Chapter Text
Optimus Prime took a seat by the border of the encampment, uneasy and nauseous.
It was more of a pit stop currently, with the rest of the supply troops making their way to this rendezvous, others trudging on ahead after they’ve fueled and rested enough. Optimus exchanged nods with a departing pair of weary soldiers, their weaponry out by habit, but not particularly readied for any combat.
Here, they were far away from the archives and watchful gaze of Alpha Trion. Though save for the rubble around them, Optimus could almost pretend it was just a lunar cycle’s drive back.
He tried not to think about everything that lay ahead for them. About everything that lay torn apart behind him.
The constant presence of that cog in the war machine—manifest in a corroded stench of decay and the hum of ferroflies—made it a growing task of futility. The Autobots were always alert for any Decepticon activity in the horizon, but no hunter could parallel death—it stalked them all with patient imminence.
Optimus shivered, though he hesitated to shift into a warmer position.
Ambient temperatures had been dropping as they descended along Cybertron’s surface. The Autobots tried to press for any advantage they could muster, only to find some disaster had already beaten them to it and they would be helpless to perpetuate it. No signs of life remained except for the flies and troops milling about in the ruins of once prosperous cities. Everyone had already fled or been buried, by rusty chunks of building or by solemn Autobot servos. Tactically speaking, it would’ve been much better to conserve that energy for the best possible prospects, but Optimus found himself doubling back whenever they tried to move forward (and wherever he tried to go alone, his fellow soldiers would inevitably follow). He would remember the sight of the corpses, strewn or piled high, and be struck with that flare of sadness—he could not bear to leave those frames to rust alone on the chilled surface.
Who knew how many remained, buried unceremoniously here and elsewhere?
“Once we pack up and stop finding bodies, we move on. There’ll be many left beyond our reach; we can’t give everyone a proper burial, Optimus, you know that better than anyone.” Prowl had pushed a bowl of fuel into the Prime’s servos. His look read as though he wanted to say Optimus ought to know, but Prowl was never one to suggest doubt on the extent of the Prime’s knowledge. (Optimus wished the tactician would, perhaps he would’ve come to understand more then.)
Even the faint fluxes of mental exhaustion in Prowl’s electromagnetics were cloaked well with his usual barbs of irritation. “Go wash up and take a break, take your mind off things. We should all eat well while we still can.”
The soup had grown cold, too, while Optimus meandered to find somewhere out of the way to sit. Without the provisions of the main supply groups, the kitchen tent had to make do with their current ingredients: highly dilute Energon, with a sprinkling of the herbs that merely evoked the warm soups of Iacon—from before difficult times finally arrived for it, as well. In these conditions, it was a fine imitation; the Autobots were lucky enough to even have more substantial fuels somewhere down the supply line.
Though no one was there to see, Optimus bit back a grimace before carefully sipping on the soup. The coolness felt sharp, but the moisture was a balm for the drought of his glossa. His tired spark stirred. There was something familiar in the sparse combination of herbs used, but the flavour lay too dormant for him to fully parse it.
Soup was a dearly versatile, reliable food; there existed no grand city nor humble village that did not have a selection of their own cultural varieties, refined and shared over generations. It comforted Optimus always to remember.
Higher Iacon’s soups—like most of their cuisine—were expectedly extravagant: flourishing variations on the common Iaconian recipes, enriched with a concentrated yet inoffensive Energon, and garnished with the more expensive seasonings in the market. It was a cultural flavour Optimus only knew through text, though as a mere archivist he often imagined what it could’ve tasted like.
Alas, he found that even the archivist in him could be biased! It seemed impossible for anything to be as soothing to him as their own Lower Iaconian meals. Homely and plain though they often were, Alpha Trion never let Optimus forget their elegance was in their simplicity and reproducibility.
“To develop a palate only for finery is to deny the simplest and necessary toils their due appreciation. Excellent food is all the more satisfying when you make it for yourself, anyway.”
Optimus huffed with a tentative smile cracking through his faceplates. He often wondered what Alpha Trion would’ve had to say, were he travelling with them out here. Perhaps he’d have some clever way to find the dead and pay respects. He would perhaps not be too impressed with the state of even the soup these days, but would give thanks for the cooks’ efforts nonetheless.
Though his imaginings rang hollow in the wake of Alpha Trion’s absence, Optimus was ultimately glad the old archivist remained in relative safety, back in Iacon with a designated group of defense. Whatever happened to Iacon now—Primus forbid—, Alpha Trion would manage his side of things masterfully.
All alone, Optimus propped his pedes up on his slabbed perch, unable to deny himself the comfort of curling up with a good soup. While Iacon was often defined by the mores of their highest, envisioned with solid banquets every meal, Iacon truly loved its soups like any other. It was light and easy to consume for Lower Iaconians plagued with their own monotonous busywork, especially when they were on the move. It was no wonder that Iacon developed a taste for low viscosity—their perfect soup matched liquid Energon’s texture, settling easily in any bot’s tank. And with the first stirrings of war, simple soup and Energon would become all that most Iaconians could scrape together.
Optimus could only watch as it happened to the side of Iacon that raised him, blockades in trade making everything prohibitively expensive. Shops of mundane convenience turned to a profound refuge for Middle and Lower Iacon, despite their disappearing supply—prepackaged soups and travel-sized vessels of Energon the main things they could reliably offer. It did not matter much that the soup was always cold and illuminated by even colder fluorescent store lights; it was all fuel to keep going for another cycle. And though it was quiet, Optimus never felt alone, hearing the hushed whispers of lingering customers and workers alike.
Optimus cast his gaze towards the sky, seeking guidance and unsure if he’d ever find it. More distant stars slowly flickered to life above them, before Cybertron’s own had retired below the horizon. How were those Iaconians doing now? Was there still comfort to be found in their culinary pursuits, however simple? Were there more among their numbers, with displaced lives finding safety—admittedly unusual—in the edges of Cybertron’s capital?
Quietly, he hoped for it. If it meant less lives destroyed, severed and buried without a name…
Bitter regret weighing heavy on his spark, Optimus gulped down the rest of the nostalgic soup. He could not rest yet. Not until the senseless killing on all fronts could be put to an end. There must be some way to negotiate it; there has to be. Perhaps Optimus was just not wise enough to approach it yet… How did he ever come to be a representation like this? Every part of him, somehow condensed into a sanitized mission statement: for the Autobots; against the Decepticons.
Deepest in his core, he couldn’t help but hate it. He knows there is another way.
But as an imperfect mechanism, no amount of fuel and energy in the universe could usher him to the ideal solution right now. Optimus had to focus on closer, more painful matters—matters they will eventually come to kill and die for, if they hadn’t already. All he could do was remember the atrocities; his conscience would not let him soon forget.
Though he didn’t feel it much these days, he summoned some resolve to get himself to stand. For now, he would return his bowl and thank the kitchen staff again, then continue aiding the search for the dead, in wait for further data and counsel from Prowl (while hopefully not running into the tactician when he was supposed to be resting).
He looked back one last time to the path beyond the broken city, the two soldiers ahead already mere specks blending into the horizon as though chasing the sun. It grew harder to, in some moments, but Optimus imagined an end. Something after the horrors, where caste and faction were irrelevant in the light of an open, infinite spark. Truthfully, he knew no precedent for what such a future could possibly be like.
Perhaps it was foolish of him, but it did not seem so impossible with the reminder of such simple and mundane joys as food with company. Perhaps it was the renewed fuel running through his systems, but a pair of Older Iacon’s parting phrases came clearer to him now than the memory of the oligarchs who came after—worked Cybertron to ruin.
It was equal parts the simply uncontestable adage that old scholars had always favoured, and the dearest wish to see a good friend again in fine health. Far from Alpha Trion, Optimus hadn’t uttered either half of it much recently, but he felt his spark could recognize and complete it in any condition.
Everyone must eat.
And may we soon feast together again.
Orion Pax trembled in his seat, cushioned with a near-ridiculous stack of obsolete data tablets so he could peer over the table.
He was found digging around in the yet-to-be-cultivated archive gardens for wild tubers and bulbs. Propelled by his own hunger, he hoped to please Alpha Trion with a tasty find, but he didn’t know yet which of the roots in this foreign place would be filling or sickening. A fascinated curiosity spurred Orion to keep digging. This little patch of ground was ripe with them, far more bountiful with this one harvest than the wastelands ever were with anything.
Then he yelped in surprise as a pair of servos yanked him from his current burrow like he was a root himself. The interrupting archivist gave him a once-over before speaking into one of their audio receptors. Using those strangely elaborate vocalizations.
“Sir, I found him… Yeah, he was playing in the gardens again.” They glanced at the pile of roots Orion amassed. “Seems to have found a good haul this time around… Yessir, I’ll bring him in.”
Orion cried and begged to not be submerged for fear of being swept away somewhere lonely. His sad, incomprehensible warbling worked to guilt the archivists for a short time until Alpha Trion had to get involved.
Alpha Trion was immovable. Had he no conscience? He didn’t even flinch at Orion’s sobs, focused on carefully prying little digits from every sturdy surface to finally plop the sparkling into the basin of running solvent. At the jarring lash of liquid, Orion clung to Alpha Trion’s arm before the old bot could release him.
“Orion, you will not get stuck in the drain any time soon.” Alpha Trion covered the whirlpool with a servo for demonstration. “You see? We are far too large to go where the solvent goes. You will feel better after the bath, I assure you.”
Orion only hugged the arm tighter, stricken with a new fear that the basin’s maw would grow to engulf Alpha Trion too. The Head Archivist sighed and simply adjusted for this expected complication. Finally realizing the solvent was warm alongside Alpha Trion’s firm and reassuring touch, Orion’s wails subsided into hiccups. He kept his gaze locked onto the whirlpool, feeling he could prevent its growth through watch alone.
He nearly started crying again when Alpha Trion loosened his grasp to scrub at his arms and servos. Mercifully for the both of them, Alpha Trion allowed the little bot to reattach himself on the Head Archivist’s clean arm afterward. Orion pressed his freshly cleaned face against Alpha Trion, his tiny field tremulous with discontent and hunger.
“Yes, yes… poor Orion Pax was not allowed to track dirt into the Hall of Records, so now he must brave this bath on an empty fuel tank,” Alpha Trion sighed as he gently wiped down Orion’s helm. “They will surely speak of your tragic tale for generations to come.”
The solvent eventually ran clear. Orion grew too tired to protest when Alpha Trion rotated him about to rinse him off one more time. Frightened though he still was, Orion just had to trust the Head Archivist’s vigilance. He anchored himself in holding Alpha Trion’s steady servo, flat digits squeezing while he watched the old bot scoop solvent onto his plating.
Finally, Alpha Trion stopped the flow of liquid, and the whirlpool died with an ominous gurgle. He bundled Orion in a towel, hastily wiping off the excess moisture, and made his way to the archive lounge with the little bot in tow.
Orion watched from afar as Alpha Trion sorted through the pile of roots he unearthed. He didn’t understand the criteria and categories the old bot was working with—there was always much he didn’t understand. But one thing he knew for certain: Alpha Trion worked fast and efficiently.
Alpha Trion soon began to cut into the bulbs, separated from the rest. They were an assortment of sizes, all temptingly round to Orion’s less discerning optic. Big or small, however, they all stung the optic, too.
Blinking back a new well of tears, Orion curled up deeper into the towel to hide from the piercing air. His plating was already flared to its maximum extension, leaving him to cope with the dampness trapped between the seams until it evaporated. It was no worse than the rare torrents that left his joints creaking in the wastes. There was something warm about the moisture this time. Comfortable, almost.
Orion dozed off a few times as he waited for Alpha Trion. He could hardly process all the new things in this new place, so for those brief moments, his mind was back in the wasteland. Peaceful, in a way, when he did not have to worry about finding food or becoming food. He imagined Alpha Trion wandering the empty plains with him, somehow clean and stately as ever—Orion couldn’t imagine the meticulous bot any differently. He could not tell if he dreamed it, when he heard the little crackle of fire, or when the air no longer hurt and began to carry the promise of fuel for a weary traveller.
Something clattered softly on the table in front of him.
“Orion, it is ready.”
Bleary optics cracked back open at the sound of the Head Archivist’s voice. Before him stood a little vessel of soft mauve liquid, an island of crisped grain floating in its centre. Glancing at Alpha Trion, Orion studied the smooth glide of a spoon across the surface, the gentle puff of air on the gathered soup, and the final pleased hum as Alpha Trion savoured it. Orion followed along: his spoon sank, there was the ripple of a troubled sea, and yet the soup remained a bit too hot in his intake.
He dropped the spoon in surprise, intake huffing to cool down and inevitably dribbling some soup onto the table. All too familiar with Orion’s odder struggles, Alpha Trion hastily finished his next bite before shifting closer to wipe down the little bot’s chin.
“Forgive me, soup below the surface tends to be hotter. Here:” Alpha Trion gracefully skimmed the surface of Orion’s bowl with his spoon, the technique far clearer when it was right in front of him.
Alpha Trion blew on it, tested the temperature against his dermas, then extended it to Orion. Orion eagerly accepted the proffered bite.
A light sweetness bloomed through the richness of broth—the prepared bulbs tasted quite unlike anything from the empty plains of before. Orion tried again to copy Alpha Trion’s movements, his hold on the spoon much shakier. In the background, a small group of archivists had gathered around the pot of soup, helping themselves and murmuring in tones too far away for Orion to decipher. Amidst his sparse mental recordings and captures taken from the wastelands for survival, Orion added something new: the rare sight of Alpha Trion at ease, with nothing to worry about for the moment, and focused entirely on his bowl of fuel.
The soup was wonderfully warm, in all senses of the word.