Chapter Text
“Look, Smokescreen, do you see the Dioptase-Doe with her fawn?” Optimus cooed as he lifted his son in his arm to allow him to look out of the wagon’s window. The tiny Sparkling chirped and clicked happily, pointing at the nearby-but-not-too-nearby shapes of the two wild animals drinking their fill in the small oil stream running by the caravan’s campsite.
It amazed the adult mech how bold the two mechanimals were; normally, wild ones fled the presence of mechs and civilization altogether, and with reason he supposed. It was well-known the barbaric nomads tribes prowling the Wastelands preyed on the mechanimals for their hides and -- it was whispered with a shudder -- for their energon, which they sucked out like vampires from those bad, pseudo-gothic tales the young mech had browsed through when he had been bored. Optimus couldn’t help but grimace at the mere idea. It sounded awful.
Thankfully, they themselves were civilized mechs. They drunk oil and energon straight from the wells and natural streams, or extracted from grinded crystals -- which they also cooked in a variety of dishes and sweets -- and on the coast, they even filtered it out of the Rust and Cobalt Seas through enormous distilleries. The mechanimals had no need to fear them -- unless they were predators too dangerous to let running around habitations and, occasionally, more harmless ones threatening the crystal fields. Perhaps it was the reason the doe hadn’t fled already, Optimus mused as he shifted Smokescreen in his arms to look at the peaceful cyberwildlife duo. She was recognizing they weren’t a threat to her and her young, unlike barbarian hunters.
The doe raised her head briefly, audio sensors twitching as if listening for danger before she went back to drink, her fawn having never stopped refueling himself. A smile tugged at the blue and red mech; the scene was just adorable, and from Smokescreen’s happy coos, he guessed his son was conquered as well, even if he was too young to truly understand the beauty of the moment.
“Our son is awake?” came a brisk voice outside and Optimus startled a little, tightening his hold on Smokescreen’s small body and looking right and left in search of the speaker, who he finally spotted right outside, at the edge of the wagon, sitting in its shadow in an attempt to get shelter from the unforgiving giant sun overhead. Why he hadn’t come inside the wagon yet, Optimus couldn’t fathom and he knew better than to ask; his Bonded disliked being questioned over anything. Bright red, orange and yellow paint gleamed under a ray of sun as red optics peered at him over a frowning face, and Optimus forced himself to nod and smile.
“He is, Flame. Do you want to come in and hold him for a moment?” he asked respectfully and -- even if his Bonded seemed unaware of it -- hopefully.
Flame rarely spent time with their Creation, preferring to retire to his office or his laboratory and letting Smokescreen’s Carrier take sole responsibility for his upbringing. But here in the Wastelands, between two city-states, there was no private ward, no laboratories, no important experiences and no research papers to redact and publish. It was the perfect time for Flame to show at least a modicum of interest in Smokescreen asides of a passing glance and a pat before Optimus took him to his crib for recharge.
But Flame shook his head and Optimus’ hopes faltered. Still, he didn’t show his disappointment, just rocking Smokescreen a little against him, making the little one giggle happily. That was a balm on his Spark already.
“You should put him back in his crib and make sure he’s get back to recharge,” the flames-painted mech commented as he leaned back against the wheel of the wagon.
“It won’t work,” Optimus commented. “He already took a long nap, and he won’t fall back asleep so easily now.” Indeed, Smokescreen was wiggling in his arms, little head turned toward the doe and the fawn still drinking by the stream, pointing at them and kicking his little legs, obviously eager to run -- or rather, to waddle and stumble -- toward them to see them closer. Flame grimaced briefly but seemed resigned to the fact. Optimus tried to find something to say, to discuss, and scrambled for something.
“They’re beautiful aren’t they? The Dioptase-Doe and the fawn,” he added when Flame glanced up at him. “Such pretty colors! And they don’t seem to be afraid of us at all. Why is that?”
Flame hummed. “Yes, I suppose that for potential test subjects, they do have a look about them.” Optimus deflated immediately; of course his Bonded would first and foremost see a ‘practical use’ to the two wild lifeforms, and primarily one benefiting his work in the Sciences Guild. “They certainly aren’t shy, but I suppose the only identified oil spring in the area is too tempting for animals to play skittish with mechs sharing the space. Of course, there might be other streams we don’t know about -- the Wastelands are hardly marked, after all, and who know how many wells are formed and depleted during the Storms Season and the Drought -- but this one is probably the more accessible one for the fawn. See how his legs are trembling? I wouldn’t wager on him having more than one orn, perhaps two. Also, see how translucent their plating is? I’m sure that from close up, we could have a very good view of their circulatory system… I wonder if perhaps we could trap a specimen?” he mused aloud.
“I… don’t think we have the time and resources for that,” Optimus put in diplomatically. “The guide did said we would be leaving in half a megacycle, right?”
“One quarter of a megacycle now,” Flame corrected him. “The Zap-Horses have rested and drunk enough by now, it’s high time we get back on the trail and go back to some civilized place. Even if it’s Kaon. I don’t know about you, but I’ll be happy to stretch my tires on a properly level ground. Slagging Wastelands,” he added grumbling, making Optimus’ lips twitch in amusement despite the fact he would have wished his Bonded refrained to swear when Smokescreen could hear him.
It was true traversing the Wastelands wasn’t easy, and almost impossible in a vehicle altmode, thus why they were walking and using wagons and Zap-Horses instead of rolling. The ground was uneven for the most part, aside of a few trails the caravans took from one city to the other -- when said trails weren’t wiped out by a storm or by a horde of mechanimals.
The landscape, according to the history files Optimus had read in the Archives, had once been lush, full of plants and various mechanimal species, and true roads had linked together the southern city-states with the northern ones. Then the War had happened, causing great destruction across Cybertron. The ravages it had caused had scarred the planet forever, causing great changes in its ecosystem, especially in the Southern Hemisphere, where they were currently traveling. The weather had become harsher, acid rains, storms and tornadoes racking the planet regularly. Metalloplants and mechanimals started to die out, energon wells dried up. Several city-states were lost to the destruction, and the Wastelands formed.
The great, mostly arid plains covered a little less than half of Cybertron and hide the remains of once great civilizations. Praxus, Vos, Kolkular, Helex, Tarn,... All great cities once upon a time, now just names whispered in wonder and fright, half-forgotten by everyone but by those who could trace their ancestry to those cities. A popular theory said that the nomads tribes which roamed the Wastelands were the remaining descendants of the wiped cities inhabitants who had stubbornly remained behind to save what they could of their homes instead of taking refuges in the north, like many of their brethren did.
Not many believed the rumor, though, for it would have drew kinship links between them, civilized mechs, and a bunch of savages who devoured mechanimals and attacked caravans or outposts build in the Wastelands in and attempts to recolonize the devastated fields.
Still, the rumor probably had it right, Optimus mused. The nomads hadn’t just appeared out of thin air, after all. He had once discussed the matter with his mentor, the old Head Archivist Alpha Trion. The ancient, knowledgeable mech had just smiled sadly, bitterly.
“Of course they didn’t, Optimus. They were like us; survivors who had to find a way to adapt and survive in a new environment. We were lucky our infrastructures, government and civilization was left mostly intact; we were able to rebuild and reorganize ourselves in a coherent society very close to our previous model. They, on the other hand, didn’t get that chance. That said, our positions could have easily been reversed, and we could have been nomads ourselves. Never forget that.”
And the subject had been closed. Optimus hadn’t dared to ask more on the moment, and later on, with his upcoming Bonding and his resignation from the Archives in order to become a housemech, it had been too late.
Smokescreen chirped, breaking Optimus out of his reminiscences, and he bowed his head to smile at his son, stroking him under the chin with one digit.
“Kaon isn’t such a bad place,” he tried to comfort his Bonded. Which was true; the biggest of the remaining Southern cities, Kaon was well-defended and was known for it’s booming business. Some were already nicknaming it the ‘Southern Capital’ or the ‘Southern Gemstone’. “Of course, it’s a little far from Iacon and most of our clan, but you said yourself there would be plenty of opportunities for you to further your career,” he reminded him. Flame wasn’t a very family-oriented mech, but he was always willing to see reason when it was related to his job and career.
The flame-painted mech nodded. “Yes, yes, of course. I just wish we didn’t have to go through the Wastelands on foot to join Kaon. A pity that with the upcoming Storms Season, no aerial transports was willing to make the trip.”
“There already were two crashes reported in the news, one of which involved a civilians transport,” Optimus reminded him, rocking the still wiggling Smokescreen to calm him down. “I understand the pilots weren’t in a hurry to continue the liaisons with the Southern Hemisphere. Besides, walking has its advantages. We… we can spend some time together that way,” he offered. He fought to not add more; Flame could take it the wrong way if he did, and he didn’t want to give the impression he was complaining. Even if he was.
Flame looked nonplussed, but finally nodded. “Of course. Ah… Optimus? I’m sorry I didn’t have much time for you lately -- or for Smokescreen,” he added after a moment of silence, and he sounded truly sorry, to Optimus’ surprise. “My work was just too important for me to drop it like that. You understand, don’t you? But once we’re properly settled in Kaon, I’ll try to arrange for more free time so we can go out together. Would you like that?”
Optimus nodded, smiling. “I’d be elated.” But he didn’t believe a word of it. Flame had promised that before, and he had always forgotten in favor of something he deemed more important: that one, capital experience he needed to keep an optic on, that unplanned trip to Protihex University for a lecture, that research paper he needed to complete in order for it to get published in the next sciences newspaper,... Spending time with his mate always came second to what he deemed more important.
The only things he didn’t forget were the official receptions they needed to attend together as part of the Prime’s household -- even if they were only distantly related to the Prime himself. Showing himself and looking important or playing sycophant to more influential members of their extended family or of the nobility was something Flame always had time for, much to Optimus’ disgust. It wasn’t even as if Flame was gathering any true favor, but still he went and tried and Optimus had to smile and play the part of a good Bonded, even when he wished to be somewhere else entirely.
He wished… Yes, he truly wished his Creators had arranged for a different match. Sadly, the distant kinship they shared with the ruling Prime had ensured early on Optimus wouldn’t get much, if any say in whom he would eventually Bond. The purity of the Prime lineage had to be conserved through careful breeding. Love held little role in the process. Cue his Bonding to Flame, with whom he shared little to no common interest. Flame wasn’t much happier himself with the Bonding arrangement, of course, but since his rank had been higher than Optimus’ own, he had ended up as the dominating partner, and so he hadn’t had to sacrifice all his ambitions as Optimus himself did.
Both were descended from the lineage of the Prime, but to different degrees. Optimus was the only Creation of the fifth Creation of the second Creation of Lio Convoy, the late Zeemon Prime’s younger brother, whereas Flame was the second Creation of the current Prime’s cousin -- on his Carrier’s side -- and he was also the nephew of the current Mistress of the Flame to boot. His very name was an homage to that Aunt, for he had been born on the day she had accessed to the grade. With such ties, he was closer in kin to the current Prime than Optimus was, and so he had naturally been chosen to become the Sire in his and Optimus’ couple. Besides, being a scientist was a more important occupation than being an archivist, even if Optimus had been training under Alpha Trion himself. At least, that was what several family members had let him know, more or less directly.
This disdain for his chosen profession had stung a lot, especially from some mechs he had thought were his friends. Flame had showed himself genuinely supportive and upset on his behalf, for which Optimus had been grateful, but even his show of support hadn’t meant much -- and couldn’t change the way their society worked. In a Bonded couple, the Sire continued to work, but the Carrier was expected to stay at home and bear and raise the Sparklings -- and even more so in families belonging to the nobility. Commoners might be allowed a derogation, but a noble? Unthinkable.
Still, Optimus reasoned, he shouldn’t complain too much. Flame might have been distant and far from being his ideal mech, but he wasn’t so bad. He never drunk until he was overcharged, he had never raised a hand toward Optimus even when he was frustrated, he provided him with everything Optimus asked him for… and he had given him Smokescreen. That alone was worth everything in the universe for the red and blue mech.
“I’ll be sure to give you two a treat,” Flame promised again. “Do you need something in the wagon? More oil skins to fill perhaps? Smokescreen hasn’t lost any of his toys?”
Optimus smiled despite himself. “No, everything is in order. Smokescreen has everything he needs, and the skins are all full. Do you… do you wish to come in, perhaps? Do part of the travel in the wagon with us?” he asked belatedly. He didn’t dare asking if perhaps he could walk besides Flame; had it only been the two of them, or had they been commoners, he could have. With a young Sparkling to care for, though, the unspoken, right way to act for a noble, even a minor one, was to ride inside the wagon the entire way with the little one. As such, the long treck to Kaon was starting to feel very lonely, and he wished Flame would have picked on it.
“Thank you for the offer, but I prefer to walk,” Flame declined with a polite nod, missing the unspoken plea for company. “Besides, more space for Smokescreen and you to play, right?”
“Right,” Optimus said after a moment of silence, shuttering his optics.
“You should got back to lie on your berth,” Flame added after a moment of silence, something like concern in his voice, making Optimus light his optics again to look at him. “You don’t look too good. Do you still have trouble recharging? You’re sure the fuel you took wasn’t contaminated, right?”
“It’s nothing,” the blue and red mech waved asides the concern, though he felt touched his Bonded even addressed the issue. “I think it’s just the rocking motions of the wagon which upset my tank; I don’t have any problem anymore. As for the recharge… well, I’m just unused to the heat and the constant motion. Once we’re back into a proper apartment, I’ll feel and rest much better. I promise.”
“If you say so.” Flame looked dubitative, but he let it go. Nibbling his lips, he raised a hand toward the window, stroking Optimus’ hand and, to Optimus’ delight, Smokescreen’s cheek. The little mechling chirped and waved happily at his Sire, making Flame break into a rare smile before he withdrew his hand. “I’ll go see how the preparations for the departure are going. From what the guides said, we’re still five solar cycles away from Kaon. It won’t be much longer.”
Optimus nodded. They exchanged a few more words before Flame left. He watched him go wistfully while Smokescreen made a plaintive sound; him too would have wished for his Sire’s continued presence. It couldn’t be helped, though. With a sigh, the blue and red mech looked back toward the stream.
The Dioptase-Doe and her fawn were long gone.
*-*-*-*-*-*
They were still three solar cycles and half away from Kaon when the attack came. It started so silencious and at such an unexpected moment that it took a moment for Optimus to register what was happening.
One moment he was nodding at one of the caravan’s guard as he passed by the wagon’s open window, and the next he was blinking as the guard stiffened and fell from his Zap-Horse with barely a whimper, armor smoking from a hole in his back. There had been no blaster discharge, and Optimus contemplated the injury silently for a few kliks, not understanding what had caused the damages.
It struck him around the same time cries of warning echoed across the caravan and blasters discharges as well as shout of pains and dying gasps replaced the previous silence.
Energy arrow. They were a primitive weapon, especially next to modern blasters, but they consumed far less energy, and they had the advantage to be perfectly silencious.
Nomads used energy bows.
Optimus was moving before his processor had really registered what he was doing. In a matter of kliks, he had closed the reinforced shutter of the window, somewhat managed to dislodge one berth from its fixation and pushed it in front of the door to lock it up as best as he could, and now he was huddling in a corner, holding a wailing Smokescreen against his chest he listened anxiously to the noise outside.
It didn’t sound good at all. Silently, he addressed a prayer to Primus as he tightened his hold around Smokescreen. Whatever was going to happen, he wouldn’t let anyone hurt his Sparkling. He swore it on his Spark.
Insistent banging at the wagon door made him startle and he tensed, looking around desperately for a weapon -- and he belatedly realized he was holding one foot of the berth as he would a club. When had he tore it up?
“Optimus? Optimus are you alright?!”
“Flame! What’s going on?!” he anxiously called back, feeling stupid for asking. They were under attack, of course he knew what was going on! “Are you alright?!” Nevermind himself, so long Smokescreen and him were inside, they had little to fear -- or so he hoped -- but Flame was in first line for the barbarians to attack!
“Stay where you are and protect Smokescreen!” the flame-painted mech shouted, his voice barely audible in the chaos outside.
“Flame!” Optimus shouted desperately, hearing his Bonded cry -- not a cry of pain but an actual war cry. The idiot! He knew the distant scientist knew how to use a weapon -- and for that matter, so did Optimus; all nobles, even minor ones, learned to use a sword and a blaster to defend themselves should they need to -- but it must have been vorns since the last time the flame-colored mech picked one! And still he did, in defense of his family, and the part of Optimus’ Spark and processor who weren’t seized with fear and worry actually felt proud of Flame’s courage.
“Optimus?” Flame panted outside. “It doesn’t look good here. You have a weapon?”
The red and blue mech looked down at his makeshift club. “Sort of…”
“Anyone come in, don’t hesitate to use it. I’ll defend the entrance, but they’re too many…” he paused and gave another war cry. “Optimus? Optimus, I… I’m sorry. I haven’t been… ” Another cry, but this time, Optimus almost wailed as he realized it was a cry of pain.
“Flame! Flame!” His Spark gave a flutter.
“... you take care of Smokey, okay?” the exhausted voice of his Bonded said, pain lacing his words. He gave a cry again, a sharp, defiant cry even as a more powerful roar resonated near by, making Optimus shudder. Then there was a gurgle, and a sharp sting to his Spark that made him shutter his optics, cleansing fluid leaking out as he realized that the Bond had broken.
He didn’t have time to weep, however, as loud banging started to be heard. Someone was trying to destroy the door. Optimus’ hold on his club tightened and he rose to his pedes, still holding Smokescreen’s small body to him with one arm. His Sparkling was wailing from fright, but in the chaos outside, it sounded like a mere whisper.
The blade of a sword finally transpierced the door, and Optimus shifted, optics narrowed, never leaving the door out of his sight as he carefully moved out of the corner. The wagon wasn’t very large, and he would have a hard time fighting in it especially with Smokescreen to consider, but he had to try. Flame had laid down his life for them, and he would do the same for Smokescreen should the need arise.
Let those barbarians come in; he was ready to receive them!
The door broke, its remain sprawling on the floor. A large hand pushed aside the few fragments still standing as a mech made its way inside with a grunt. Optimus’ hand shook slightly as he readied his makeshift club and he swallowed as red optics fell on him. Primus. Sharp dentas, clawed hands. A grey frame that looked dangerous and lethal, sprayed with energon -- and not a drop of it looked like its own. The red and blue mech didn’t whimper, but it was close.
The nomad’s optics went from him to Smokescreen and back, widening slightly. He glanced back behind him, shifting just so, and with horrified optics, Optimus caught the hint of a greying frame outside as the wagon’s feet. A familiar frame. The nomad’s optics were still glancing at it when Optimus roared and, in a fit of pain, rage and fear, threw himself at him, wanting to avenge Flame. True, there hadn’t been any true love between them, but he was… had been his Bonded and Smokescreen’s Sire. He had tried to defend them, and he had paid a heavy price. He merited Optimus’ efforts to avenge him.
The club connected with the nomad’s head with a clang, making the mech hiss in pain, but he didn’t stumble. Instead, a sturdy hand caught Optimus’ armed wrist and forced him to drop his weapon lest he’d also drop Smokescreen due to the pain. With a cry, Optimus let go, blue optics catching red ones.
For a moment, they just looked at each other, then Optimus moved, kicking as well as he could while still holding and protecting Smokescreen with one hand, the Sparkling desperately crying as he could do nothing to sooth his fear.
The nomad didn’t bulge. With a grunt, he let go of his own weapon, the sword which had destroyed the door, and grabbed Optimus’ shoulder, bringing him close to him, trapping Smokescreen between their two frames. The red and blue mech immediately stilled, for fear of accidentally crushing his son in the struggling. Everything became still, asides of his son’s continued panicked wriggling and wailing. The nomad looked at him up and down, frowning, his olfactive sensor sniffing like that of a Hellhound, making Optimus feel uneasy for some reason as the mech breathed in his scent. The red optics widened slightly, a grimace briefly crossing his face before he schooled his expression again.
He said a word, but Optimus could only stare at him, mute. He hadn’t understood what he had been said and truthfully, he was past caring. The word was repeated, but Optimus just stared in mute confusion again.
The nomad’s face narrowed as he manhandled Optimus, forcing him to move and walk toward the destroyed door of the wagon and outside. Smokescreen’s eventual fate still resting heavily on his mind, Optimus obeyed, trying very hard not to look at where he knew Flame laid. As it was, the nomad gently but firmly grabbed his chin so he was forced to look in another direction but the one of his greying Bonded.
Not that the rest of what was going on outside was much better.
There were bodies sprawled everywhere, mechs and Zap-Horses alike. Most belonged to the caravan’s guards, but two or three, more massive, must have belonged to the attacking nomads. One of the wagons was burning, heavy smoke rising from the open door and shutter. A few mechs were still fighting, but it was clear it wouldn’t last much longer. Several caravans members laid unconscious but still alive in the shade of another wagon, three armed nomads standing watch over them. The rest were busy sifting through the boxes and packages the Zap-Horses and wagons had been transporting, sorting out items in several piles -- probably what they considered useful, what was good loot and what was rubbish. A youngish looking nomad was collecting oil skins. There wasn’t much noise left.
Smokescreen’s wailings, diminished by his tiredness, cut through the semi-silence like an armor-piercing blade. Several nomads startled and turned to look at him, and Optimus’ Spark sunk at the sudden attention. His captor’s hold on his wrist didn’t allow him to seize his son with both hands, but oh how he wished so, so he could try and hide him against his frame!
A few nomads walked in their direction, all speaking the strange dialect Optimus didn’t understand. There was something familiar about it, but he couldn’t pinpoint what -- and he was in no state to try anyway. Behind him, his captor spoke again, answering what was probably questions headed at him. Nomads started to form an half-circle around them, looking curiously at him and at Smokescreen… Curiously, or with a strange sympathy, while other gave his captor’s glares or unimpressed looks as they spoke.
His captor spoke some more, and the disapproving looks disappeared. Nods were exchanged as most of the other nomads turned away, letting Optimus completely confused as his captor frog-marched him toward two other nomads. They were, Optimus noted with dread, busy tying up two unconscious members of the caravan. His captor gave them a sharp call and one of them threw him a roll of rope, looking at Optimus up and down with a smirk.
The other huffed and shook his head before he moved, reaching out for Smokescreen and -- as Optimus realized with alert -- obviously intending to take him out of his Carrier’s arms.
“NO!!!!!!” he shouted, kicking and hissing at the nomad, who took a step back in surprise before laughing. He started to speak at him in their strange dialect, but Optimus didn’t care. He wouldn’t let them take Smokescreen away from him!
His captor leaned toward him, whispering at his audio receptor in a soothing way, but Optimus shook his head and continued to kick and thrash to keep Smokescreen, shouting his head off at the nomads, who watched him nonplussed and tried to speak to him to no avail. With a sigh, the grey mech holding him let go of his shoulder and put his hand on Optimus’ neck, clawed digits digging into a seam and searching for something.
Optimus felt a pinch over one of his neck cablings. The next thing he knew, he was falling down, optics blurring, vision darkening, and Smokescreen’s panicked wails still resonating under his helm.