Chapter Text
“...You’re assigning…me…to be the associate on the engagement with…Megatron?”
“Is there a problem?” Halfbelt asks, leaning back in her chair. “You’ve been here long enough anyway. If you're not going to step up to be an advisor yourself, you might as well take on the more complex cases.” He won’t deny that logic. It’s sound, considering the context and his ridiculously expensive qualifications. It’s just…
Screaming, sobbing, discordant orders, horrific directives. A terrifying giant, blisteringly bright purple, merciless optics, thundering pede steps, pain, pain!, denta clattering desperation, a bolt of clarity, of victory, only to-
Unable to argue with the scrud stuck in his intake, he nods, lamenting his curse of misfortune. Showing himself out silently, he practically staggers back to his desk, reopening the laddered term life insurance proposal he’d been crafting.
Click, green. Click, limeware green. Click, organic green. Click, silica green. Click, void green. Click, he pinches his optic ridge, leaning against the nonexistent support of his chair. He'll just wake up extra early or something tomorrow to finish this monstrosity.
Click, pink. Click, hot pink. Click, rose pink. Click, champagne pink. Click, bubblerubber pink. Click, he sighs heavily to himself, a light stabbing pain emanating from behind his optics. He should've just said no. Maybe if he explained, Halfbelt would take pity on him.
Click, red. Click, blazing optics. Click, rageful accents. Click, vengeful hatred. Click, tyrannical hues. Click, idiocracy. Click, shame. Click, he massages his temples, nausea bubbling as he considers stepping out for a quick “break”.
Primus, despite his lack of devout faith, must see his existence as an offense and is punishing him. Because how else would the second worst blunder of his life also find him in a backwoods neutral planet far away from Cybertron? Sentinel has already ruined his chances at a fresh start. Why not just pile Megatron on top? See how much Orion Pax can take before breaking?
It's fine. He tells himself as he switches between orange and a disconcerting voidish brown. He'll have completely forgotten about me, right? And even if he hasn't, you can tolerate more passive aggressive bullying and harassment right? That's all you've ever done in your pathetic, miserable life.
Not for the first time, the sound of clacking keyboards, phones ringing, chuckles and small talk suddenly becomes strut clattering, and he thinks flatly, maybe it's time to call it quits.
It's tempting to welcome that insanity with open arms. Instead, he finalizes the presentation bubbles by clicking the company brand color of a pastel purple.
-
Seeing Megatron's life is weird.
The Scourge of Kaon, the Conqueror of Worlds, the Demon of the Pits, Unicron’s Favored, Leader of the Decepticons.
Apparently likes to go boating. Quite often actually.
His bank statements from the National Bank of Chaar show debits across the year of recreational yacht rentals at least twice a stellar cycle, more often than not at the clear ocean of Xaia on Chaar, but there's a few excursions to the odd planet and ocean. He must also be grilling up a party, because his following Plierlex purchases nearly rival Orion's annual bonus.
What would that even look like?
The Scourge of Kaon, the Conqueror of Worlds, the Demon of the Pits, Unicron’s Favored, Leader of the Decepticons.
Grilling logster, socketshrimp, camfish, sawtooth fish. Damp from the ocean, smiling - a shiver of malaise runs down his backstrut and he suddenly feels nauseous.
Lucky bastard. Not that he's actually jealous. Honestly that sounds like too much work to spend every other offcycle going boating of all things. The sentiment stands though, that the last time he's personally taken a vacation, big or small, happened so far in the past he’s pretty confident it never actually happened and the bottle of shiner he chugged dreamt up the whole thing. Whatever.
Another interesting tidbit about Megatron: His life is in shambles.
For a mech who is such a powerful icon, Orion had assumed this engagement would be focused on the complexities of his estate, taxes and portfolio. Megatron would've been responsible in every other avenue, right? Because the mech ran the Decepticons, ran planets and colonies so he must have structure in his personal life, right? And in a way, based on his cash flow from his statements, he does. His primary savings account appears to be in check with the standard six stellar cycles of cushion, although with his lifestyle Orion would personally recommend saving more. His retirement accounts have a steady stream of contributions, although the allocations are despicable. He makes all his bill payments consistently early or on time, although based on how inconsistent the dates are, Orion is confident he's not enrolled in autopay.
Everything else, he slowly discovers, is a convoluted mess.
Four too many completely unnecessary annuities that all label himself as the annuitant, which, just why? His investment accounts have so many random purchases and sales, there's no investment philosophy or plan behind it; instead incurring a ridiculous amount of fees, missing out on dividend payouts and tax loss harvesting opportunities, with countless wash sale items in statements that leaves him bumping his forehelm against the desk. The one account that does seem to be managed, is by a shanix manager at the bank, who appears to have completely invested a 346,000 shanix account into…bonds. Not even corporate bonds. Treasury bonds. The yield on these things is atrocious, especially in an account that massive. Not to mention the sheer number of savings, checking, and brokerage accounts that are simply just sitting there. Existing.
His insurance policies are scrap, high deductibles with miniscule coverage, his death benefit is a fraction of his net worth, and none of his accounts have any beneficiaries listed. There are several documents related to his estates around the galaxy, glaringly no trusts sheltering those, nor any indication he's even renting them. The expense report on them is as red as those optics, and Orion shakes his helm with second hand shame. There is no Living Will, no Healthcare Directive, no Power of Attorney, not even an informal instruction of how he’d like his assets divested. If this mech were to have anything incapacitate him, and it is possible seeing as he's not old old, but definitely getting up there in age, his probate process would probably be the worst one in Cybertronian history.
PDF’s upon reports upon excel spreadsheets upon more PDF’s are reviewed and prepared, consuming copious fluids of varying capacity to keep his strained optics trained on the screen during long nights and even longer mornings. Megatron being a “retired” political advisor means nothing for Orion's sanity, hopping around planets, earning coin for his strategic development of nations and planets, which also means he’s notoriously difficult to reach and book for a meeting. One especially long night organizing this mess leads him to slur a joke in his empty habsuite. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were running from something too.” Shaking his wandering helm, he refocuses on the task at servo, preparing for their first meeting coming up in about a deca-cycle. Summarizing their investment plan for Megatron, providing a list of any outstanding documents, and a health report of his current financial plan versus their predicted transformation.
He doesn’t finish it that night, curse his bad habit, so it takes all the way up until the two cycles before to finalize a nice, digestible presentation. Sending it all over for Sentinel to review, it takes the lead advisor, predictably, until the morning of the meeting to reply to Orion with notes, along with additional projections to include. He scrambles to get it all done within the two joor he has left, but he notices something odd. “Sentinel, I don’t think your projections included his properties-”
“Optimus-” Sentinel is the only one who uses his dead designation, always curled with such venomous contempt that makes his empty fuel tank cramp and burn. He swears to put in some joors with the axe later. “There's a reason for that. They're loss harvesting properties, we’re not including it in income projections which is the topic of the meeting. We’re selling how much shanix we can make him, not trying to bore him to death with tax code. Duh.”
But if we project the potential rental income, it could vastly increase his earnings...
Orion bites his derma, praying the espoused cleverness of the Scourge of Kaon doesn’t bite him in the aft.
-
The receptionist notifies him that Megatron has arrived, and suddenly all the anxiety from meeting with Halfbelt slams into his spark.
He can't vent, much less see, and his healthier crutch isn't possible to retrieve here, lest his coworkers report him for bringing a weapon. So he goes to his second comfort, fumbling his small friend tucked into the corner of his drawer, and takes a swig. After a klick, his cables fizzle into a tolerable buzz, and he shakily drinks some mid grade, briefly popping a mint rubber in his intake to chew before spitting it out.
“What are you doing? Megatron is waiting.” Sentinel hisses, leaning over his cubicle. Blindingly white metalmesh suit too obnoxiously tight that Orion wonders not for the first time how it doesn't rip. Maybe he'd get lucky and it'd happen today.
“Nothing, I'm coming.” He mutters, focusing on the ease simmering his cables and just getting through the next joor and a half.
Exiting the back office, the Conqueror of Cybertron rises to greet them. He hasn't changed much. His dark slate grey plating shining, black waist panels decorating his narrow hips, broad shoulders and chassis projecting strength, muscular arms and lithe legs indicating agility. He doesn't have his cannon on him this time, nor any indication of any weapons, and his backstrut is lifted from the weight of his battle kibble, slendering and curving his shoulders void of the once tall and boxy additions. Orion shudders an exvent, grateful his battle protocols won't forcibly and embarrassingly online.
Megatron stoically greets them. He extends his servo first to Sentinel, then to Orion. He takes it- what else is he supposed to do- focusing his entire being into not dropping his datapad and throwing the menace into the nearest wall. It's a simple shake, a surprisingly gentle one, Megatron’s servo doesn't clamp around Orions’, noticeably not smarmy, ending just as quickly as it started. Sentinel makes small talk about Megatron's travels, only for Megatron's gaze to flicker his direction for a brief moment. The urge to void lurches, reminded of the same faceplate that glared at him all those cycles ago, ready to swiftly offline him.
Instead of reaching out and gripping his helm with lethal force, Megatron moves on once Sentinel beckons him inside the conference room. Orion lets himself linger for a moment, venting carefully to calm his spark. Maybe I should've chugged the whole thing.
The meeting runs on as usual, standard practice for Sentinel to breeze through introductions without a word in edgewise. That's fine with him, this time around at least, as focusing all his energy into putting on his best client service smile is engaging enough. Megatron's gaze lingers on him at the mention of his designation, but he hopes it's only because he expects him to talk. Prays to Primus actually, for that to be the case.
During the analysis itself, Megatron asks a few sparing questions. Sentinel answers them egregiously well without preparing any of it, until Megatron asks the one question Orion hoped he wouldn't. “Why are my estates omitted?” The query is asked mildly curiously, without contempt or judgement. Sentinel throws him under the bus. “My associate here seems to have forgotten it in his compilation of data. We’ll send out the entire encompassing projection after the meeting. For now, let's continue on with your gross earnings-”
The ex-warlord doesn’t look at the advisor as he drones on, content to let his attention lie on Orion. At first, he ignores it, but after a few klicks it's evident this is beyond appropriate, and he starts to squirm, bile building rapidly in his fuel tank in a pitiful attempt to reject the harassment. He really needs to retrain his anxiety protocols to something less disgusting than voiding.
Leaning back in his chair, digit tapping the seat handle, Megatron interrupts Sentinel while reviewing his insurance policies. “You seem…familiar.”
No Primus whyyyyyyyyy! Please please please no! Politely setting down his datapen, he maintains the strained professional smile. “I apologize, I can’t say the same.”
Megatron hums, taps his chinplate with his digit, before nodding at Sentinel to continue whose taut shoulders practically creak with movement as he moves onto the next slide. The remainder of the meeting goes relatively smoothly, Megatron making astute observations Orion had included in the report, which Sentinel had deleted last minute. Otherwise, he even expresses his satisfaction with their meeting.
“I appreciate this immensely, and the consolidation of everything, along with the prioritization of next steps. I'm not very good, admittedly, at taking care of my own needs.”
His counterpart gratingly laughs. “Of course, Megatron! It's what we specialize in, so you don't have to know. That way you can relax in…where are you headed next?”
“Returning to Chaar.” Megatron rumbles.
What Orion would ask next, because he'd actually read through Megatron's life, is if he's going back to the Xaia sea, maybe catch a few local mechafish and use that new grill he'd bought last stellar cycle. Instead, Sentinel says some generic slag. “Of course! Going home for a nice long relaxing end of your deca-cycle! I'm sure your berth misses you.”
He wearily agrees. “And I miss my berth. Traveling privately means nothing for these aged struts.”
“You don't look a cycle over five million vorns Megatron! What's your secret?” Sentinel asks, guiding him to the door.
“Plenty of rest, little stress.” He replies with a shake of his helm and Sentinel’s servo, clearly intent on departing upon release.
But Orion, because of course he’s a blinkin’ exhaust port that doesn’t know how to leave well enough alone, adds quickly. “Please don't forget to look into that list of estate planning attorneys.”
The withering glare from Sentinel is nearly ineffective as his plating flares under Megatron’s captured attention. “I apologize, how rude of me. I didn’t say goodbye.”
“That’s alright.” Orion smiles cooly, gnawing the inside of his cheekplate. “You’re a busy mech.”
Shaking his helm again, Megatron’s derma slowly stretch lopsidedly, upper right fang poking out in an oddly…sweet smile. “Nonsense. Unseemly on my part-” taking Orion’s free servo, he kneels, connecting it with his helm for a moment. “To ignore the only mech brave enough to challenge me upon my return to Cybertron. Forgive me, Orion Pax. I’ll remember to do so, and I look forward to our next meeting.” Ruby optics full of mirth twinkle, that smile never quivering once.
As Sentinel storms off screaming for Halfbelt, Orion is gobsmacked, staring at the entrance where Megatron disappeared behind, servo disparagingly hot. The same dominant servo that grips to the handle of his axe as he ignores the screams of the dummy he battles in his garage. His processor swirls, stretches and pulls under the rainfall of fluff; bemused glowing optics, fanged grin and overwhelming grip taunting his exercise.
He remembers me.
He remembers all of it.
Hack, slash, hack again. Orion twirls the weapon, nibbles his derma, before lunging at the poor dummy again.
Why did he mention it? Is it some…some kind of psychological torture he's playing at? Some kind of…mind game?!
It'd be the only conceivable reason. Orion doesn't have a shred of dignity or reputation that could be leveraged in any sort of useful capacity. In fact, Sentinel's designation carries more weight than his own dead one. Optimus Prime no longer exists anywhere, and Orion Pax is a loner with a pathetic, depressing habit, nonexistent social life, and strained professional career.
Enraged, he lobs off the helm of the dummy, embedding it along with his axe into the wall. Growling, he heads upstairs for some much needed energon and a shower, but his processor can't quiet. Not as he scrubs himself clean, nor shovels rust flakes into his intake for dinner. Pacing holes into the floor, empty bottles are kicked away in the process, every rolling clink of glass replaying their encounter like a scratched vinyl.
Sure, he's taken a lot of slag over his lifetime. He has a lot of patience, a deserved penance considering how much of an inconvenience he's always been. Sentinel's torture makes sense. Their withered friendship, the poison that'd seeped into them after the accident, even after so many vorn’s he could argue he has it coming. Other odd jobs he’s picked up over time have resulted in a literal fire he’s had to put out, mix up of shipments that resulted in explosives being delivered to the wrong address, and breaking equipment more often than functional under his disastrous servos. Halfbelt especially should be considered a saint after he’d managed to piss off some of their ultra high net worth clientele in the beginning of his employment.
But Megatron?! Orion had only ever done what was duly mandated as a soldier. The Slagmaker himself never spared him more than a glance amidst the final battle. For vorn’s after winning the slagging war to hold it against him is ridiculous, petty, and says more about the mech than any of his financial statements, spending habits and ridiculously expensive estates.
He's pathetic, lame, and clearly has nothing better to do!
Throwing open his cabinet, he uncorks his best friend with his denta. If Megatron is going to play mind games, Orion is going to play them right back. Wiping away spare droplets with the back of his servo, his frame revs for a fight as if standing off the behemoth on the steps of the Autobot Headquarters over a millennia ago.
“I'll show you…bucket helm.”
-
A few gift baskets to their Client Services department motivates the smooth and nearly painless transfer of Megatron's accounts to their partnered bank. Upon the final transfer, his total net worth is officially under their management, a whopping 700 million shanix. Despite taking an entire fiscal quartex to complete, Halfbelt encourages celebration of this accomplishment. He skips out on the happy hour this time, most of the credit going to Sentinel anyway. Instead, he decides to focus on resolving the loose ends in Megatron's planning, especially with their next meeting occurring tomorrow.
There's really…nothing for left for him to do. Orion hasn't been listless while their other departments handle some of the more strenuous administrative work. But Orion's perfectionist side, especially after his internal promise, is itching to ensure all is presentable and comprehensive for their client. Memorizing the agenda for the 500th time, reviewing the analytics, adjusting the images and projections on the powerpoint slide, and comming Sentinel's work signal along with his email to ensure he doesn't get too excited that night.
Does he respond to Orion's spammed comms in the morning, likely too hungover to make their morning meeting? Or the barrage of comms and pings he sends every klick counting down to the meeting? Biting his derma and tapping his pede, he checks the ticking time in the corner of his HUD, forced to enter the conference room a breem later without his lead advisor.
“Thank you for your patience, Megatron.” His derma hurt as he smiles, stomping on his own pede cover to stop from tapping it relentlessly. “I trust the trip found you well?”
“Indeed. Useless dawdling while awaiting transport. Nothing unbearable.” He’s looking at Orion weirdly again, like he’s reviewing a report. Shoving down a shiver, his optic ridge twitches. Slagger.
“Where is Sentinel?”
“He should be arriving shortly.” Probably half out of his berth, drooling whatever leftover voided engex violently erupted last night. Orion will do what he can to multitask, alerting his lead advisor and appeasing the client, a dance he's perfected long ago.
A small smile briefly dances on Megatron's derma before he takes a sip of his cup of caffeinated energon. “Very well. I'm more than content with starting the meeting.”
Optics widening, he panics.
He's never run a meeting on his own before. He's stalled, he's dug for more information, he's even called in an alternate lead advisor, but has never done these things himself. A part of him almost deflects by gathering more information about Megatron's finances, but there's an almost daring glint in those ruby optics, as if reading his processor. Oh…he thinks I can't do it.
Just because he's never led a meeting on his own, doesn't mean he doesn't know the content like the back of his servo. A swipe later, the presentation projects onto the holo board, and Orion meets the challenge head on. If he's going to embarrass himself, he's not going to hide like the dented hardware drive in front of him.
The meeting is primarily on the transition under their management, making it fairly easy to get lost in the details. Usually, whenever he remembers to spare glances at clients or even other advisors, they're glazed over or sagging. But Megatron is almost always enraptured with whatever charts or graphs; and on the off chance he isn't, his expression is focused on every word, occasionally offering a follow up question.
It’s not…nice to feel heard and respected by the boogeymech of his nightmares. But he can admit there's a certain…pride to help a bot see the value of ordering their finances. That feeling is what led him to settle for this job, find the silver lining in all those moments he'd felt broken and busted. He can admit, he's professional enough to even feel that way now sitting across his nemesis.
Red hexagonal optics shifting, Megatron taps a claw twice. “These changes protect my assets in their entirety?”
“Yes. Simplifying is the best route to do this. Your annuities are excess luggage, insurance policies need reduction in complexity and better coverage, and your trusts once created can help shield all of your properties, brokerage accounts and personal accounts. Adding your trusts as the beneficiary or re-titling your accounts will skip the probate process entirely. And, we'll have more flexible investment management strategies to save you more in taxes. We'll need to setup a meeting with your chosen estate attorney to finalize this, and it'll take a few stellar cycles to update those on the backend, but it's important to get this situated first and foremost.”
Megatron grins. “I'm excited, Orion Pax. This is fantastic news you've given me.”
Stress he had hardly noticed with how focused he was bleeds out in a quiet exvent of relief. “I'm happy to hear that. It's what I'm here for.” With that, he stands, tidying his datapads. “I'll walk you out.” For all that he was worried about, that whole experience wasn't terrible, and leaves him with a strange buzz in his cables that leaves an extra pep in his step.
“Tell me. You do recall that day a millennia ago, correct?”
Servo on the door, his nerves freeze and his fuel tank plummets to the center of the planet. Slag it all…of course it gets ruined.
Walking out is a viable, very appealing option, but then he'd never get another chance to lead a client meeting since Halfbelt would assuredly hear from Megatron how scrappy of a professional he is. Worst of all, he would ruin all his hard work from the past three stellar cycles when Megatron would switch advisory companies from how insulted he'd be were Orion to escape with his backstrut to the ex-warlord.
Inventing and exventing carefully, the imaginary pungent burn of his friend on his glossa makes his next words slightly easier to form. “I…do. Yes.” Turning, he raises his optic ridge at Megatron. “Is there an issue you have with us advising you because of it?”
Shaking his helm, Megatron stands, the ground quaking with each lumbering step. Half smirking, he rumbles in a commanding voice mimicking the one he hears in his nightmares. “On the contrary. I was curious if you had any issues being on my team.”
Condensation building in his fisting servos, he bites the inside of his cheekplate in a valiant effort to avoid disengaging his grapples. “None. I think what happened in the past, should stay in the past.”
Perhaps it’s a trick of the light or his recharge deprived processor, but for a moment his world is consumed by a shadow. Two bright, bloodthirsty pin points bore holes into his petite, helpless frame. “I think that's debatable. After all, it's not easy to forget the ferocity you fought with. It's a shame you were not celebrated more.”
The words drip maliciously, venom paralyzing his spark and all the rechargeless nights and long cycles of barely taping his frame and processor back together nearly come completely undone. By the grace of Primus, the bile bubbling in his fuel tank stays inside as he rushes out tactlessly. “Is it? Anyways, I have another meeting in a few klicks Megatron.” Flinging open the door, he bolts to the lobby. “I wish you safe travels, and trust you'll catch lots of crankfish this deca-cycle end in Tahoor.”
With a quick nod, he turns, ignoring Megatron's, “Wait how did you-”
The chorus of shadows laugh as he voids engex into the bathroom garbage can.