Chapter Text
The system is broken. Most know it, nobody speaks of it.
It had been millennia since this system came to be on planet Cybertron. Most of its inhabitants don’t or can’t remember how it began; true history was replaced by intricate fabrications, which eventually began to ring true.
The Quintessons are master of all, their rule over Cybertron and its moons absolute. No mech would dare to deny it, no spark would have the courage to say otherwise. So it was, so it had to be, because it would be made so if one believed otherwise.
For all a Cybertronian knows, the Quintessons are their creator and the ultimate race ruling over countless galaxies.
Rumors about a god named Primus? No, don’t be ridiculous; those don’t exist. Nobody would even dare to whisper such, let alone think it. Imagine the consequences. Or don’t; it’s safer not to.
The Quintessons were devotees of order. Their order, to be precise. Their Cybertronian underlings all had their purpose and place, all meticulously calculated and planned. The workers. The cleaners. The servants and so on, yet no fighters. No military. No caste that could incite a rebellion.
Not that anyone would even try; who would ever even think of such! Preposterous.
No, identity combined with a personality was considered a heinous crime in the beady optics of the tentacled alien race. None of their underlings were allowed to stand out in the crowd, their paint jobs desaturated or plain silver, their frames sleek and simple with no kibble. Their optics are hidden behind a facial visor, so optic contact couldn’t be easily made, no wrong glances exchanged, no glares given to their masters, no bonds forged.
Obeying and fulfilling their purpose was all a Cybertronian was permitted to do. If one misstepped, a mnemosurgery would await them to either erase or tamper with their memories and coding. All to correct them, if you will, which the Quintessons believed a blessing and honor.
Of course, such corrections weren’t exactly public knowledge. The outcry would be thunderous and surely devastating to the sovereigns of this planet and its moons.
To keep the populace firmly beneath their tentacles, everything was surveilled and strict rules were set. The Quintessons, with their Judges, Executioners, and whatnot, made certain no cracks had the opportunity to form in their so-called order, possessive as they were.
Those with exceptional rank and closest to being considered akin to emperors or kings had their quarters in the top levels of the grandest cities, living a life of luxury. One of such higher-ranked Quintessons lived high up in one of the many towers overlooking the city of Iacon. His name was Loxolas, a Quintesson Judge. Five different faces adorned his teardrop body, held aloft by a continuous burst of energy, while four long, thin tentacles wriggled beneath. Of all the five faces Loxolas would don, Doubt was the most prominent, its judgement swift and tongue sharp.
But no matter his not-so-social and apathetic demeanour, the Judge didn’t live his life in solitude. His grandiose abode was shared with another, one who was still awake at this late hour.
His designation is Orion Pax, one of the rare Cybertronians to belong to the higher caste. They were considered glorified secretaries, personal servants, or mere trophy mechs, elevating a Quintesson’s stature. In this case, Orion was all of the above.
His sleek frame moved with grace, his features soft. Though faint and soft like an iridescent pearl shimmer, his silver plating bore the colors of red and blue, the mark of his master. Equally iridescent mesh adorned his pauldrons, draping across and around his neck to solidify his place as the Quintesson’s possession.
He was obedient, quiet, reliant, and observant. When inquisitive, he asked with care, only about matters he was allowed to inquire about or those that interested his master. Though not scheming in nature and neither manipulative, he was diplomatic and resourceful, at times able to get what he wanted. He was a boon and a delight, much to the envy of other Judges who, in their own words, believed their servants to be less compliant or capable. Yes, Orion stroked Loxolas’ ego well, and it was rewarded.
Special privileges came with such pleasant behavior. Unlike others of his brethren, Orion was allowed to read or dine in private, but only with what he was rationed. He could wear his mesh garment as he deemed fit, as long as it was decent. He had his own chambers and recharge station, though his presence was often requested in his master’s.
But once his master falls into recharge after gorging on energon, the young mech is free to wander the many chambers. Tonight was such a night.
The halls were dimly lit and silent, the only sounds breaking it the soft pedesteps of the lone Cybertronian mech. The glow of his light blue visor reflected faintly on the metal walls and display screens he passed, like a ghost floating through the corridors. Ethereal, calm, and near perfect.
But obedient and diligent Orion has a secret.
His partially masked face hid it well, his lips set in a neutral yet kind expression, but his spark couldn’t. If one were to open his spark chamber at this very moment, they would find it pulsing fast and whirring with excitement. The pulsing quickened after entering the lounge, and after a quick inspecting glance around the room to make certain he was alone, Orion made his way to the tall windows overlooking the city and neighboring buildings.
Optics dilated and zoomed in and out as scanners moved across the shadows and ledges of the night-cloaked outside, a dark servo lightly touching the reinforced glass as he leaned closer. Hopeful glances glided about as they searched for something in particular.
Well, not something. Someone is more accurate.
He doesn’t know his designation. In fact, Orion knows nothing about him, out of reach and yet occupying his processors like a close presence.
Some nights, the mysterious mech would appear, right over there on balconies, awnings, and roofs alike while shrouded in shadows, piercing optics cutting through. On other nights, Orion was left waiting with disappointment coloring his spark. It seemed tonight was going to be the same, moon Luna-1 already high in her orbit around Cybertron.
As he waited and searched, his mind wandered.
It was easy to recall the first time. And all the times following that. It was a mere wave, but it did the trick.
The moment he caught red optics bearing down at him from across the street and through the thick glass that kept Orion caged, he was captivated. To find a mech with their optics uncovered and staring at him was something new, something mysterious and dangerous. And all Orion could muster to do was respond with a small, uncertain wave as he stood by the window, too stupefied to do anything else.
A careful wave that received a gentle helmet incline in return.
How his spark bloomed that night, seeing true colors around him for the first time in his existence. He’d sheltered it for so long, tucked away from prying and judging optics, never to show his true self, all to survive in this broken world.
Their distant meeting was brief, but it fortunately repeated itself enough times for Orion to look forward to every chance of seeing the stranger again after nightfall. No word was spoken between them, only glances, smiles, and gestures, some signing too, to Orion’s elated surprise, even if it was short and broken.
He’d even considered using a datapad to write and hold it up to the glass in the hopes the silver stranger could read the glyphs from all the way across the gap dividing them, but feared the tablet would record any input and tattle to his master.
And so, quiet gestures were enough for someone who already asked for so little.
This night, however, left Orion with an ache he deemed selfish and greedy, for it was another night where his nameless, shadow-shrouded friend did not show.
A soft vent left him as his digits slowly slid down the glass before his servo fell to his thigh, his veiled optics turning away from the night colored cityscape.
What now? Head to his berth? Or that of his master’s--?
He cut off the thought with a shake of his head.
No, thank you. Not tonight, not ever if he had the choice. Knowing he didn’t add a weight to his spark.
His pedes took him to the other side of the room, and before he could reconsider, his servo touched the lock console. The gentle gush of air brushing past Orion’s long legs softly tugged his mesh scarf as the glass doors slid open, the piece of billowing fabric catching the shimmer of the night sky’s glow.
He is not supposed to access the balcony without supervision. He knows this. If anyone were to see him, it might add a tally to his reports and take away some of the privileges he worked hard to obtain. But at this very moment, guided by disappointment and melancholy, Orion dared to hope no gazes were turned to the balcony at this late hour, and that his master would be merciful if there were.
He let the beauty of Cybertron and the fresh air settling onto his plating and filling his vents and circulators soothe his worries, emboldening his courage enough to venture closer to the railing. He would have been content standing there and admiring the view, but something felt…off.
There was a prickle in the back of his neck, a tension creeping in his backstrut and before Orion knew it, his head turned to look behind.
Red.
Like smoldering embers, two optics brightened the dark just enough to highlight the sharp lines of a long face, intense yet curious. They held Orion’s gaze as if able to see right through his visor, before they wandered downward to inspect the frame standing before him.
Orion spun around and took an alarmed step back, neck craning to look up at the dark figure standing before him and looking him over. He’d recognized the tall and top-heavy mech instantly, his mysterious stranger, but to suddenly be so close to him was startling.
“You shouldn’t be up here.”
“Neither should you be, little servant bot,” came the retort to Orion’s breathy and panicked observation, and though Orion should be elated to finally hear the stranger’s voice, gravely and deep like a heavy engine, his plating bristled like it rarely did when offended.
“I’m no servant--”
“Companion then.”
It was said with some sharpness, the tone twisting Orion’s spark with a bitter sensation.
Excuses and explanations rapidly rotated through his processors and tingled on his glossa, but he swallowed them down, servos clenching into fists. He couldn’t deny what was true, even if he didn’t want it to be.
Orion eased in his posture and straightened, counting whatever lucky stars he may have that the offended glance he’d shot the larger mech was hidden behind the visor. Though it might be he has no more lucky stars left, not with that faint smirk playing on the other’s silver lips; of course he’d noticed.
There was no point in getting flustered, nor in already building grudges over nothing. No, Orion reminded himself, this was a remarkable moment and one he’d dreamed of. Wishing to make it memorable, he pushed his heel struts together and wove an arm with a bend of his back, leaning forward to bow in greeting and respect as he would to his master and sovereigns.
“My designation is Pax,” he started, his mesh garment slipping down his pauldron as a servo lay gracefully against his chassis, awaiting any sort of verbal response, but none came. Nervously, he looked at the stranger from under his optical ridges and noted that the other had straightened with a dark look, his intense optics edged with what was best described as pity.
Well, that’s not a great start.
“O-Orion Pax,” he concluded as he scrambled up and tossed the scarf back, downright embarrassed by extending a greeting which, though proper, wasn’t exactly meant for his fellow mech. He rubbed his servos across his thighs before patting them with a clearing of his voice box, uncertain how to continue.
This situation was surreal, so he’d blame that for faltering. He’s usually more collected and--
“Megatron.”
The rough voice drew Orion’s immediate attention, optics rapidly resetting before widening in realization as he stared dumbfounded at the silver mech. His designation… An introduction! He couldn’t help brightening up as he looked Megatron over, needing to tamper his excitement for being able to put a voice and a name to the distant figure of his lonely nights.
Yet… Why did his name sound familiar?
As he pondered, he couldn’t help but get lost in the small smile bearing down on him. At least, he hoped it was a smile; the slight curve wasn’t exactly clear in the dim lighting of the outside world.
While he squinted to see it better, he took advantage of the moment to look more closely at the rest of the visorless mech, optics roving over the barrel chest and the sharp, pointed edges of his plating, helmet, and pauldrons. Has he ever seen a frame like this before? It felt… exotic in a sense. Was he worker class? Strange, Orion doesn’t recall seeing worker mechs with this bulky a frame, let alone this many pointed edges.
Compared to him, Orion’s frame was narrow, lithe, and smooth with rounded square shapes, his chassis broad, limbs long, and waist and pelvis slim. Grabable, if you will.
The other’s paint job wasn’t easy to make out in the surrounding darkness, but the glow of Orion’s facewear gave away a faint purple pearlescent sheen beneath the scuffed and dull silver of Megatron’s plating.
Interesting.
Though what was more interesting and unorthodox was behind those thin and slightly parted lips, sharp denta peeking through. What Quintesson would request such a peculiar modification for their subordinate?
No, better question yet… What Quintesson allows their subordinate to roam like this?
Admiration made way for paranoia when that important thought crossed his processor, tension returning to his frame.
“Why are you out here?”
It was a careful question, haunted by an echo of fear.
“You.”
A short and straight-to-the-point answer. And though it made his spark quicken with increasing warmth, it didn’t satisfy Orion.
He halfheartedly chuffed, flustered but still with a slight anxiousness. “I’m flattered, but forgive me, I must admit it's hard to believe that you are taking a risk just for me.”
Megatron leaned forward, just enough to bring their faces closer, and his lips pursed, showing off the tips of his sharp upper denta through a smile. “But it is true. You didn’t think our meetings would continue with such distance, did you? With how you wait for me near every night, I figured you would want to have an actual conversation.”
Orion’s cheekplates flushed with heat. Oh, so he knows.
“I-I don’t--”
A hoarse laugh stifled his embarrassed attempt to save face, and Orion was grateful for the interruption.
“I’ve seen you, Orion,” the larger mech continued, and slowly paced about, most probably aware how the polished mech near him blossomed at the mention of his name. “Lonely and lost while gazing at the outside world through the crystal bars of your cage. I’ve watched you serve your master diligently like a mindless drone, always at his beck and call. No matter the demand, you answer.”
Once again, Orion detected the notes of pity during Megatron’s drawling, though it wasn’t mocking in tone. If anything, it was more frustrating than anything else. In the very least, Orion didn’t feel offended by Megatron’s observations, merely bashful by the confession that he’d been watched. Hopefully in longing… F-for a connection, of course!
“I was about to ask if you don’t do the same, but,” Orion said, his optical ridges knitted into a mild frown. “You don’t have a master, do you?”
Megatron chuckled amused at the question. The sound caused Orion’s spark to flutter, and he pressed a servo against his red chassis as if he were remotely capable of stopping it.
“What gave it away? The lack of a visor?”
“I--no. Well, yes, but…” the flustered mech stammered before squaring his shoulders and gesturing behind him to the many buildings. “You appear to come and go as you please. You venture without a chaperon. Your frame is--it’s not according to protocol. Nothing you do is according to protocol.”
One of Megatron’s long and sharp optic ridges rose while his bright, piercing optics narrowed in thought, his marred face not giving away what exactly he was thinking. He then nodded.
“You are correct, it goes against protocol. But so does the rule of our Quintesson masters.”
Blasphemy.
That was the first thought to strike Orion, like a hot blade stabbing through his tank, but he questioned it swiftly after. Was it truly blasphemy if a small hidden part of himself had immediately agreed with Megatron?
“It’s dangerous to say such.”
“Dangerous but necessary,” Megatron gently retorted to Orion’s caution. “And it brings me to your earlier question, the reason as to why I am out here.”
Heavy pedesteps accompanied the large silver mech as he walked around Orion and stepped closer to the railing, the sounds of hydraulics and moving joints within that hulking frame silent and oddly mesmerizing.
Orion didn’t join him, but he did turn to look at him, feeling safer where he stood.
“The rule of the Quintessons is by no means a natural occurrence. I know that deep down you know it too. As do many below.” A claw pointed downward over the railing, to the streets and levels far below. “If one is bold and foolish to speak of it, or to question said rule, they are silenced. Quietly. Deliberately. The Quintessons hope we won’t notice, or that it cows us into obedience. Whatever works in their favor.”
It felt taboo to listen, but Orion steeled himself and ignored the warnings appearing on his HUD, the same HUD that stayed focused on Megatron.
“There are some who don’t agree with that favor, me among them. Why can we not be free to think as we please? To have an opinion, or a desire for something better? To look at another mech without any veils blocking the way? What the Quintessons do to our people is close to, if not complete, oppression; it’s wrong. And a way to remedy the oppression is to have no master at all.”
“You cannot survive without a master.” Orion blurted it out before he could stop himself.
“Hah,” Megatron spat with a smirk before he turned and spread his arms wide, optics bearing down on Orion. “Yet here I am, spark pulsing.”
Heavy arms dropped and large pointed pedes strode to cross the distance between them, the smaller mech too lost in the pools of intense crimson until clawed digits curled about his upper arms, and Megatron stood hunched before him. Close enough to hear the gentle whirring of his spark within that broad silver chassis.
“Of course, you are confused or hesitant; you are used to this life. Primus knows you may have gone through a few corrections before to make you believe that your master has all rights over you, to treat you as if you have no spark. But this isn’t living, Orion. Let me ask you this…”
He inclined his head to speak hushed, the whispered tone claiming the whole of Orion’s sensory net as he subconsciously leaned closer.
“Don’t sentient beings have the right of freedom?”
Freedom.
The servo resting against his chest pressed once more when a hot pulse went through his spark and lines, bringing forth a shiver that made his plating softly rattle.
He’d longed for freedom. It was an inner cry he’d ignored for so long to survive, to not go mad and flee headfirst into damnation. Because simply thinking about what if’s and other possibilities of living was a death sentence in this world ruled by Quintessons.
Yet Megatron’s words made sense. They felt right to him.
He was unable to verbally agree after he averted his gaze, his voice box not responding; the small nod he gave Megatron was barely noticeable. The servos holding his arms squeezed in acknowledgement.
“Has the wonder as to why all seems perfect not once scratched your brain module? Perfect order doesn’t exist; it’s an impossibility. Just like light always casts a shadow, so is there disorder somewhere amidst order.”
The logic gave Orion pause, for yes, as tough as it might be to admit, he has wondered such more often than not. Whenever another mech he’d deemed a friend disappeared, whenever another remembered nothing of a previous encounter, whenever he was forced to do something that felt like it was against his coding, he wondered in silence.
He took a small, quivering inhale before he raised his head to look at the one who awakened a part of him he’d forced under the surface.
“Are you disorder, Megatron?”
Something softer fell across Megatron’s serious gaze, the corner of his lips lilting upward. Large servos rose, slow but deliberate, and pointed digits lightly brushed against pale silver cheekplates before they stopped at the sides of the glowing light blue visor and pressed. With a muted click and a slide of internal mechanisms, the face covering released and was lifted away, revealing Orion’s wide, almond-shaped optics.
Red and cyan gazes locked and lingered, peering into each other as if to peel away the many layers hiding their sparks, and for a brief moment, Orion felt at ease.
Megatron dipped closer, slow and lumbering while holding the undone visor to his chassis, until his intake nearly touched the crest adorning the front of Orion’s helmet, and spoke quietly.
“I am what I need to be to end the fears that hold us chained to our suppressors.”
With optics unveiled, Orion stared in awe at the one who’d rumbled words akin to poetry, the one who’d torn down multiple walls of his reality in swift succession.
Feelings and thoughts tangled and knotted tight around his spark, many questions overwhelming him. But one stood out enough to be whispered.
“Why me?”
His jaw tightened and clenched when he felt his spark waver at the way Megatron looked at him expectantly, soft without judgement or malice while glimpsing his true self.
“Of all the mechs on Cybertron, why did you choose me?”
Megatron shuttered his optics and smiled before rising to his full height, answering,” We chose each other, Orion. The moment our optics met, we chose.”
He tenderly pressed the visor into Orion’s servos while the other was stunned, unmoving until the large silver mech smiled at him and turned. Cyan optics rapidly reset at the realization Megatron was walking away as if to take his leave, the urge to halt him burning bright. Yet all Orion could muster was a single step forward.
“When will I see you again? Tomorrow?”
Megatron slowed and only slightly turned his head in response to the question, his broad back turned to the smaller mech and the cityscape before him darkening his silhouette. There was a moment of consideration before the mech’s rough voice cut through the silence.
“When fate deems it right, Orion,” he answered, a smile present in his voice. “But soon.”
Orion’s shoulders slumped, the ache growing in his spark an unfamiliar sensation. He wished to storm forward and grab Megatron’s large servo, to tug on it and ask him to stay a little longer, because he was currently the only thing that made sense in this whirlwind of confusion.
Yet his blue pedes were rooted to the floor, and forced him to watch the no-longer-a-stranger leave--Wait, how was he going to leave?
As an unexpected answer to the ridiculously sounding question, Megatron’s hulking frame suddenly broke apart with a sliding of plating and limbs alike after he somewhat crouched and leaped over the balcony railing. His falling form shifted and twisted until it was no longer humanoid but a jet in shape, thrusters flaring to halt the drop into the abyss below.
With a single burst, the silver jet shot off, leaving an astonished and flabbergasted Orion behind.
He can transform??
Orion rushed to the railing, grabbing it tight with a servo as he bumped into it with a pant before staring wide-opticed at the disappearing jet, taken aback by the sudden revelation.
Cybertronians can’t transform!
Can’t they…?
His gaze lowered to the visor he held shortly after the question flashed across his processors, staring at it as doubt settled in. His wide optics suddenly narrowed with revulsion and determination, his grip on the visor tightening to the point he almost cracked the glass.
Freedom. They deserve freedom.