Chapter Text
Greetings Optimus Prime.
"Really? You're writing the Prime now too?" Impactor snorted as he read over Megatron's shoulder. "That's as big a waste of time as all that poetry of yours."
Megatron paused in his composition. "You didn't say anything about the letters I sent to the senators," he said calmly, looking back at Impactor from his seat. "Were those a waste of time as well?"
"Have you gotten any responses from them?"
"Not yet," Megatron started to say, but Impactor cut him off.
"Then yeah, they were a waste of time." The other mech came around and sat down on the bench beside Megatron, facing out into the training room and leaning back against the long table. "Our situation isn't one you're gonna be able to fix with your fancy words. You really think the mechs in charge don't know how bad it is? They know, they just don’t care."
Megatron frowned. “We need to make them care,” he argued, not for the first time. “If we are to have any real, lasting improvements to our lives here we need the cooperation of the mechs in government. They are the ones with the power to make and enforce the changes we seek.”
For once, Impactor didn’t take up the well-worn debate and simply sat in silence, looking out at the other mechs engaged in various activities around the room. Megatron knew what he was thinking just the same — those changes shouldn’t have been necessary in the first place.
This wasn’t the life Megatron had envisioned when he retired from active duty. Like Impactor and most of the mechs here, Megatron had served several terms in the military in the off-world colony campaigns. He had risen in the ranks swiftly, his career a series of victories and promotions culminating with becoming a full general. Despite his successes, however, Megatron had been more than ready to be done with fighting after the final subdual and colonization of Chaar. That engagement had been long, grueling, and brutal, and he had been honorably discharged after its end by his request.
Unfortunately, off-world success in the military meant very little on Cybertron itself, for all that he had been respected and even called a hero by many of his fellow soldiers. The prevalent attitude at home was that warframes were violent and dangerous and that all they knew how to do was fight. Megatron had initially scoffed at such narrow-minded views, but time had proven how powerful they were. Finding employers who would hire them or places where they could afford to live without distrustful neighbors harassing them was impossible in many places, and difficult everywhere else.
After much searching without success across Cybertron, Megatron had found himself back in his home city of Kaon, still with no prospects. There he discovered a large community of other former soldiers struggling to make ends meet. The cost of living outstripped even an officer’s pension without supplementary income, which wasn’t easy to find… legally, anyway. Hiring on as a bouncer or bodyguard were sometimes options, but most of the establishments looking for that kind of help were in the lower districts of Kaon and questionable at best. The thought of resorting to illegal activities to get by had been abhorrent to Megatron, though there were plenty of mechs who did.
In the end he had sacrificed something other than his ethics: instead of being able to leave battle behind him as he had hoped to, he eventually found steady ‘employment’ in fighting for sport and spectacle. There was huge demand for pit fighters and gladiators, particularly in Kaon, and Megatron was one of the best.
Still, his victories in the arena felt hollow. They did nothing to change the fact that the general populace thought all he and his kind were good for was fighting. Megatron had thought long and hard on the problem before coming to a conclusion: he had fought for the government, he had fought for money; now he would fight for his fellow mechs and for justice, using a stylus instead of a sword.
Most of those fellow mechs thought that was a losing battle that could not be won at first, especially those like Impactor who had been out of the army longer than Megatron. He didn’t let it discourage him — he had his supporters, though they were few and growing slowly in number for now. Megatron was no stranger to the long campaign. This was only one of the first steps of many.
Megatron had gone back to his writings when Impactor spoke again unexpectedly. “Writing to the Prime’s a bigger waste of time than writing to the senators. If you’re trying to get someone in politics to help us, the Temple’s the wrong place to be looking.”
“Soundwave: agrees,” came a synthesized monotone. Megatron set down his letter again as his former lieutenant and communications officer joined them. “Prime: cannot help us.”
“We can’t know that unless we reach out to him,” Megatron countered. “It doesn’t hurt to include him. Besides, isn’t the purpose of the Temple to come to the aid of those with no other recourse?”
Impactor laughed while Soundwave said nothing. Neither were particularly religious and had little to no faith in the gods or the Temple, though they both knew that Megatron did. He simply tempered his belief with the understanding that the Temple, like any mortal establishment, had its failings. He would readily admit that the previous Prime hadn’t exactly been the best. However, there was no reason not to make their case to the new Prime as far as he was concerned. If nothing else, all it cost him was the effort it took to write a single letter — and send a prayer.
“Go ahead then, send your letter,” Impactor said when his laughter failed to get a rise out of Megatron. He stood from the bench and stretched to loosen his cables. “Just don’t expect any more of a response than you got from the senators.”
“Letter: destined to be buried in administration. Prime: will never see it,” Soundwave intoned cynically.
“If that’s the case, so be it,” Megatron said, his conviction unwavering. “I am still going to send it. It may have a different destiny than you think.”
***
The slightly weathered-looking datapad caught the Prime's attention just as he was leaving the Archives. Humble as it appeared, something about it felt significant. An older model, its edges showed signs of wear and the dataport was surrounded by scratches from multiple uses. The screen was dull, but intact, and the resting text showed it was addressed to him.
"What is this?" Optimus asked curiously, pausing at the corner of Scrivener's desk to pick it up and examine it more closely.
"My Lord Prime!" The cleric had been so absorbed in his task that the deep voice startled him. His stylus nearly slipped from his fingers as his head jerked up, followed swiftly by the rest of him as he rose from his seat. "I thought you had already left! Don't you have a dedication this afternoon?"
"Yes, and I should already have been on my way," Optimus smiled. "I find it difficult to leave this place, however."
"You always did." Scrivener would know; the two of them had worked together for many vorns, serving the Temple of Primus and the office of the Prime in the attached Hall of Records. "Do I need to chase you out again?"
Optimus chuckled, the sound reverberating gently around the room. "Perhaps, but tell me first — where did this come from?"
"Let me see." Scrivener reached for the datapad and Optimus passed it to him. He sat back down, turning to his terminal to scan the device and pull up its information. "This came with a batch of correspondence and petitions last decaorn. The mail room just forwarded it this morning."
"Why was it sent to you and not to me?"
Scrivener fixed Optimus with a look. "You know the Temple receives too many messages for the Prime to devote his personal attention to all of them," he admonished. "It would have been brought to you if the Archive flagged it later as a repeat supplicant or found significant key words."
Optimus frowned and leaned in to search the screen for a return address. "Yes, and in the meantime this… Megatron of Kaon… would have received nothing more than a formula reply to his spark-felt appeal."
Before his unexpected and rather sudden elevation to the Primacy less than a decavorn ago, Optimus, then Orion Pax, had been responsible for sending some of those messages on behalf of his predecessor. It might have been necessary to delegate the work, but he had wished then as he did now that there was a better way. Many of those tasked with the job had a stock set of responses drafted to chose from depending on the content of the letter they were answering. As such, their answers were not always applicable or helpful to the recipient. Optimus, on the other hand, had always taken the time to write an individual reply to each and every one that crossed his desk.
He still did, as much as possible. It was an ongoing struggle to get his staff to send him the letters in the first place though. They sorted with extreme prejudice, and clearly this datapad, whatever was on it, hadn't made the cut. "I do not see a summary of the contents," Optimus observed.
"That’s because I haven't had a chance to catalogue it yet," Scrivener replied. "They didn't finish entering it into the system before they sent it up. Inexcusable, given how long it took them to process it this far!" He looked like he wanted to start on a rant about lax standards among the lower clerical staff, but a glance at the decorative chronometer on the desk cut him off before he could begin. "I'll take care of it. You need to get going."
"I am going," Optimus said, straightening and holding out his hand for the datapad. "And I am taking that with me."
"Optimus," Scrivener said warningly, foregoing his proper title. "You don't even know what's on it. It might not be important at all."
"Then it will not take long to answer it." Optimus kept his hand where it was, waiting patiently. With a sigh, Scrivener handed it over. "Thank you, my friend," Optimus smiled warmly as he took it, ignoring the mech's muttered exasperation. "Until next time."
The Hall of Records wasn't all that far from the Temple, so Optimus walked back instead of driving. He had just reached his office and was putting the datapad away to look at later when he was joined by the Iaconian noblemech who often served as his escort. His sparkline held a hereditary position with the Temple, but Mirage was no mere priest. He was an astute political scholar and a sorely needed advisor to the relatively new Prime. He was also, though few knew it, a highly trained bodyguard, and a close friend as well.
"We were beginning to worry you would be late," Mirage said. There was a glint of amusement in his amber optics behind the half-mask he wore, though his expression was as cool and neutral as his voice. "What did you find to distract yourself with this time?"
"Something that can wait," Optimus said. "I will be ready in a moment."
The barest of approving smiles graced Mirage's features as Optimus finished straightening his desk and made sure he had what he needed for the ceremony. Optimus could guess at the reason — every now and then, especially after visiting the Archives and being reminded of his former life, his insecurities would surface and manifest in overly long explanations or apologies. This time he had managed to avoid either. It made him smile as well.
Optimus joined Mirage to drive out to the dedication site with little further delay, trying to put the datapad out of his thoughts.
***
The dedication and subsequent gala lasted for a while so it wasn't until quite some time later that Optimus was able to return to his office. Mirage followed after him, curious as he pulled the datapad back out and powered it up again.
"This is what was responsible for your distraction all night?" he asked, taking in the lightly battered device. "Is this another of your charity cases?" It wasn't said unkindly. Mirage had worked with the previous Prime who, in his decline, had slowly withdrawn from doing anything other than what was absolutely required of him. He had officiated at the Temple but taken little interest in the more political aspects of the Primacy, letting public works and relations slide by the wayside. Optimus' enthusiasm for taking on additional projects was something Mirage found refreshing and admirable, even if he didn't always agree with the causes he chose.
After reading only the first few lines of the file, Optimus knew this would be one of those causes they disagreed on. "Not yet."
"Oh?" The single syllable expressed so much. Optimus looked over at Mirage and saw suspicion. Perhaps his own short statement had been just as dense with layered meaning. "What is the petition this time? Another plea for housing improvements in lower Polyhex? A solicitation for your support in obtaining financing for the highway repairs in Uraya?"
"No," Optimus shook his helm, continuing to read what he recognized was a cover letter attached to a large aggregation of data. "This is not a request for shanix." Which was Mirage's only real objection to projects like the ones he'd mentioned. It had been a lesson in frustration for them both (and many other mechs too) for Optimus to learn where their budget limitations lay, no matter how much he wanted to help everyone who sought the Temple out for aid.
"Then, what?" Mirage's suspicion, if anything, had deepened rather than relenting.
Optimus held up a hand to forestall him saying anything else as he finished reading, then offered him the datapad. "See for yourself."
Mirage took it delicately, regarding Optimus for a long moment before turning his optics to the text and reading aloud. "Greetings Optimus Prime...
...my name is Megatron. I write to you on behalf of we who have fought for the protection and glory of Cybertron. On distant colonies our energon has been spilt, our sparks extinguished on foreign worlds far from the Well that our home might remain safe and prosperous. Yet for those of us who do not expire on the field of battle, the fighting does not end with our homecoming.
My brothers and I would make the transition to civilian life. We seek a new function, only to find ourselves fighting harder for our survival on Cybertron than we fought off-world. Prejudice forces us into ghettos, discrimination bars us from work, and the few laws meant in theory to prevent such things are ineffective or go unenforced. Many of us are starving, homeless, un- or underemployed with no hope or prospects. Many of us have been driven to criminal activities by necessity, not by desire, and their persecution paints us in increasingly negative colors. It is a worsening spiral of desperation and destitution, and it is a terrible injustice to the loyal creations of Primus for their service.
Were our sacrifices worth nothing? Are the sparks of soldiers not sacred to Primus outside of war? If our only purpose is to die on the battlefield, why then has He not recalled us all before now? The treatment we receive at the hands of our fellow Cybertronians would indicate we have no value here, that our tasks are complete, and yet we still function. No longer military in anything but build, we still function. To what purpose, if not to live? And how, if we are not allowed to live? For what has Primus safeguarded our sparks, if there are no further contributions for us to make?
It should not be so. I have enclosed a collection of relevant statistics gathered by those trying, like me, to find a place to call our own, as well as several personal testimonies, my own experiences upon returning from the campaigns on Chaar these few vorns past included. Having sent these previously to the governors and senators to no avail, I now make our appeal to you. Help to raise awareness of our cause and aid us in our struggle to be recognized as the mechs we are, not the weapons we were.
This, I believe, is the purpose for which I still function — to fight this last campaign on the home front for fair treatment, opportunity, and equality. May Primus bless our endeavors that we may see success.
There was a long silence after Mirage finished reading. The moment hung between them, frozen, until finally the spell broke. "No," he said firmly. "No. You cannot take this on."
"I will hear your objections," Optimus said fairly, though he made no promises to abide by them. Mirage's counsel was always useful, even when Optimus went against it. The noble could point out pitfalls he never would have seen on his own, his criticisms sometimes helping Optimus to succeed where he would otherwise have failed. "Do you believe that his cause is unworthy?"
"Not at all," Mirage said smoothly. "However, the campaign he speaks of is a political campaign, the sort of thing that ought to go through the Senate not the Temple."
"He claims the Senate will not hear him."
"He is seeking new legislature regarding labor and housing laws and possibly changes to the judicial system," Mirage countered. "The Temple may support certain reforms, but this is a civil matter, not a religious one. You have no involvement in this."
Optimus disagreed on that point, but did not immediately argue it. This Megatron was right — Optimus felt it in his spark and from the artifact that pulsed beside it. All sparks were sacred to Primus, and their suffering was not something He would ignore. Not when they had come to Him for His help.
That conviction must have shown because Mirage took on a contemplative look, then sighed. "I can see you feel differently. Very well. If you intend to proceed, then I strongly advise you do so with caution and discretion." He frowned minutely. "You will make enemies in the Senate if you broach this with them, beyond those who already oppose you."
It went unsaid, but Optimus heard the implication. He already came up against resistance from several senators whenever he proposed any changes and this would only make it harder to accomplish things for both Megatron and the veterans and for any of Optimus’ other projects. He was still too new a Prime and the Senate too used to maintaining the status quo (and their standard of living) to be as effective as he someday hoped to be as an advocate for the common mech.
His engine gave a frustrated growl. There had to be something he could do! This had come to him for a reason, and he could not ignore it any more than he could ignore the pull of the Matrix.
Optimus reached for the datapad again and began scrolling through some of the attached figures while Mirage waited silently. He had seen statistics like these before, in the Archives… the Archives, which he could visit without anyone being suspicious and where he could query additional data that Megatron didn't have access to. Sending the mech his findings and perhaps suggesting some of the more sympathetic senators to continue reaching out to was a contribution Optimus could make entirely under the radar because he didn't need to be the Prime to do it. This was a task that a simple, ordinary data clerk could do.
"Mirage," he said happily, sitting down to his desk and picking up a new, blank datapad. "I believe I have a solution."
Greetings Megatron, he wrote. My name is Orion Pax.