Chapter Text
Odysseus hadn’t always been considered a “patient” or “stoic” mech. However, something had switched when the war started. It seemed that every day consisted of waiting, guessing, praying for a better outcome that didn’t lead to his or his friends’ deaths. Despite this, being a Decepticon never made this simple fact of life easy.
Something has to give eventually, he tells himself. Every morning, it was always the same. Every night, he repeated the process. He was stuck in a cycle. Wake up, follow orders, beat some undeserving newbie, torture a prisoner, grab the smallest energon cube he could find, fill out data tablets, recharge, wake up… nothing ever changed. And maybe that was for the best.
Anytime something didn’t go according to plan, it was usually his fault. Whiteout, one of his oldest friends, killed in action by Odysseus’ blaster because he happened to be an Autobot storming one of the locations the black mech had been assigned to defend. And Paradox, the poor bot had been planning to defect and told Odysseus of his plans. If only they had known of Soundwave, always lurking, always listening.
Penelope, his mate.. He still felt her, faintly, over their sparkbond. Her whereabouts were hard to determine, but it was clear she was nowhere nearby. They had separated due to choosing different factions when the war first started and sides were picked.
Odysseus believed in the words of the mighty Megatron, a gladiator from Kaon who had risen up from the Pits and charged at the world with ideals of freedom and equality. Penelope, on the other hand, while knowing that Megatron’s words of justice and righteousness were in many ways genuine and true, knew that something sinister was boiling beneath the surface. Right she was.
Odysseus was alone, and he had been for several years at this point.
So no, nothing ever changed, and when it did, something went wrong. That was the rule of thumb at this point. Even though he dreams of a better life, yearns for something that isn’t just a repetitive cycle of endless pain, the Decepticons kept him on a leash. Something has to give, but it never does.
But one day, it did.
A patrol around the poorer streets of a ruined Iacon led Odysseus into an alley. The cries of a presumable animal or, Primus forbid, a sparkling drew him towards a rusted dumpster. When he peered in, he could feel the shift in his life already beginning.
A squirming form, bright yellow in color but covered in grime with soft, undeveloped armor and the cries of a banshee, screamed up at him from where it sat on a broken waste bag. Grubby little servos made grabs at the rotten air, prompting Odysseus to, against his better judgment, reach in and pull the thing out.
It was sparkling, no doubt, as unfortunate as that was. Smaller than the others Odysseus was familiar with, likely malnourished as well. A femme, too. She quieted almost immediately upon coming into contact with his chassis, shifting inwards towards the black mech.
That was the moment that he decided, as he felt tiny digits curl around his own sharp, long claws, something will give.