Chapter Text
Optimus Prime pulled over carefully just before the small temple. The tridecagon base was dwarfed by the warehouses that flanked it and the entrance was sunk a few mechanometers below street level. The temple had clearly survived the many rebuilds and revitalization of Iacon. The ramp leading into the temple proper was layered with different colored paving metals, like an oil cake sliced at an angle.
Optimus transformed before crossing the boundary into the temple. Deep color-coded creches lined the walls, twelve each for the primary Aspects, with the final thirteenth side reserved for the entrance (and, symbolically, the Fallen-Aspect, who did not have priests).
The main temple was empty, as would be expected early in the work shift, but Optimus could hear the sounds of quiet diligent work hidden in the creches. He slowly approached the center of the temple. Each of the colored wedges from the sides of the building met exactly in the center of the shallow depression in the floor.
Optimus carefully stepped out of the gray unpainted entrance to the violet wedge to his left, taking care to not place his pede on the line between colors. He walked deliberately over the next five colored wedges, pausing on the green wedge.
After a moment of deliberation, he lowered himself slowly onto a rounded stool set into the floor. He settled in to wait.
Optimus pulled a small pad with a crack in one corner out of his subspace. He didn't turn it on. Instead he turned his orders over and over in his servos. A small space-bridge repair crew, only four members, including him, tasked with repairing space bridges. The mission was helmed by a Prime, naturally, as space bridges were the most important of the Commonwealth's military infrastructure. The bridges were the edge that had won the Autobots the war.
However, the planetary space-bridges (on Commonwealth planets like Velocitron or Caminus) were under the purview of their local governments and therefore had their own local teams dedicated to their maintenance and repair. Optimus and his team were tasked with the most remote bridges on the very edge of Autobot territory. The ones that had rarely seen any travel, save perhaps as a flanking manuever during the war, these bridges were deliberately situated in the middle of no-where.
It was not a mission that the best and brightest mecha were sent on. It was a dumping ground for mecha that command wished to keep out of sight and out of processor.
It was all Optimus deserved.
He turned the pad over and over in his servos, end over end, the crack in the corner catching the multicolored lights of the temple.
"You look troubled, child of Primus," a soft voice came from just before him.
A priest of the Explorer-Aspect (marked by his green plating) was crouched before him, expertly balanced on a small hover sled to match height with Optimus' optics. Explorer-Aspect priests gave oath to never touch the plating of Primus except in very specific rituals, and thus had to find other modes of personal transport when on Cybertron.
Optimus had always wondered if the oath extended to the ground of all planets, or just Cybertron. Some priests of the Scientist-Aspect argued that all planets with life contained a divine spark of the order that Primus represented. He supposed he might find out, if he ever had the inclination to enter one while, well. Exiled in all but name.
"It's my first time deploying off-planet," Optimus confessed softly. "I've gone on missions, but never for more than a deca-orn. This time I'll be gone for over a vorn." If he was ever allowed back at all (perhaps for 'special missions').
He'd packed all his possessions (meager though they were) into his subspace. He'd terminated the lease he couldn't afford on his own. He'd driven past this temple at first on his way to the spaceport. It was easy to overlook, nestled as it was between large warehouses in the shipping district of Iacon. But the auto-ping blessing he'd gotten in his comm buffer had reminded him of something. Something from the creche or maybe from a history file.
When going on long journeys, it never hurts to get a blessing from the Explorer-Aspect of Primus. Particularly if one will find themselves far from Cybertron.
The Explorer-priest hummed. "It is always difficult the first time, these long excursions far from home."
Optimus wasn't sure that was what was twisting his threads into loops. Some part of him wanted to get away from Cybertron, from the home that didn't feel like home anymore, from the accusing gazes that followed him around Fortress Maximus, from his empty berth. But mostly... from that austere, intimidating door that had haunted his fluxes for the last few orns. From the taste of sweets on his glossa and the sour feeling of charge.
The priest tilted his helm inquisitively at Optimus' lack of response. "Would you like a token for safe travels?"
"Yes," Optimus said. He would like safe travels, he supposed. Was that were he had gone wrong, last time? Had the Fallen-Aspect of Primus punished him for failing to follow the proper procedures?
Optimus shook off his suddenly superstitiously pious threads. No, what had happened to Elita was his fault and his alone, not because he hadn't acquired a token from a temple but because he had failed in a myriad other ways, both big and small. He deliberately focused his conscious threads on watching the priest work.
The priest had started humming a liturgical time-keeping tune. He pulled small lengths of copper wire out of his subspace on the beat, weaving the token together into a sacred twelve-fold symmetry. The loops were spaced with small oxidized copper beads, one for each of the Aspects.
Maybe a token from the Explorer-aspect would be correct first step on this new journey. Something he had never done before. A new tradition, for his new role.
The priest finished the token just as the tune he was humming resolved. He pulled the previously flat weave of the token into an intricate interwoven wire ball between his palms as he offered it to Optimus. Optimus took it carefully between his digits, tracing the interconnected loops with his optics briefly. The pattern was meant to facilitate prayer. One traced the loops with their optics as they turned the ball over in their servos and prayed.
Optimus pressed the token flat and subspaced it.
"Thank you," Optimus said to the priest, bowing and pushing as much gratitude and sincerity as he could into his field. Then he turned to the redshift side of the temple and made his way out.
The Orion, when he finally found it hidden deep in the cramped space dock lanes, was an old model. Optimus doubted it was very manueverable; the big bulky primary engines were fixed to the rear of the ship and didn't appear to have any actuators to adjust their angle of attack. Turning was likely accomplished by varying the relative power between engines, which was slow and inefficient. Fine adjustment for docking was likely accomplished with small gas thrusters situated around the hull, but those would be nearly useless for large or fast motions. In atmosphere the bulky ship likely relied on anti-gravs.
There were good reasons modern ships were sleek. But modern ships were expensive, and lacked the... character that the Orion had. Yeah. Character.
The old ship had stories to tell, at least. Optimus could see the signs of countless patches along the bright hull. There was a history, laid out on the plating, and maybe Optimus would learn to decipher it with time.
Well, that was probably going to be just as interesting as the work. Optimus climbed up the entry ramp and pinged the door with his credentials. He was greeted inside with a pleasantly mild computer voice and a minor amount of chaos in the main bay. There were crates haphazardly stacked everywhere, energon cargo mixed in with spare parts and scrap. The interior atmosphere had the distinct smell of ionized particles from deep space. The floors all had a light coating of fine dust in the corners.
Optimus navigated around the piles of crates in the large main hold, following the sounds of voices. He turned a bend and there they were: the three mecha assigned to his crew. There was an old mech with medic markings and two younger frames; one green and hulking, the other small and yellow. They appeared to be arguing.
"Well, where did it go then?" The old mech was shouting.
"I put it right here!" The yellow mini-bot shouted back, gesturing towards the haphazard stacks. The big green mech was shifting crates around to look behind them.
"Obviously not, since it's not here!" The old mech yelled.
"Well, what do you want me to do, pull it out of my aft?" The yellow mech responded.
"Um," Optimus said, looking between the shouting mecha.
"I want you to not misplace my very expensive equipment!" The old mech's vocalizer had a frankly impressive output.
Optimus had a feeling that his first act as Prime should not be breaking up a fight.
"Excuse me?" He tried again, but it was drowned out by the mini's response.
"Well, if wishes were energon we'd all be rich!" Which was not the saying, but that was besides the point.
"Pardon!" Optimus raised his voice to be heard before the medic could start again. All three of the mecha turned to look at him with varied expressions of frustration.
They all stared at each other for a long beat. The old medic broke first.
"Like I told you port authority crankshafts last time, we aren't leaving without our authorizations, we're just packing," the old mech growled. "So you can just frag---"
"I think I have those authorizations right here," Optimus interrupted before the mech could yell at him more (or turn to resume the argument with the mini-bot), holding up the data-chit that had come with his orders. "I'm Optimus?"
"Oh, Primus..." The old mech muttered, closing his optics briefly. He turned to call over his pauldron to the mecha just behind him. "Prime on deck!"
It was the most half-sparked muster call that Optimus had ever heard. The salute that the medic then gave was also somehow sarcastic. The big green mech hastily dropped the crate in his servos to salute. The crate proceeded to crash down onto the pede of the yellow mini-bot, causing the little mech to yelp and curse as he clutched at his stabilizer.
The big green mech said, "Oh, no Bee, buddy, I am so sorry!"
He reached down to help the mini-bot, but one servo was still over his processor and the extended elbow crashed into the medic's backplates, sending the old mech stumbling and cursing. This caused the big green mech to reel back in surprise, where he overbalanced and tumbled backwards through a pile of crates, which then fell on top of him.
Optimus stood before the new disorder in the already chaotic cargo bay with a vague sense of dread. This... was far from an auspicious start.
"At ease..." He said somewhat ironically to the mecha now under his command. None of them were in any sort of position to relax further: the medic (Ratchet, as named in the files) was hunched over glaring at the two youngsters; the big green mech (likely Bulkhead, who had actually requested this position in his bootcamp application padwork) was flat on his backplates groaning; the yellow mini-bot (who must be Bumblebee) had fallen on his aft, still rubbing at his pede.
Optimus came over, checking in briefly with Ratchet to ensure he was alright. Sergeant Kup had always complained about his back strut. Optimus suspected that Ratchet was of some equivalent ancient cohort to the old rust bucket.
"I'm fine, I'm fine, took me by surprise is all," Ratchet grumbled at him, stretching out his back struts with a groan. He had an unusually tightly held field; Optimus only felt it when he placed his servo on the medic's pauldron, and it teeked expectedly prickly.
"Alright," Optimus easily acquiesced, lifting his servo away as the medic shrugged it off. "I'll help Bulkhead, if you can check over Bumblebee?"
"Yeah, yeah," the medic grumped, but shuffled over to inspect the mini-bot's pede.
Optimus went over to shift crates off of Bulkhead.
"Primus, that's embarrassing," the big mech muttered to himself under his covering of boxes. "Not the impression I wanted to give, Prime!"
Optimus moved a crate off of Bulkhead's helm. "Optimus is fine," he said down to bashful optics.
"Never knew a Prime to want to be on a first name basis," Ratchet grumbled softly next to him. Then softer, so soft as to be nearly under his vents. "Bunch of self-centered blowhards."
"Haven't had the title for more than a deca-orn," Optimus said, looking at the crates he was shifting rather than any optics, trying to sound as casual as he could. "I'm not used to it, I suppose."
He couldn't voice that being called Prime sent a sick jolt through his tanks.
"Primus, they sent me a bunch of newsparks," the old mech grumbled. To Bumblebee he said, "You're fine, it's a minor dent. Now, if we knew were my med-kits drove off to on their own, I would be able to help you more..."
"Jeez, they're in here somewhere, Doc, we'll find them," the yellow mech said.
"We should probably organize this mess, anyway," Optimus said as he offered Bulkhead a servo to help stand. He couldn't offer much mass to counterweigh the big mech, but it was the thought that counted.
"What?" Bumblebee whined. "We just got it in here! Now you want us to move it all again?"
"Well, given that we've already lost something important," Optimus acknowledged Ratchet with a slight helm tilt, to which the medic responded with a bemused huff, "and that we really shouldn't be storing energon anywhere near electrical component scrap, which is likely to have slow discharge capacitors," Optimus pointed to one stack which had a long-term energon storage cube balanced precariously on a crate unhelpfully labeled 'circuit boards and electronic-slag,' "I think that we have to reorganize."
Bumblebee groaned. Bulkhead winced when he noticed the unorthodox label. Ratchet grumbled, but levered himself up.
Then they got to work.
Optimus took pains to praise Bumblebee and Bulkhead when they proposed an idea during the inventory. Both of the younger mecha looked unsubtly baffled whenever he did. When they finally found the crate of medical supplies that Ratchet had been looking for, he tried to offer help to the grumpy medic. Ratchet only scowled in response as he snatched up the crate and stomped off to the medbay.
"I swear, something nasty and organic musta crawled up his tailpipe and died," Bumblebee said to Optimus with a naively mean sort of comradery.
Optimus sent an admonishing look and pulse through his field at the mini-bot. "Doctor Ratchet may... be curmudgeonly, but that does not give us leave to say such things about a fellow Autobot."
Bumblebee had the grace to look admonished.
"'Sides, he was probably in a bad mood because we lost his stuff," Bulkhead said. "He might mellow out a bit once we get on our way."
"I dunno, I haven't seen a speck of mellow in doc-bot since we got here," Bumblebee said.
In the end they managed to mostly clear the main hold of crates of equipment, shifting the things that they wouldn't need regularly into the forward hold. Optimus had even managed to keep the two younger mecha mostly on track; Bulkhead had gone on a few rants about some of the large equipment they needed for space-bridge repair that had mostly gone over Optimus' helm, and Optimus had to lightly encourage Bumblebee more than once to write clear labels on the crates, but he was going to count it as a win.
He released the young mecha for their rest shift and climbed the ramp up to the second level to check in with Ratchet. He found the old mech puttering around the medbay, just as he suspected he would.
"You should rest up. We'll launch tomorrow," Optimus tried to start delicately.
"I don't take orders from you, Prime," Ratchet said as he continued to do what he was doing, and Optimus had another sick jolt in his tanks at the title. "You are the 'captain' because Command has deemed it so, which doesn't mean slag out in the black. I've been with this ship since the War ended, and here I'll stay, until the heat death of the universe or my dissipation, whichever comes first."
That was a very bold (and lightly treasonous) statement to make. And lead one to wonder why Ratchet wasn't the captain of this vessel, if he claimed such strong ownership of it. There was strong precedence for veterans to get preferential placement after the War. Probably because his abrasive personality matrix had scraped Command the wrong way.
Optimus held his servos up in surrender.
"I'm not trying to get in the way of how you've run things, Ratchet," Optimus tried to reassure. He wasn't sure it was very assuring because it only made the medic's scowl deepen.
"I don't run things, I'm just the ship doctor," Ratchet said firmly. "I don't want to deal with Command any more than I have to; you can have them." Optimus didn't much want them either. "I'm just sciving the bool. You do what you need to do to keep those newsparks out from under my pedes and away from my things, and I'll stay out of your way."
Optimus paused for a long moment. "Alright. Good night, Ratchet."
The medic grunted, and Optimus retreated to the crew deck.
Optimus pressed his palm into the reader of his new quarters. His position nominally gave him access to the forward-most cabin on the ship (the furthest from the vibrations of the engine and generally the largest). But on the Orion all the cabins were situated in a circle around a central energon dispenser and therefore had roughly the same area. Still, distance from the engines were distance from the engines.
The door opened on the tiny cabin. The berth filled the entire space next to the door to the far wall. A small desk was squeezed in the wide end of the wedge-shaped room. Optimus wasn't sure that he'd be able to fit his pedes under the low surface; he'd probably already look comical enough sitting on the small stool with his knee guards up by his chestplates.
Optimus sat down heavily on the edge of his berth.
He looked at the empty shelf above the desk.
He took out a small cheap holo-cube. He pressed the subtle button on one side. It lit up with the smiling forms of three mecha; two trucks flanking a small femme form. All three were jostling for a position to show off the new badges on their frames.
After the pre-programed breem the projection turned off. Optimus put the cube up on the shelf. He didn't even have to stretch to place it there.
He pulled out his small collection of datapads to put next to the holo-cube. Then the token.
Optimus flipped the flattened shape in his servos for a moment before pulling it into a ball.
He traced the looping wire with his optics for a long while, deliberately not looking at his chronometer.
He didn't know what he was doing here. He didn't know how to repair space-bridges or lead mecha or deal with Command. But this was his only option. He hadn't known how to fight or about history or strategy before the Academy.
Optimus might not be a hero. But he could learn. He could transform and change. It would be hard. But he could do it. He had to.
He placed the little ball of a token on the shelf, opposite the holo-cube. Then he curled up on the small berth looking at the barely filled space that would be his home for the foreseeable future.
Tomorrow they would leave Cybertron behind for their first bridge. But first, tonight, Optimus would recharge.