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It was days like these when things were really put into perspective. It was strangely, unnervingly quiet; the kids had all gone home and the bots were slipping into recharge one by one. The sunset on the Nevadan horizon was all but a haze, making way for the crisp cold and the delicate pins in the sky to finally say hello after a long, uneventful day.
The Decepticons hadn’t made a grand appearance in orns, which after such a long period, was a cause for anxiety. Were they plotting some grand scheme to take down the Autobots? Had Megatron left again, for another stressful three years? Perhaps longer? Had his team missed something and had the Decepticons been wreaking havoc this entire time?
These were the thoughts that had been plaguing the thirteenth Prime for- well, for the last few vorns, actually. Every now and again, the Decepticons would take a short period of time when they did nothing, as if they just disappeared, and it drove Optimus Prime, the one most would consider somewhat emotionless, absolutely delirious; not that he’d actually show it.
That’s what most mechs assumed, that the Primes were emotionless beings, living as an entity that brought peace and inspired those they encountered. Well, most mechs were wrong. The Primes weren’t emotionless, far from it, in fact. But the tasks they had to fulfill, and the tolls those tasks required, made it seem as if they had no feelings at all. Sacrifices had to be made in order to fulfill that peace they were sent to uphold, and in most cases, emotional isolation was the output of those sacrifices.
Yes, it was days like this when things were truly put into perspective. The stillness in the air gave a sense of peace, as if everything they’d done the past four vorns, the Civil War, the sacrifices and the losses, the anxiety and PTSD, it felt as if it was all worth it. As if that peace he had to bring had at last arrived and he could finally, finally, release his breath and sigh.
All was calm tonight, and for a moment, he could. He could release his breath and pretend that tomorrow would bring some sort of joy. He could pretend that he was okay for just a moment, but then be reminded of the chaos, from inside and out. Megatron would return; he always did. He’d come back like a tumor and spread his cancer across the Primes’ conscience.
But for right now, Optimus Prime, leader of the Autobots, was alright. Yeah, he was alright tonight. He made his way across the med-bay, careful not to step on any lingering parts Ratchet might have left, and stepped inside the elevator. A moment later and he was surrounded by the pinpricks he once devoted his afternoons to, succumbing to the nostalgia they wrought in their wake. The sun had taken its last breath of the day, and dove below the distant horizon. Tonight, all was calm, everything was okay, and he was alright.
He lowered himself onto the top of the plateau. How long had it been since he had last sat? His pedes groaned in relief as they hung off the side of the cliff face. He scanned the empty plains and told himself that he was just admiring the view and wasn’t looking for some sign of Decepticon activity. He seemed to be somewhat content with the nothingness he’d received. He could spare a few moments more.
The stars winked down at him from a blanket of empty. He frowned as he lowered himself further, letting his servos rest under his helm. He used to love the stars; but these stars weren’t his. He didn’t recognize them, they were completely different from the ones he’d admired all those vorns ago. He didn’t recognize the distant celestial bodies or the chemical compounds they gave off, he couldn’t recognize the constellations they created in the drape of crimson blue. They mocked him, the stars. They screamed “come get us!” They beckoned him to “come home!” Sometimes it really took his breath away, the thought of how significantly large but insignificantly small the universe really was.
Three tiny dots illuminated a portion of the veil of sky that had spread itself across his thoughts. Three insignificant pinpricks that stood in a row. A message popped up in his processor, a note from the humans “world wide web.” It happened sometimes, the vast knowledge he’s yet to learn would pop up from the internet and give him that bit of knowledge he was looking for: what kind or plant or creature he was looking at and if it was in anyway harmful to his kind or any other, what it could be used for and how to use it. Taking his attention away from the serenity he’d been engulfed in, he read the pop-up.
“Orion’s belt or the Belt of Orion, also known as the Three Kings, or Three Sisters, is an asterism in the constellation Orion. It consists of three stars Alnitak, Alnilam and Mintaka -Wikipedia,” it wrote. And just like that, his tranquility was plagued with panic. Orion.
Optimus sat up suddenly, the force almost propelling him off the cliffs edge, but his pedes were already on the plateaus surface. His optics were wide, set on the horizon, refusing to look anywhere else. He could feel his Spark beating relentlessly inside the cradle in his chassis, it felt as if it was denting its way out. His vents swung open, desperately trying to calm the freezing heat that spun its way through his body. His processor pounded in agonizing anesthetic, begging for the numbness he’d been accustomed to.
Orion. That was name of the mech he used to be. The mech that had befriended Megatronus. The mech who failed to save Megatron.
Viscous thoughts flooded his processor. He’d never live up the what Primus asked of him, he’s already lost too much, too many to the Decepticons. What did he do to deserve Megatron’s hatred? Was he really up the the task of defeating the one he once called brother? He’s already lost so many of the Autobots, he was bound to lose the rest. And their deaths were on his shoulders, their spilled energon on his hands. He could have saved Megatron, he could have stopped the Civil War before it even began! HA! He can’t save his team as Optimus Prime, what makes him think he could save Megatron as Orion Pax? He just isn’t good enough. He never was, and never will be. This entire war is his fault. He’s the cause of all this suffering, and it would all be over if he would just-
“Optimus.” that sweet, blissful voice tore him from his tainted mind. He spun around and was met with the Autobots very own medic. Optimus looked down, hadn’t even noticed that he had made his way to the cliffs edge, or that he’d been eyeing the rather enticing offer the drop gave. He looked up at the mech before him, worry etched both of their faceplates.
“Ratchet.” He didn’t have the energy or focus to weave the crack of vorns worth of pain out of his voice. The orange medic glanced up at the wave of light that cascaded over the sky. His optics landed on the mocking stars that plagued Optimus’s processor. He looked back down at his leader and smiled sadly. Optimus reset his vocalizer and spoke again, “I.. I thought you had already gone to berth.” He desperately tried to fix his optics on anything but Ratchet, knowing full well that the medic new exactly what was happening.
Optimus realized then that he was ashamed. But… of what? Oh, right. Ashamed of the fact that he risked the lives of those he came to care about more than his own. Ashamed of the fact that he couldn’t save the one he had cared about most, ashamed that he had been the reason Megatron rebelled against all of Cybertron. Ashamed that-
“Optimus,” Ratchet spoke again. His servo came to reach up to touch the side of Optimus’s helm. When the Prime refused to look at him, even then, he brought his other one up and called his name again. Ratchet pulled against Optimus’s faceplate so he’d have to look at him in the optics.
The sight of all the sadness that filled the medics beautifully blue optics was too much. A sob wretched its way out from deep within his spark chamber, quickly followed by tears that wettened the Primes faceplate for the first time in millennia. Ratchet let them fall from his leader faceplate, watching them glisten in the frosty warmth of twilight. He traced his thumbs against the seams in the metal.
A wave of affection wrapped around Optimus’s spark, cascading through his body. He opened his optics, bringing his servos to rest on the medics, squeezing tightly and kissing his palms. Optimus returned the feeling, Ratchet smiling in response as he leaned his helm on the Prime’s chassis, weaving his servos around his neck, rubbing his neck cables soothingly.
“It’s going to be alright, love,” Ratchets voice comforted. Optimus let the tears fall as he dragged his servos down the seams on the medics arms, before settling them on the orange bots hips, holding him close as his own helm fell upon the mech's below him. He let the tears fall as wave after wave of love filled him, chasing away the sorrow. The sobs slowed, but the tears fells for the pain and sorrow still raked through his spark.
The last of the Primes wept for his fallen comrades, for the mistakes he’s made and for the ones to come. He wept for the lives he couldn’t save and for the one that refused to be saved. He wept for the ones that never had a chance, for the ones that still had a future to look forward to.
Optimus wept for his team. He wept for his Home. For his Brother. He wept for the bot below him, of whom he considered more than a friend. He wept for the bond they had created together, the one that couldn’t be defined by words. The one that brought the medic to the top of the plateau in the middle of the night, under a stretch of unfamiliar worlds. The one that brought him to his lover.
“It’s going to be alright.” Alright. That’s what they were. They were alright, even for a moment. Even with this torturous pain that had subconsciously weaved its way into his spark, they were alright.
The stars twinkled down mockingly. “Come get us!” they said, “Come home!” they beckoned. Optimus smiled. He was home.