestors did break the terms of the Olivine Treaty some two hundred and eighty-nine times, but only because they knew where it was ultimately heading.”
“Of course,” Animus snorts, but he can believe it. His government's proposed reintegration plan had been rejected before it even made it to the treaty table.
“I’d be delighted to recount it— if you could possibly get me a few more of these delightful beverages.” The beastformer nudges an empty shot glass hopefully in his direction.
Each one of the shot glass cubes is the size of a large for the other mech. He’s going to have to start ordering these diluted if he doesn’t want to kill him.
Although, then again, Animus thinks, already waving for the bartender, that kind of isn’t an issue anymore, is it?
Many, many drinks prior, Optimus Prime had found himself walking around a crowded Maccadam’s in a state of complete and utter confusion, his processor containing no useful information as to how he’d gotten from a battlefield to here in the space of a microklik. As he wove between tables full of chattering mechs, trying to ask anyone what was going on, he’d heard someone calling faintly “Orion! Orion!” repeatedly in the background, to which he’d paid no mind, until eventually someone bellowed “OPTIMUS!” with such strength and volume that he’d immediately whipped around.
What had greeted his optics was a riot of color, more red and blue and silver plating than he’d ever seen in his functioning, all clustered around a single table. Several of the mechs there were waving him over, and although perplexed, he had obliged, walking closer. All of the strange Cybertronians had wildly different appearances, some with anatomy he couldn’t begin to fathom, but most strange of all was that they were all him. He wasn’t sure of exactly how he’d known it, but he had, like recognizing himself in a mirror. Albeit a very strange set of mirrors.
“My apologies for the confusion,” the broad, blocky version of him had said, as he’d taken one of the empty seats, “we assumed you still went by Orion because, well, you look so young.” Before he’d had time to parse what that meant, one of the others, a fierce-looking mech with crimson flames snaking across his chassis, had sheepishly given his own apologies for the terrifying yell.
“I was not sure my voice would carry over the din,” he’d said, his voice exactly like the previous Optimus’, so much so that he had to look between them just to make sure he knew who was speaking, “It seems that it did a little too well.”
By that point Optimus’ processor had been on the brink of crashing from sheer confusion, the mounting absurdity of the situation threatening to overheat his CPU. The three him-but-different faces gazing kindly and concernedly at him were not helping in the slightest.
“Are you alright?” He’d heard another voice say, this one thankfully different, though he couldn’t pinpoint its source at first. He looked down to see an oddly hairy mech barely bigger than a human sitting cross-legged on the table, looking up at him. It was so bizarre that suddenly he experienced a burst of clarity — this was far more strange than anything his processor could come up with in recharge.
He looked up. “Is this the Afterspark?”
The other four Optimuses— Optimi?— exchanged surprised glances before turning back to look at him. “Well, that was certainly quick. Compared to the rest of us, that is,” said the blocky one.
The slim, angular Optimus— who didn’t have a olfactory sensor, oddly, and seemed to be getting a little self-conscious about it— had then clarified that, by cross-referencing their individual accounts, they had established that they were all likely iterations upon a single person, Optimus Prime, having all taken on some variation of the name. The one other thing they strongly shared in common was that their last (albeit hazy) memories prior to waking up in Maccadam’s Old Oil House had been of receiving some fatal wound, suggesting they were either dying or dead. (At which point in the conversation the “new” Optimus had vividly recalled the sensation of cold metal beneath his spark and hurriedly downed his first drink of the night.)
Nicknames were given, so as to avoid confusion. The broad, blocky Optimus was called simply “Prime”, since he answered most readily to it, though he insisted several times that it be given to someone more deserving (martyrdom also seemed to be a common theme among them).
The beastformer had chosen to be called “Primal”, which he had already been using— he clarified that he wasn’t his world’s Optimus Prime, but rather his direct descendant. Prime had puffed up and declared proudly, “After some debate and historical review, we have concluded that it is most likely I am his ancestor.” He looked at Primal expectantly, optics sparkling. The beastformer, looking a bit embarrassed, politely asked him not to try and put him on his shoulder again, to which Prime had deflated a little.
The angular, olfactory-less Optimus then asked to be called “Orion”— “only if it’s not being used?” He’d added, quickly, looking at the two yet-unnicknamed Optimi, who merely looked at him blankly. At which point they hit a wall, as neither the most recent addition nor the flame-painted mech had ever been called “Orion Pax”, or indeed by any other name.
The jagged mech was offered several possible names from various dictionaries. He chose “Baiolus”, from the Earth’s Latin dialect, the name for a steward or pall-bearer. And last of all, the newcomer was nicknamed “Animus Prime” from the very same dictionary, because of how “lively and expressive” he was, though he knew what the other Optimi meant was “young”.
(He wasn’t sure that’s what Animus meant, but he accepted the nickname, not wanting to hurt the others’ feelings.)
It had been to Animus’ great shock that he learned the other-hims were leaders of their respective Autobot factions, listening slack-jawed as they swapped battle strategies and war stories; he was relieved not to find himself entirely alone, however, as Primal freely admitted to being in the same boat, as the commander of a small team of field explorers rather than a military general.
He pretended not to notice how Primal’s optics grew a little damp as he talked about his team, instead taking a long draught of high-grade to avoid a similar train of thought.
At some point, pleasantly near-tipsy and contributing occasionally to a general discussion on the subject of wartime ration preferences, Animus felt an odd prickle just on the edge of his sensory net. He’d craned his helm around to look, only to freeze when he saw hateful red optics looking back.
From across the crowded bar, Megatron— his Megatron— glared at him, arms crossed. When he saw Animus looking back, his optics narrowed, before turning his attention back to the conversation he’d seemingly just been a part of, with a mech who was also large, silver, and wearing a fusion cannon. Which also just so happened to describe the other three mechs at the table.
Animus’ optics trailed along the seated mechs, mentally matching each Megatron to their Prime counterpart. He then looked down to see what looked like a small purple reptilian Megatron telling some story that involved a lot of very expressive gesturing, though that might have been a cover to maintain his balance on the large chunk of ice he was perched on, floating on the surface of a large tankard. Even from here, Animus could see that the beastformer was very conscious of his raft steadily growing smaller and smaller, shifting uncomfortably on his hindclaws to and fro. “Are they…bullying him?”
Primal snorted. “Serves him right for choosing that name. He ought to learn what his namesake is really like.”
Animus had hummed and turned back to the table, but made a note in the back of his processor to keep an eye out for the Beast-Megatron. Regardless of how the other had come to end up at that table, it bothered him to see someone no taller than Sari or Dr. Sumdac or Captain Fanzone being picked on by bigger bots.
Some time later— he wasn’t sure when; time seemed not to function in this place, his internal chronometer frozen at what was presumably his time of death— a sixth Optimus Prime joins them. He stumbled into the bar, frazzled and panicky, optics darting wildly to and fro, clutching some nonexistent wound. Animus had gone over to get him, approaching slowly and carefully, noting how battle-worn the other’s armor looked even in the soft, warm light of the wall lamps, how sharply he tensed at the touch of a guiding servo on his arm.
The new Optimus takes the name “Pax”, and the first thing he does upon arriving at the table is order a tall cube of “the strongest thing they’ve got.” His EM field felt like an open wound, bristling at any point of contact with another’s. Like the rest of them, he had come straight from a battlefield, and like the rest of them, he doesn’t quite remember how it happened.
Every so often he turned his helm to glare daggers at his Megatron, who had joined the others at their table, giving some kind of grand lecture or speech. He has a dignified smugness about him, occasionally smirking at his Prime counterpart to rile him up on purpose.
Tearing his optics away and downing the rest of his drink in one go— that had to hurt— Pax slammed down his empty cube and gritted out, vocalizer hoarse, “So, this means we all failed, didn’t we?” The “this” is punctuated by a scathing gesture towards the rest of the table at large.
His battlemask was closed, having only opened it briefly to imbibe. His optics glared at the table with what Animus realized could be accurately described as self-loathing.
“It is difficult to say or know,” said Orion, solemnly. “Many factors of this situation remain hidden to us. For whatever reason Primus has deemed fit to bring us here instead of the Well, I am sure He—“
“Don’t speech at me,” Pax said, sharply. He was trembling, the clicking of his armor plating audible.
Prime reached out, placatingly, “Pax, are you—“
“You’re all lying to yourselves.” He hissed. “You all know exactly how you died, don’t you? Not a complete memory, maybe, but you know.”
Silence fell over the table. From the other side of the bar, laughter could be heard from the Megatrons’ table.
“This is a punishment, then,” Baiolus said, slowly, as if confirming something he’d long suspected. “Rather than be reunited with those we’ve lost, we are instead made to confront the inevitability of our failure.”
Animus clenched his servos into fists beneath the table. He wanted to scream, to rage, to deny his existence was merely another iteration of the universe’s favorite and most oft-told joke. Before he could speak a word, however, another voice spoke up— “Is that really what you believe?”
He, like the others, turned to look at Prime, though the voice came not from him, but from the ape-former who’d climbed up onto his shoulder so as to be better seen and heard. Pax blinked owlishly and incredulously a few times, seeming to only just notice him.
“I don’t…” Primal sighed, shaking his helm. “Rhinox would be so much better at explaining this. As a spark passes from one life to the next, they retain certain things. My existence alone is proof of that,” he pointed out, tapping the side of his helm against his ancestor’s, who looks to be holding himself perfectly still so as not to let his descendant fall while also looking as if about to cry from happiness. “If we are all inheritors of a part of the same “Prime spark”, then maybe, after death, we were unconsciously drawn to one another.”
“And the Well accommodated, creating a place for us to talk face-to-face.“ Orion postulated.
“A place to rest, to commiserate.” murmured Baiolus. “And it chose here .”
Because if there was anything that had been made clear thus far, it was that the one thing more ubiquitous than Optimus Prime was Maccadam’s Old Oil House.
Pax’ battle mask finally retracted, revealing a faceplate barely older than Animus’, lined though it was with premature worry lines. Some of his self-directed fury appeared to have ebbed, however, replaced with a kind of quiet resignation.
“I think…I can accept that.” He shot another glare across the room, “Did he have to do the same thing in the same bar-dimension, though?”
“It’s the only place in town,” Animus quipped, unable to help himself, quoting an oft-spoken line he’d been hearing since his Academy days, which garnered a laugh from the table.
“Then I’ve got some catching up to do.” Pax looked at the empty cubes scattered around the table compared to his one, “In more than one sense. Who knows any good drinking games?”
MANY, MANY DRINKS LATER...
They’re about halfway through Beast-Megatron’s detailed description of the failed nation-state of Predaconia when a shadow falls over them both. Animus looks up to see his Megatron looming over them. On a whim, he flaps an arm at the empty stool beside him. After only a moment’s hesitation, Megatron takes a seat. To the credit of bar management, the stool only creaks a little under his weight.
“Needed a break too?”
His— what a strange thing to think of him as, “his”— Megatron grunts in agreement and beckons the bartender over with two fingers. “Quite exasperated, frankly. Take a look for yourself.”
Animus cranes around and sees that the Megatrons have fallen into a state of collective melancholy, not nearly as energetic as before.
“Self-sabotaging fools, the lot of them.” Megatron snorts. ”And yours?”
Animus glances back at his own table, where Baiolus and Prime are on their feet trying to keep Pax and Orion from throttling each other. Primal is nowhere in sight, at first, but then Animus spots him dozing off atop Prime’s helm, the latter desperately trying not to jostle him. “Guilt-ridden idealists.”
His Megatron laughs, accepting a hot kerosene tea from the barkeep. “Just as bad, then.“
“Just as bad.”
They both take a long drink, savoring how blissfully uncomplicated their own situation was in comparison.
Animus feels a servo take his chin and turn him towards the other, tilting it up, turning it this way and that as the taller mech frowns thoughtfully. “What’re you doing?”
“Wondering what some of my counterparts saw in yours.” His Megatron says, cryptically, before letting him go. “I can’t say that I see it.”
Perhaps sensing another opportunity for recruitment, Beast-Megatron pipes up, “ I think you’re quite fetching.”
“Shut up,” Megatron says, and the dinobot quickly flees. Animus is a little sorry to see him go.
“So, what nickname did they give you?”
“Nickname?” Megatron repeats, looking slightly appalled.
Animus explains his own, and then each of the others’.
Megatron’s brow crinkles. “That isn’t what that means. You should be Animatus Prime, not Animus.” He catches himself, shakes head in disgust at having actually considered the nuances of an organic language, and drains his cup. “Another.” He pushes his cube at the bartender, who whisks it away. Then, to Optimus (who has begun thinking of himself as that again, now that he’s no longer surrounded by counterparts): “As to your question. Not one of us was willing to relinquish our chosen name.”
Optimus blinks. “So you’ve all just been calling each other “Megatron”?”
His Megatron nods.
“I can see why you needed a break from that table.”
The bartender returns with another tea and a diesel coffee for Optimus he hadn’t asked for but accepts regardless. They continue drinking in silence.
A memory bubbles to the surface of Optimus’ mind. “You killed me, you know.”
“Mh. I suspected something to that effect.” Megatron sips from his cube. “How did I do it?”
Optimus squints, concentrates, smacks his lips a few times. “Mmm…sword. I think I remember seeing it come through the front of my sparkchamber from behind. Still had Quint blood on it.”
“I see.” Megatron seems…oddly irritated? At…himself?
“You’re disappointed?”
“Mildly, to say the least. My own memories have yet to fully resurface. Therefore I cannot take full satisfaction in having finally brought down my most hated enemy.” A coy affection curls around the words, despite their contents. The echo of a vow whispers in Optimus' mind: My Inimica Endurae, my dearly despised, from here to the Afterspark. Well. It seems that bit had been true.
“It’s not even the first time you’ve backstabbed me. Remember that time you threw me to the Starscream clones?”
“True,” Megatron admits, but he still seems strangely disgruntled.
The grey mech gestures broadly to their surroundings, changing the subject. “And what do you make of all this?”
“Mrrp.” Optimus starts signaling the bartender frantically for something stronger. They HAD talked about it, him and the other Optimi, in great detail, however many hours ago they’d all first congregated at that particular table. They’d talked about their own relative importance in the greater scheme of things, beliefs in Primus, the War (with some tactful omissions), approaches to leadership, the significance of Primacy, what it meant that their Megatrons were there too and whether it really mattered, friends, lovers, mentors, the people they let down and left behind, and wasn't it funny that not all of them had been given the Matrix? And then someone had ordered shots, and things got pleasantly hazy from there on out.
Megatron swats his flailing hand, “Put that down, you look like an idiot. Answer the question.”
“What do I think ?” Optimus feels lightheaded. “I think that if this is the Afterspark, then I’d better learn to get good at darts.”
When he returns to their table, only Prime is there.
“Where did the others go?” Animus asks, looking around for the telltale flash of red-silver-blue anywhere.
“They’re gone,” Prime says, calmly.
“Gone?”
Prime raises his shoulders in a shrug. “I suppose it wasn’t their time, after all. Their Megatrons went back, too.”
Animus twists around and only sees Prime’s Megatron there, sitting alone, helm lowered, surrounded by a ring of empty cubes. He doesn’t see his, and for a fleeting moment he thinks he’s gone without him, until he hears a sharp “Autobot” and turns to see the other standing at the entrance, impatiently beckoning him. He is faintly glowing white, and when Animus looks at himself, so is he.
He waves at his Megatron in the universal in-a-klik gesture, taking only a little pleasure in the other’s obvious annoyance, and turns to Prime, who is as robustly red and blue as ever. Prime’s optics crinkle fondly and a little sadly above his mask. “It’s your turn to go now, too.”
“What about you?”
“I believe that I am here to stay.”
“Oh.” He doesn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright.” The older mech looks across the room to his Megatron, and Animus sees the other slowly lift his helm to look back at him. “I won’t be alone.”
He turns back to look at Animus. “And neither will you.”
For just a nanolik he feels something, an impossible sensation, as if his spark were a single drop of liquid dropped into a vast ocean, the ripples spreading out beyond the limits of his comprehension, intersecting and overlapping with countless others. For that brief moment, he understands what it is to be both one and many, a single mote floating on a sea of blazing brilliant light.
He stands and walks to the exit without looking back.