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"So this is what it's going to be for the rest of our lives, then?"
Optimus's helm scrapes against the thick organic fabric of his carpet as he turns it, a fuzzy, uncomfortable sound. When he settles and is freed from the noise, he is met with the side of Megatron's helmet. Megatron is still staring at the ceiling, which is a blank slate-gray, and so new that it has no blemishes for one to imagine pictures in. Optimus knows this, having spent much of the last hour searching for them, and much of the last week as well.
"What do you mean," he asks the side of Megatron's helmet. The scraping sound returns, and the metal of Megatron's helm is replaced by his familiar face. The distance between them is close enough to foster a feeling of secrecy, but great enough to dissuade an on-looker of intimacy. Not that there are any secrets, or much intimacy to hide.
"This," repeats Megatron. From the corner of his optic Optimus sees Megatron's far arm raise and twist, waving at the ceiling.
"Yes," says Optimus, "That's it. The whole apartment. 3 rooms. Brand new. They finally kicked me out of reintra - reintag - the housing." The difficulty he finds in moving his glossa informs him that he may be more drunk than he thought. But then he remembers that he is no longer in reintegration housing. He is in his own, bland, bare, home. It has a carpet. And three rooms. And no rules.
"No!" shouts Megatron, with excitement too great for Optimus's slowed processor. "I mean This! Life! Peace! This is it!"
Megatron's optics are intense. They are quite gorgeous, if one enjoys the deep red, practically-giving-off-fog sort of look. Optimus blinks. "Oh, yes, I suppose," he says. "Peace. I have my own apartment. A real one. Haven't had that since before the war."
"You didn't want it," Megatron comments, with a childish type of grumpiness that reveals his own drunkenness. "They kicked you out."
Optimus raises one finger and wags it pointedly. It wavers a little bit in the air, and makes something more akin to a loop than an effective wag. "I voted for the limit," he reminds Megatron. "I said ten years was enough time. Can't bog down the program. Everyone out by ten years."
"Reintegrated!" Megatron exclaims. He turns back to the blemishless ceiling and throws his arm back in the air. "Is that how you feel! Sentenced to a lifetime of in- in...hmm. A lifetime of something."
"They got me a job," says Optimus. "So that's good."
"It's worse!" cries Megatron. "I've had those. Came to me, had the audacity to ask if I wanted to work in the mines again."
"And now you build roads," intones Optimus, having heard this story many times. "And you love it."
Megatron's arm falls to the floor with a thunk. "I'm going to kill myself," he says.
With a sudden burst of energy Optimus pushes himself up and peers over and down at Megatron, who stares up at him with half-rolled optics. "You shouldn't say that," Optimus says. "You really shouldn't."
"I won't do it," Megatron replies. His optics roll back so far they can meet Optimus's. "But I hate it."
"We worked so hard on peace." Optimus can hear his own voice take on a diplomatic quality, like empty recitation. It is jarring to him; he is proud of the New Cybertron, of what they'd accomplished together. But the words aren't as passionate as they once were. He tries again. "I am glad we are not at war. And you agreed." There, he thinks, that is better. His spirits lift at the genuine belief his glossa is able to provide.
Megatron opens his mouth, sticks out his tongue, and blows. "Pbth," is what comes out. Despite himself, Optimus laughs. The picture of Megatron's blown out cheeks is amusing enough to momentarily distract Optimus from the significance of such a gesture. When this finally computes, Optimus's smile reverts to a frown.
"Well," he says, "It's too late now." With a huff, he collapses back onto the floor.
"I don't want war," Megatron complains. "But peace is greatly underwhelming. And overwhelming all the same. The worst of both."
"I don't know what you mean," replies Optimus. "I like peace just fine." The feeling of bland recitation returns as he says it. Optimus sighs.
An hour later they have sobered up somewhat, or at least enough to pick themselves off Optimus's new carpet and collect the empty highgrade cubes. Megatron had purchased them from the distillery, which Optimus had allowed for the simple reason that Megatron was the one with a disposable income, and if he was foolish enough to waste his money gifting Optimus with highgrade, who was Optimus to turn him down?
Soon enough Optimus will have his own disposable income, which he will gladly waste buying Megatron highgrade in recompense. This thought is very exciting to Optimus, who puts the empty cubes into the recycling unit with great zeal.
"I will ask about open positions in trails and road design," Megatron announces. He has made it from the carpet to the couch, which is another exciting feature of Optimus's new life. "Perhaps that will be better."
Optimus closes the recycling chute with some care, as yesterday he had discovered that it requires an odd latching mechanism. "Hmm?"
"Then just...making roads for ten hours," says Megatron. "Perhaps designing them will be more engaging. Or ideally, a mix of both."
"Oh, yes. You should do that then." Optimus pulls open his cabinets, which he recently stocked full of cubes from the apartment dispensary. "Do you want midgrade to go?"
"No, I'm fine."
Optimus hums and selects a cube for himself. "Same time next week then?" He turns and starts suddenly at how close Megatron had gotten. Megatron looks at him curiously, with a focus he had previously lacked.
"Yes," replies Megatron, slowly. "Next week. I will let you know if I have any success, and you can tell me about your first week in the real world."
"It's exciting." Optimus pulls the tab off his cube and takes a swig. The midgrade does wonders for his tanks. "Reintegrated into peace."
"Into forever." Megatron takes a step back, angling towards the door. Then he adds, in a grumbling moan, "for ever and ever."
It had become necessary, during the peace talks, to submit themselves to restrictions required by their factions. That is to say, whereas Megatron and Optimus had been convinced that they could construct a decent peace accord, their mechs were not.
Optimus's High Command had sandwiched this lack of faith between compliments and spark-felt admissions of devotion, and of course they did love him, and of course they did think him their perfect commander, but would it not be best for everyone if Megatron were prevented from running for office? And naturally the only way that concession could be gained would be to prevent Optimus from attaining such a position.
Their arguments had been convincing. They had also been the catalyst for several nights in which Optimus and Megatron had gotten horrifically hammered and, to give his High Command credit, had thus indirectly solidified the peace itself. They'd both needed someone to complain to. 'Mutually assured and mutually understood castration,' Megatron had called it, though Optimus pointedly did not.
Despite his hesitancy, he'd known such an agreement was for the best. For the planet, yes, and for himself. He had never envisioned himself as a leader in peace, not in his wildest of fantasies, which all thoughts of peacetime had once been.
Thinking back at it now, the world he had imagined had been laughably infantile. He'd known it then - but it had been his impossible daydream, and how could he rid himself of impossible daydreams then, when the very thought of peace had been a daydream in itself?
Now, staring at his unblemished ceiling - this time from the comfort of his berth - that daydream is much closer, yet seems farther than it ever had before.
He has lived in peace for ten years, and what does he have?
He'd imagined a home, furniture without blast marks on it, a large table to have his friends over. He'd imagined a fulfilling job doing...something. Not dock work again; they don't have much trade yet. Something with a group of coworkers who would keep him company. And a sparkmate, a tall figure with a shadowed face and frame. And also maybe a sparring ring in the backyard, to keep his skills sharp.
Obviously he has no backyard now, nor place to put a sparring ring. He is on the fourth floor of a mass-produced apartment building for recently reintegrated veterans and refugees. He also has no shadowed, tall lover to spar with, nor much furniture at all, blast-marked or not.
What he does have, however, is a job. All things considered, he isn't off to too poor a start.
It had taken him a little longer than anticipated to make the jump, granted. The war - and his High Command - had held on tight, and perhaps he had held on too tightly as well. His unofficial involvement in things had become gradually less appreciated and more politically unsustainable, and eventually it needed to come to a stop. So it had, later than perhaps it ought to have, but Megatron had told him once that he'd been rather envious that Optimus had a high command that cared to keep him around unofficially, whereas he had jumped from politics directly into the workforce.
Optimus had begun to feel the opposite later, jealous of Megatron's moving life. He'd pictured himself a fly stuck in the syrup of his previous life's jam jar, watching Megatron make himself breakfast from the buffet of new life. But that doesn't matter now. Now Optimus has a job. He has escaped, and the buffet is here before him.
First on his list, a job, then next the home and the lover and the sparring ring. He deposits his empty breakfast cube down the recycling chute, hooks the tricky latch as he shuts it, and as it shuts he thinks to himself that he is ready for peace. And it is such a lovely, sunny day, he thinks, as if the Universe were announcing his good fortune. He carries that feeling all the way to the door, down the elevator, and four blocks down to the Archives.
The Archives are two large warehouse-style buildings, attached together by a thin corridor. They are the oldest buildings on New Cybertron - or rather, the oldest of the newly constructed city, ruins aside. One building contains a power generator. The other houses New Cybertron's servers, collected from various surviving outposts and Shockwave's labs. The agreement had been that, as they passed into the confines of the Archives, they would lose all previous affiliation. Neutral servers for a neutral Cybertron.
Optimus is met at the door by Ultra Magnus. He assumes this is probably unusual, as the reintegration team has employees for this very purpose, but it is nice to see a familiar face regardless.
"Magnus," greets Optimus, cheerfully. "Good morning."
"Good morning," replies Ultra Magnus, as he opens the door. He holds it for Optimus, gesturing with his helm for him to enter. Optimus ducks through the doorway and stops short, momentarily blind.
It is dark within the Archives, absurdly so. The flickering green lights of the servers are hidden, half-squished between the mass of the servers and the floor, creating faint runway strips to mark the floor paths. The light from the doorway streams in from behind him, projecting his shadow onto the main corridor and the two rows of servers that line it, which reach up to the ceiling and shadow the other rows.
"There are lights," Ultra Magnus informs him. "But it is better to only use those around your station. The power required for the servers increases with each passing cycle, and the engineers have announced they will need to expand the plant in the next few stellar cycles."
"Ah," says Optimus. His optics are in the process of adjusting as Magnus shuts the door behind them, and thus must recalibrate once more. Ultra Magnus sidesteps him, then begins down the faintly lit corridor.
"We needed a mech we could trust," he says. "And we felt that you would benefit from the position as well; it is of great importance, you will be serving Cybertron's most basic needs."
Optimus's reply is practically parroted, and he had only been half listening. The warehouse appears much larger inside, the servers tower over him. "I am happy to help."
"Good," says Ultra Magnus. "Even the Decepticons agreed you could be trusted here. And your battle prowess is an added bonus. Security mechs are difficult to get approved by both parties."
They continue down this corridor for another minute, and as Optimus's optics adjust the servers become even more gigantuan. Finally they arrive at the end - the other side of the warehouse, two little open cubicles nestled between the last server and a corridor, which presumably leads to the power plant control room.
"We have two power engineers, one Autobot, one Decepticon," Ultra Magnus informs him. "As per the original agreement, we have two electrical engineers keeping up the servers. You won't need to concern yourself with them." He comes to a halt by the cubicle to the right. Optimus peers inside it to see a desk, chair, and monitor. He feels a sudden onset of nerves.
"And what will my job be, exactly?"
"Monitoring and archiving," Magnus tells him. "The engineers inform us we are nearing our storage limit and, should we continue at the current rate, our processing power will decrease substantially. We cannot get another of these warehouses built until the representatives can agree on a location, which is, of course, a riotous debate."
"I would think so," says Optimus. New servers equal new development, and everyone wants their hometown to be next. "By monitoring and archiving, do you mean to say that I will be deciding what stored information should be deleted from the servers?"
"And downloaded instead to personal computers," Magnus says. "Cybertron does not currently have the luxury of a 'cloud', as the humans would say. That is the primary purpose of your position."
"And the secondary?"
"The reason we need someone trustworthy." Ultra Magnus lifts one servo and places it on the thin wall of Optimus's new cubicle. "Should you find anything concerning, it will be your duty to report it to the Domestic Security Information Team. Hopefully this will not be a common occurrence."
"Ah," says Optimus. He reminds himself that a job is the first step towards his daydreamed peacetime life, and he ought to plow on and find that good bits before worrying too much about the lack of lighting and potential issues of privacy. "Will the engineers be around, most of the time?"
"Occasionally," Ultra Magnus, so at least there is that. "They have left you the login information by your monitor, and there is a file of relevant forms, for deletion and reporting. Do you need me to stay and help you learn the system?"
Optimus is caught between the sudden overwhelming fear of being left alone and the desire not to be seen as too much of a burden. They are taking a risk, putting him into a position so far from his resume talents, so he opts for the second option.
"No," he says. "I've got it. Thanks."
And just like that, he has marked the first item off his list.
His optimism does not return as his understanding of his new position increases, and that is an optimistic way of phrasing it. As Magnus had said, no one joins him under his dull swinging light. The more he reads through the instructions left to him, the more tension he feels in his legs and shoulders, which strain to contain an increasing pent up energy. Towards the end of the day he finally ventures into the digital storage, where he finds a near endless forest of text files and pdfs and images, haphazardly thrown about.
So maybe it's not his dream job. Obviously his wartime fantasies were never going to emerge perfectly into reality. He feels mildly guilty about his disappointment, which does its best to ruin his walk home. The sun has just begun to sink over the Manganese Mountains, and if he were to slow his pace just a little longer he might be able to catch the moment when the bright sky becomes muted and then bright again, in a whole array of beautiful oranges and pinks. Cybertron has always had perfect sunsets, what with the smog. But he doesn't wait, because he wants to recharge. He learned a whole new system today and, he thinks, the sooner he sleeps the sooner it will be tomorrow, and the sooner it will be the day after that, which is his and Megatron's drinking day, and Optimus would like to get absolutely sloshed. So he keeps his optics on the ground and his processor on Deletion Warning Forms, which must be sent to any individual who has frivolous information saved to New Cybertron's official servers, and it isn't until he is wavering on the edge of recharge that he realizes that Cybertron's seasonal cycle is midway through autumn, and he should spend a moment to look at the sunset before he has to walk home in the dark. Of course, by then it's too late.
The Archives are dark, even with the flimsy hanging light above his cubicle. It is only his second day, but he has yet to see anyone. The logs inform him that two engineers had come in overnight, for around two hours apiece. Their times did not overlap, and neither did their space - one had inspected the burners, the other the servers. Optimus familiarizes himself with the database he'll be combing through and considers calling someone. He considers calling anyone. But everyone he could think to call would be far too busy to indulge him, and with each name he dismisses the warehouse around him becomes even quieter. What would he speak to them about? He could hardly tell Bumblebee that the low hum of the servers echoing against the thin metal walls of his cubicle is making him anxious, and he can't exactly interrupt Ratchet's shift as Head of the Trauma Department to spend several hours discussing whether or not he ought to report the disproportionately large number of pre-war porn vids being uploaded to Cybertron's new internet. He was selected for this particular position to act as a watchdog for dangerous rhetoric, and this - while some of it is deeply unpleasant - is far from the beginnings of a coup. So he should not delete them, he decides, except that they currently don't have the space required to store said porn vids, and he is becoming rather discomforted by clicking open a new file folder and being met by sounds that he prefers not to have reverberating around his workspace.
Really, he is grateful to have a job. And it isn't like everyone on Cybertron is having a wonderful time with their work, though most have had more time than he to switch and settle. It's just that New Cybertron is so limited in options at the moment, and his job actually is quite important, and he really oughtn't interrupt anyone else's important workday to complain, even if they aren't enjoying themsel-
Megatron. He could call Megatron. He comes to this realization around mid-day. Megatron, who does not enjoy his work and does enjoy hearing Optimus complain. Granted, he might think Optimus less humorous with no high-grade involved, but perhaps- Oh, who is Optimus kidding? He can't call Megatron. They have a system. High-grade and ranting, once a week. Optimus is lucky to get that. He wouldn't want to annoy the mech. Besides, Megatron has probably moved on into planning and is having a much more entertaining time there. And he'll see him tomorrow, anyway.
He fills out 40 Deletion Warning Forms that day, deciding he might as well tackle the hay before picking out the needle, if there is any needle to be found. Maybe tomorrow he'll discover a discontented group planning to bomb an energon processing center and the excitement will save him from the adventures of the Iaconian Acrobat.
He does not discover a terror plot the next day, but it doesn't matter because he has plans for the evening. It makes the silence a bit more bearable, and the porn vids slightly less unenjoyable.
Optimist that he is, Optimus decides to believe that the Archives are empty because of a lack of available labor. That's what he tells Megatron, anyway.
"That would be the best scenario," Megatron replies. "If you were the first of a future fleet of employees. We would have better internet service, for one. But more importantly, you would have a headstart. When they send in the next idiot, you end up a manager. Get yourself the managerial pay."
“I don't want to be a manager. Nobody likes their manager." Optimus, already half-slaggered, is very much enjoying the rumble of Megatron's engines, which are distinctly more alive than the hum of the servers.
“Your Autobots liked you," Megatron says. He is slouched against the other corner of Optimus's couch, one pede a millimeter from scraping against Optimus's thigh, his outward leg bent up between them. Optimus watches his face frown in distaste through the gap between his knee and the back of the couch.
"I don't know," Optimus replies, feeling momentarily gloomy. It is different from the overarching emotion of the evening, which is annoyed depression. "They played basketball with me. I wouldn't say they want me routinely over for dinner."
Megatron's frown morphs into a grin. "So then," he enunciates, "Am I a better friend than most of your Autobots?"
"This is not dinner," Optimus replies, avoiding the question because he is not entirely certain of the answer. Obviously Ratchet is a good friend, and he loves his team. He doesn't know many Autobots very well, and he wouldn't get drunk with most of them, but that is the nature of command. And Megatron...Optimus quite desperately wants to call Megatron his friend now, a thought he had not entertained before. A friend. Somehow it feels like much more of a leap than it ought to be, as though the journey from brutal enemies to reluctant partners to drinking buddies had been a natural path, whereas the jump from drunken complaining sessions to friendship is something else entirely. And yet, it would be a pleasant leap to make, Optimus thinks, and clearly Megatron has decided to catch him, should he attempt it.
"Can I call you during the work day?" Optimus asks, suddenly. Megatron squints at him. "I mean...did you ever change positions? Are you in the planning department now, or...?"
Megatron snorts. "No, I'm still out on the roads. I'm not exactly being used for my brain," he says. "But I suppose when the Quints finally reinvade they'll put us both in the General's room. I'll be rusty by then, and we'll all die because the only thing I can remember is how to operate the rolling mill, and all you'll be able to remember is the submission process for a Deletion Warning Form."
"Well..." says Optimus.
“You can call me anytime you want, Prime," Megatron continues. "Primus knows I could use a little entertainment. Don't expect much more than the screaming of that bloody machine. I've got five million tons of scrap metal and a whole new city whose roads need sheeting."
Optimus thinks the rolling mill machine might be better than the insidious humming of those slagged servers. Megatron's knee falls outward, providing Optimus a clearer view of his optics, which are returning to their natural suspicious squinting. “If we are friends now," he says, which Optimus supposes solves that little quandary, "then you'd look the other way if I uploaded seditious material?"
As he often is with Megatron, Optimus can't decide if he is being serious or not. "I don't think sedition is a crime," Optimus replies. "I think we were pretty clear about freedom of choice and speech. I am...keeping an optic out for actual threats."
"Is that what Ultra Magnus said?" asks Megatron, in a tone that makes it not quite a question at all. "Well, I won't promise specific violence then. Is hyperbole allowed?"
“Is there something you plan to say?" asks Optimus. "Because if we are friends, I feel as though you should tell me first."
Megatron laughs a full-sparked laugh, his head hangs back to look at the ceiling. The joy of it makes Optimus smile. "No, Optimus," Megatron answers, wiping coolant from under his left optic. "No plans. I would, of course, request you as my partner in crime if I intended anything."
Despite himself, Optimus cheers at that. 'Partner in crime,' he repeats to himself, and enjoys the way it reverberates around his processor.
Optimus has two more days left before his days off, and he supposes it might be a bad sign that he's already begun counting down the weekdays, so he does his best not to count. He goes into work the next day with both a hangover and a 'pep in his step', as the humans might say, and when he unlocks the Archive doors and steps into the darkened electrical dungeon kept within he is not overwhelmed by it. In fact, his optimism bleeds from him into his surroundings, and suddenly the flickering low lights of the servers transform the room into a whole universe. Strolling down the corridor, Optimus is practically a space traveler.
Space travel! What a way to spend his new income, he thinks. To vacation - he has never vacationed before. He'd never been off-planet before as anything other than a General on the run.
He wonders if Megatron would like to join him, which naturally reminds him of the permission he had been granted - to call, at anytime - and that propels him all the way to his seat, where he logs into the system, wonders whether his monitor screen had ever been this bright, and completely forgets to turn on the office light.
He does not end up calling Megatron that day, though he considers doing so with every completely innocuous social network conversation someone had saved a screenshot of. Each time he reads some inane commentary on current economic strategies or pre-war director's cuts of movies that were once culturally relevant and now only exist in random screenshots of 120 character-limited posts, everytime a new road is discussed, or construction complained about, each time he reads some ridiculous take on the war from a neutral who spent 4 million years hiding in the Alpha Quadrant, he thinks of Megatron's comm code. And each time he talks himself out of pressing call. He is afraid of appearing too eager.
Why? He doesn't know. Megatron had encouraged him, in fact. Why wait?
Only, he had just spoken to the mech last night. And, while they have solidly moved from the realm of enemies into the much more comfortable place of 'drinking buddies who might be friends', Optimus still hesitates.
Their weekly habit is founded in complaint, he thinks, and to call about something as mundane as social media (and why would anyone save a screenshot to the servers, when the networks themselves are saved here - but he digresses). Except, of course, that that is in itself something to complain about, and their general drunken complaints have been getting rather mundane lately. No more does Optimus moan about fears of Quintesson invasion, or Megatron about coming home from work to encounter a bomb squad in his living room.
So he really could call, if he wanted. Only it would seem eager, and Optimus wouldn't want to imply that he wants to be in Megatron's company while sober and in a cheerful mood. Because their...friendship, he supposes, is one that rests on the tenuous understanding of two leaders becoming ex-leaders, and therefore is not the sort of Autobot friendship that involves two-hour long silent conversation.
So he does not call Megatron that day, though he is propelled through his shift just by having the option to comm, and the line ready to open.
Walking home he spends a moment standing in one of the last rays of sunshine, watching the atmosphere change.
And it is there that he receives a comm. ::Any particularly scandalous videos today?::
Optimus smiles and replies with a picture of the sunset. ::I would prefer this to my memories:: he says. ::I am choosing to forget the images of my workday::
Megatron's reply is quick, an image file. Optimus is not surprised to open it and find the sunset again.
There are few tall buildings in Cybertron's new (and only) city. The ones that have been built are all housing, clustered in a three block radius South of the Archives. That is where Optimus lives now, on the eastern side of that block. He'd never wondered where Megatron lives before. He supposes that he'd only ever envisioned Megatron leaving Optimus's apartment, inebriated, and then collapsing back into his berth, which existed (in Optimus's mind) in a nebulous, black, Decepticon state.
A nebulous black Decepticon room to the West, apparently. The image has a perfect view of the sunset, elevated to perhaps the third floor, and framed by a window.
Optimus could probably infer which room was his, actually. There are only three buildings, each about eight apartments wide, Optimus could...
Well, probably not. Besides, what if Megatron isn't even in his apartment. He might be at Soundwave's, or with a lover.
Optimus's hope falls, but he supposes he could just ask Megtron where he lives.
::Spy on any interesting conversations?:: Comes Megatron's next message.
Optimus sighs. ::I only have access to what has been uploaded to New Cybertron's public memory. No private comms::
::But you have the Public comms:: Megatron replies. ::Forum police!::
::I am not forum police:: Optimus turns and continues on to the city, imagining Megatron in a third story window, heckling him from above. ::All I can do is delete forums from public record - they are free to host the connection themselves.::
::Delete and Read:: says Megatron. ::Have you been deleting before reading? Magnus won't like that.::
Optimus rolls his optics. ::I'm still on the porn:: he admits.
::You shouldn't delete all of it. It's basically a public service.::
Optimus snorts. ::Then you host it:: he replies. ::I don't see why people felt the need to upload it from their private computers.::
::Sharing is caring.::
::Uh-huh::
::Well:: says Megatron. ::At least your job has the potential for interesting development.::
::Maybe one of your roads will suddenly be enveloped by a sinkhole.::
::Always the optimist.::
Optimus grins. ::Name-fate.::
::Keep me updated,:: Megatron says. ::With anything. I hear the rolling mill machine in my sleep.::
::Well, I didn't want to monopolize your attention, but I suppose if my biggest rival is a rolling mill machine...::
There is a long pause then, and Optimus begins to think that perhaps Megatron has been distracted. He makes it to his building, and he enters the elevator. It is then, as he reaches to press his floor number and considers how he might continue the conversation after he leaves the signal-blocking elevator, that he receives:
::My time has been monopolized by things far more senseless. Feel free to steal back some of my life from the endless twaddling of the world I've stupidly made. May your hands be more competent than mine.::
The elevator doors close, trapping Optimus alone with a mildly worrying message.
By the time he reaches the fourth floor, Optimus has upgraded 'mildly' to 'moderately,' and is well on his way to 'extremely'.
There is much up for interpretation in this message, Optimus readily admits, and it is ill-advised to make any inferences from written communications, and yet... Megatron has called their peace agreement many things before: spineless, unfortunately necessary, regrettably the only feasible outcome - but never before has he implied he regrets agreeing to it. Of course, maybe he doesn't. Optimus supposes things can be both stupid and sensible, if one is in the mood for it.
Optimus had assumed before that Megatron's complaints had been as Optimus's were; that they were reading the same page, that they were both struggling similarly with the loss of leadership and with the drastic change to their lives. But Optimus, despite the ten years he spent worrying in the reintegration housing, despite the struggle he had in distancing himself from Autobot leadership, had never once regretted his decision.
Maybe it was foolish to think that Megatron would feel the same. And yet, truthfully, Optimus had thought Megatron had been so much more at ease with this world. Cranky, obviously, and annoyed, and generally upset about the loss of power, but...
Well, he'd jumped into the fray ten years before Optimus, hadn't he? Where Optimus had doddled, he had integrated. He was a success story, whereas Optimus was...a more reluctant success story.
Optimus thinks all of this, and then he reaches the 4th floor and the elevator doors open, and he receives another comm.
::Hey, now here's a question. How much steam would come out of Prowl's ears if I applied for your job?::
And just like that, Megatron is planning again. He is moving and not dismantling, and Optimus can safely reassure himself that what they had done was right and this peacetime world will be a wonderful life, occasional hiccups aside. He just needs to adjust. Megatron is adjusting. Optimus simply needs to...copy that mindset.
The next day Optimus adjusts by forcing himself to ignore the remaining porn videos and the continuous reuploads of those he had previously scheduled for deletion. There is bound to be a community of internet users more sensible to the need for server storage space, and besides, perhaps Megatron had a point about the open spread (no pun intended) of these videos for Cybertron's emotional health. He has no intention of being the sole figure responsible for shunning Cybertron's sexuality into the terrible winter that is personal dispersal of intimate pictures.
So he migrates into the thousands of pages of forum activity hosted by the servers. He quickly settles into a pattern; he identifies the forum owners and, before cracking open the Deletion forms, sends them a simple message:
Hello,
It has come to my attention that your forum, [insert title here] is being hosted by Cybertron's official servers. Council Act 582 of this year requires that all unnecessary use of the planet's official servers be eliminated, until the time when additional server support can be built. Do you currently own, or have the ability to acquire, a personal computer with the required equipment on which to host your forum?
Thank you for your cooperation,
The Archives
He will give the owners a few days to respond, and hopefully enough of them will be able to individually host their pages to cover the space for the rest. Optimus considers it a clever solution, or at the very least a kind one.
As he scrolls through the forums, his mind drifts to other things, like just how short life is, and other things of insignificance. The words on his screen flow into one optic and out the other, bypassing his processor almost completely. It is a poor performance at his job, but his processor has a grand time reminding him of his goals. His list, which he suddenly feels great anxiety about having only one checkmark on, for example.
He thinks pessimistically that all the time he is spending in the Archives, while fulfilling his first goal, is greatly hampering his ability to work on the rest. For one, being inside alone every day does little for his love life. He needs a position with more public interaction, if he ever hopes to have friendly colleagues and clear up the mysterious dark figure in his imaginary house.
And another thing - how could he possibly own a house while working in the city? He is in the newly-integrated housing, and Cybertron isn't even building houses - you can build one yourself, with the right permits, but you need money and time and skill, and now Optimus has very little of all of those.
And anyway, he thinks, rather darkly, most of his life before was a complete waste. A war for half his lifetime! And every skill he'd ever gained utterly worthless. What do those millenia of strategy lessons add to his resume now? He can load crates, but so can everyone. He can fight, but is banned from the Armed Forces. He can lead, and is banned from that too.
In short, his processor is reacting poorly to the lack of stimulation. He is almost grateful when he encounters a post that is stimulating in all the worst ways, and in fact he is, for about as long as it takes his processor to appropriately understand it.
He is not looking at a forum hosted on the planet's internet server, but something misclassified by the system. It is a series of screenshots of a forum, saved in a photo folder. Optimus, having searched for forums, had received from the servers this photo folder, which had been uploaded under the name "Cybertron Free from War Forum".
"Cybertron Free from War” would have sounded better, wonderful even, if only Optimus hadn't read the text of the screenshots first.
<AgrievedAreialRunner> It's just bizarre to me, ya know. I always thought they would kill themselves off. I pictured this, you know, the rebuilding and the shitty years of scrap-metal hauling, but I figured it would be us.
<TinMan> Same here. I really did think we'd have ourselves a half-decent ending. Get all the tainted energon out of here, leave just the better of us. Instead I got a two-day introduction to plumbing from a damn Constructicon, and here I am for the rest of my life digging out pipes while they run the damn government they destroyed.
<ElectroEel8> Well, there aren't that many of them left.
<AgreivedAreialRunner> Mech, shut up
<ElectroEel8> I mean, statistically...
<SuperRunner> What is he talking about?
<AgrievedAreialrunner> Every single one of them has 6 million years of battle experience and, out of millions, were the few to actually survive. Statistically every single one of them could kill your aft while blindfolded.
<TinMan> Mech thinks he can strafe-run Decepticon seeker forces
<TinMan> Mech thinks he could out-punch Optimus Prime.
<ElectroEel8> No, Prime's been out. All I gotta punch is Starscream. Easy Peasy.
<AgrievedAreialRunner> He has a higher kill count than you have processing bits
<SuperRunner> Well...it's not like you need to punch anything. You are dissatisfied with Cybertron's destroyers making you rebuild the planet you destroyed? So is everyone. There's a pissed off Neutral in every major reconstruction department. Why bother punching? Think higher.
<ElectroEel8> Tin, where did you find this mech?
<TinMan> Project planning over in the new city. Rebuilding the 'Net and all. Shoulda known he'd be a planner
<SuperRunner> Well, I certainly could be
Optimus stares at his accidental acquisition with disbelief.
"Huh," he says, to the empty room. He hears his own voice reverberate off the servers, providing the illusion of comradery, completely lacking in collaborative or helpful insight. "This is not good," adds the echo. Optimus agrees.
In fact, he is a little annoyed. An image file! If he had selected to filter by type rather than a text search he might have saved himself this inconvenience. Of course, seeing as this is rather concerning information, perhaps he should be grateful to have stumbled across it.
The next question is what he ought to do about it, which brings him back to his instructions file. He hadn't anticipated finding anything of concern, especially not on his third day, and so he hadn't bothered to check the protocols before. Megatron's voice echoes in the back of his mind each time his optics glance at the folder, chastising him for being a digital enforcer, or never escaping the siren calls of Autobot leadership, or for Primus knows what else. He opens the document of instructions and, upon reading the simple form submission process, sighs in such perfect relief that his shoulders visibly sag and the air in front of his mouth turns foggier than the Oregon coastline.
He takes the perfunctory screenshots, identifies the reason for his concern and the uploading user data, and then submits the form to the bellows of bureaucratic threat monitoring systems.
Afterwards, basking in the glow of a work day made slightly interesting, Optimus is once again reminded of a particular voice, asking to be commed with anything even mildly entertaining.
"Who is stupid enough to save a screenshot of their treasonous activities to the monitored planet storage?" asks Megatron. "They deserve whatever gets done to them."
Optimus hadn't thought about it like that. "So potential terrorism is alright if it isn't poorly executed"
"Do you realize who you are talking to?"
Optimus hums, "Touche."
"Well?" Asks Megatron, after a seconds pause. "So who'd you call in?"
"Call in?"
"Yes. Ultra Magnus? Prowl? They put you there because they trusted you to come straight to them, I assume? Pre-empt the integrated system. It's what Starscream should have done."
Optimus needs a second to parse this. After some consideration, he identifies three flaws in this argument.
"Firstly," he begins, "my instructions required me to fill out a form sent to the Domestic Security Information Team, which neither of them are on. Secondly, I don't see why they would want to know about dissatisfied Neutrals before anyone else. If it had been an Autobot or Decepticon issue, perhaps I could see your point. Lastly, I was given this position because they needed someone they were certain had no intention of harming the server system, or Cybertron, not to be their own personal alert system. And, to be perfectly honest, I think they gave me the job out of pity."
"Yes, well, that too, I suppose," says Megatron to this admission; and admission it was, as even as the words had escaped Optimus's mouth they had been heavy with denial.
He is saved the trouble of finding a response by Megatron, who continues on as if the revelation of Optimus's pity-career was nothing of note. "Wait, where did you send your form to? The Security Group?"
"The New Cybertron Domestic Security Information Team," Optimus repeats. He had momentarily paused his scrolling, but now he begins again, absent-mindedly marking material for future deletion.
"One clic," says Megatron. Their line goes dark for precisely one clic. When he returns, it is with great gusto. "Primus!" He announces. "Send over those screenshots. We will have to do this ourselves."
Megatron's voice seems to bounce across every server and return undiminished, moreso - even greater in enthusiasm. It is the greatest excitement ever seen in this darkened hall, Optimus thinks, and perhaps his frame had become inured to the dullness of his surroundings because the higher tone sends shivers of nerves down Optimus's struts.
"What do you mean?" Optimus asks, cautiously. He still feels Megatron's voice bouncing off the thin metal of the computer casings, bouncing and getting stuck and forever changing his workspace.
"The New Cybertron Domestic Security Information Team. I commed Soundwave. Want to know who they are?"
"I had thought Prowl would have appointed one of his deputies. Does Soundwave not have a role?"
"No!" Cries Megatron. "Starscream couldn't keep him- he's been booted too. They've ridden themselves of every competent mech."
Optimus hadn't known about Soundwave's dismissal. "I wouldn't say that..."
"Well I would," Megatron grumbles. "This Domestic Security Information Team is three mechs. Huffer for material safety, Venom (Primus-help us), and a damned Neutral."
Optimus hadn't known this either. Still, he feels the need to defend the government he had birthed and hung onto well into its infancy. "Perhaps their job is just to identify whether or not I am sending them a real threat. Then they engage the appropriate channels for recourse."
"Bah," says Megatron. "I am coming over tonight. We can discuss strategy."
Optimus, immediately distracted by the prospect of Megatron's presence, forgets all his concerns and instead remembers the western apartments and Megatron's window, in his home where he lives alone or, perhaps, with some other.
"Why don't I come to you this time?" He asks. He is curious about the life of his friend. He imagines what his apartment might look like - the standard door, the curtain that might be around the window, the berth, the covers, the table with data pads (surely there would be many), his polish in the shower, with its distinct smell, and perhaps next to it the polish of another.
Megatron does not consider this proposal before he dismisses it. "I will come to you. My quarters are unfurnished."
Unfurnished! Optimus rewrites the picture in his mind to something bland and egalitarian, and finds that the new image brings him some odd sense of schadenfreude. The items of the imaginary lover are erased with the sofa.
"I am glad to see you sooner," says Optimus, "But I think this is out of our hands. We promised not to get involved with Cybertron's new government-"
"We promised not to hold any position."
"I believe the purpose was to prevent us from taking things into our own hands, leading Cybertron in our destructive ways."
Megatron scoffs. "Your ways are hardly destructive, Prime," he says. "And like slag will I watch this pitiful planet I've created be slagged over by some idiot Neutrals. Neutrals! If anyone is going to tear the damn thing down again it will be me."
"Well..." Optimus struggles for a proper response. "I would find it reassuring if these mechs are talked down before anyone gets hurt. I also hope that you don't tear down all of New Cybertron yourself."
Megatron hums, and moves the conversation on to what sorts of highgrade he ought to bring over, and Optimus begins to hope that inebriation will end all thought of rule-breaking. And that, perhaps, if he scrolls through the database long enough without rocking the boat, he might earn himself a promotion, and that he might buy himself a roundtrip ticket on a ship to anywhere. Or maybe a house.
The highgrade does serve some purpose, though not as Optimus had hoped. They don't get drunk, but a drink or two are enough to loosen Megatron’s glossa. Optimus cherishes all moments like this, even when the words that flow from him are concerning, as they are tonight.
"I am boiling from the inside out," Megatron tells him. "Aren't you?"
Optimus takes these admissions and holds them close to his chest, close enough that his spark might reach out and absorb them. They are more intimate than anything Optimus would ever dare to say to anyone else, or perhaps anyone at all. When he tries to reciprocate, it comes out bland and so very Autobot.
"I can understand your feelings of helplessness and...boredom, but perhaps we shouldn't get involved in this Neutral issue. You could channel that feeling into something more productive."
Megatron pauses his pacing and then collapses into the couch beside Optimus. When he speaks next he is quieter. "Maybe peace is doomed to be this way. Should we even bother stopping them?"
"Doomed to be dull?" Optimus's knee is bumped by Megatron's. "What would you do? We don't even know if they have a plan yet, much less who they are."
Megatron waves a dismissive hand. "Soundwave hunted them down. They've got five other Neutrals in the energy system, the new 'Net building site, the foundation layers for the new apartments, and energon distribution, all willing to place explosives next week. Two of them are meeting with a new recruit in energon processing.”
"Primus!" calls Optimus, his attention dragged from their knees and to Megatron's face, which is not particularly upset about this disturbing information. "And the Domestic Security Information Team?"
Megatron shrugs. "They kicked him out of official proceedings, remember."
Suddenly, getting involved becomes less a philosophical debate and more an immediate must. But just as quickly as he becomes determined he remembers his own place. With no one to lead forward, no team to consult, he has no idea what the first step for tackling this threat might be. He collapses back into the couch as Megatron had done. "What are we going to do," he moans.
"Nothing!" decides Megatron. Optimus had sucked the helplessness from him, and so, free, he explodes to his feet. "Let the idiots who kicked us from power suffer the consequences. Then we rebuild again, grab back our seats, and avoid the rolling mill machine for the rest of our days."
"I thought you didn't want Neutrals tearing down your hard work?"
Megatron, pacing, doesn't look at Optimus. "No, no, I did a poor job of it the first time. Let them take the blame for the fall, I will construct something better."
"Better? Didn't you just say that peace is doomed to be dull?"
Megatron waves a servo about. "This is worse than dull," he says. "It is endless. I will make something with an end."
That sounds mildly concerning, Optimus thinks. "Do you think people will die when they place those explosives?"
Megatron shrugs.
"Well, we made this planet," Optimus decides. "We knew work had to be done, and we knew it might be endless. If we want to change it we can't go about doing it by letting people die. We'll make it better some other way. It doesn't have to be integration housing and...rolling mill machines forever."
Megatron scoffs. "Make it better? How do you expect us to have any sort of life while banned from the greatest positions? What else are we supposed to do? Build a house? Raise a newspark? Retire?"
For a moment, just a brief moment, Optimus's little imaginary daydream plays out in full color on Megatron's plating, like a film reel projected onto cloth. He sees it all then, the house with the sparring floor and the shadowy, tall conjunx who, on Megatron's plating, has his complexion suddenly cleared. And Optimus watches, then, as that little dream leaps from Megatron's plating and enters the atmosphere of the room, where it dances, thick, and replaces all the ease with the tension of movement.
"I don't know," Optimus says, finding it difficult to in-vent. "Is there something so wrong about all of that?"
Megatron pauses mid-step, sets his pede down next to the other, and stares at Optimus with that look of his, the half-suspicious, half-determined look. And then he replies, "What is it that you want, Optimus Prime?"
And Optimus shrugs, even as he sees what he wants in the air in front of him.
Megatron steps closer, and closer once more, until he is standing on the carpet in front of the couch, his knee brushing Optimus's. And then he looks away.
"I suppose...I have nothing against building a house," he admits suddenly. "Primus knows it would be more interesting than another road. And, while I doubt anyone would give us a Newspark, it wouldn't be unpleasant."
"Us?"
Optimus is ignored. "Retirement has its perks, I'll admit, though it would take a while to get there. The time, that's the trickiest bit, itsn't it? The boredom and monotony, for millions of years, until you are too old to enjoy the freedoms you've earned. But there are ways to make those million years less monotonous. I might argue that Cybertron needs roads, and if I didn't want to build them I oughtn't have blown them up."
"Oh," says Optimus, feeling as though perhaps some conversation is happening above him that he is less than privy to and that, just perhaps, it might be going in his favor at the moment, and so he shouldn't interrupt.
"I could be persuaded not to burn it all down again," Megatron concludes, which is a concerning conclusion because Optimus had not known 'burning it down' had become the null hypothesis.
"I...can be very convincing?" he tries. Megatron laughs his great laugh, where his helm tips to the ceiling, and then he looks down at Optimus and, at once, grabs Optimus about the face, pulls him upward, bends down himself, and kisses Optimus soundly.
This is not a situation Optimus cares to protest. In fact, his spark and frame are for once in perfect agreement and, bypassing his processor, express their enthusiasm by shooting him straight to his pedes to continue the kiss when Megatron threatens to pull away, an action which has the unfortunate side-effect of propelling his helm directly into Megatron's chin.
"Ooomf," says Megatron. This is precisely what Optimus also feels.
When Megatron pulls away, Optimus nearly punches him. It's not the reaction he ought to have, and perhaps he will dissect it later. The punch wouldn't be angry, or out of a desire to hurt. It would have been an instinctual reaction to (counter intuitively) keep Megatron closer.
He doesn't punch him, at least not with his fist. But the reason he does not throw the punch is that he cannot get his fist out in front of him, because his body is moving too quickly. So he punches Megatron instead with his face, as he collides into Megatron's retreating helm once more.
Their foreheads meet first, then their olfactories, then their lips, and their kiss continues. It is, Optimus thinks, probably the worst first kiss anyone could possibly have. He has managed to headbutt his partner twice.
Megatron rears back, grabs Optimus's cheeks, pauses for long enough that Optimus begins to think he will never be kissed again. But then, after enough time to put a solid end to the first, Megatron pulls him closer in a manner almost pointedly controlled.
The second kiss is marred by the humiliation of the first, but that humiliation lasts only a moment before it is overwhelmed by exquisite joy. It is around this moment when they slow, and Optimus is given the chance to taste and feel something other than the pain of lips and helm colliding.
He regains this humiliation not a moment later when, after Megatron pulls them apart, he says "Okay" with the breathless stupidity of a teenager.
Megatron exacts his punishment by stepping back. Optimus again considers punching him for this, but then Megatron peers down at Optimus's face, and adds: "I am going to quit my job."
"What happened to Cybertron needing roads?" Optimus asks, feeling mildly chagrined. Perhaps he is not, in fact, a very convincing mech. He will admit his kissing skills leave something to be desired. Still, he finds it hard to believe that Megatron once again has intentions for galactic tyranny, though perhaps that is only because of the haze he is floating in.
"I once had a plan to change Cybertron," Megatron begins, in a tone that wouldn't be out of place on a campaign podium. As far as Optimus is aware, Megatron's plan had been a dictatorship, which is an unfortunate place for this particular speech to begin.
"Through Civil Disobedience," Megatron continues. "I had a plan for a better Cybertron, and I created it."
"Through a bit more than civil disobedience," Optimus feels compelled to add.
Megatron looks down his nose at Optimus. "Aren't you always blathering on about the effectiveness of peaceful action?" he says. "Well, here I am, proposing a bit of peaceful action."
"Uh-huh." Optimus successfully expressing a doubt that is beginning to falter. There is something so attractive about the determination playing out before him, the certainty. He had grown so accustomed to the depressed, drunken Megatron that he had forgotten how easy it was for anyone to be swept into something, when he begins to talk like this. Crazy things, people have followed this Megatron into: never-ending, devastating wars, never-ending, fool's hope peace deals.
"And you are going to help me," Megatron declares, and Optimus has no doubt that he will.
He gets out a complaint regardless, intent on retaining some hesitation, for the sake of the Universe. "Why?"
"You're the idiot who convinced me to leave my planet in the hands of our idiot subordinates," Megatron says, which is not quite how Optimus remembers it. Before Optimus can raise his objections, however, Megatron has turned about sharply and, with a wave behind him, like beckoning a dog, he says "Come along."
If Megatron had been wearing a cape - which Optimus spends some time imagining, while rushing after him - the majesty and speed of his exit would have had it billowing out behind him, like a knight on a brilliant white steed. Megatron does not have a cape, however, and so it is Optimus who billows out behind him, doing his very best to keep up.
"Megatron!" he calls. His voice echoes down the stairwell, along with the clanging of their pedesteps on the steel steps. "What exactly do you plan to do?"
"What I should have been doing all along!" declares Megatron. The answer is unsatisfactory, but Optimus gets the sense that he won't be receiving a proper answer even if he were to insist.
He knows the jist of their adventure. They are off to find the neutrals, which Soundwave has already identified, and then they will... this is where Optimus's imagination becomes concerning. Megatron and 'neutralizing threats' is rarely a peaceful combination. He supposes that will be his job then, intervention. A nice, calm discussion about why this Neutral gang shouldn't do anything ill-advised, while Megatron stands behind him and glowers. Sure.
Then afterwards they can go home, content in the continued existence of their peacetime world and...what? Get drunk and complain? No. Will he go back to his cave, scroll through endless forum posts and saved nonsense, and then, when he trips into another conspiracy, will he call Megatron again? Will this be the balm they need to apply, to span the distance between reality and a dream?
Perhaps their needs are uncompromisable. Opyimus thinks he would be fine, if he could have Megatron and a house and a sparring ring and a trip to space every vorn or so. He used to think Megatron would excel at that sort of life. He thought Megatron would be so much better at it than him. He had integrated himself into peacetime so quickly, where Optimus had struggled. And the drunken complaints had always felt like a kettle that whistled as it let out steam, with no real danger of burning down the house.
Apparently not. What if their roles had switched? Is it now Optimus who was more able, and Megatron who desperately needs to rush out his door and tackle Neutrals?
Optimus's worries have slowed him, and the space between him and Megatron grows. When he notices, he breaks from his quick walk into a run, until he has pulled up the necessary distance to ask Megatron again.
"What will we do?"
"You can't build a house if the city doesn't have functioning energon lines," replies Megatron. He reaches back and, with a quick glance, catches Optimus's servo. He pulls Optimus with him, and Optimus has no further problems worrying and keeping up at the same time.
He looks at their joined hands more than he does the path. He has a revelation, as they walk, about compromise. Mostly, that it usually works out better than he'd ever imagined. Like the making of peace, and the holding of hands. And that he doesn't really like his cubicle, or the work, and that he never really stepped into peace, he was shoved, and he wasn't shoved very far at all. And that he ought to shove himself into it farther. And that he should never have given up on his resume.
"I have an idea," Optimus announces, just in time for Megatron to pull up short. Optimus hits his shoulder with an uncomfortable clang.
"Great," says Megatron. "But first," he reaches up and knocks on the door.
They are now at an entrance on the first floor of the energon processing subplex. The door has a big yellow danger sign, which Megatron chooses to ignore. When the door does not open, he opens it himself. It is locked, though that does nothing to stop its opening, which happens with an ease that seems to imply that the lock, like the rest of the universe, has bent itself to Megatron's will. Perhaps that is why Optimus had stumbled onto that screenshot of a forum post - the universe, bending itself to Megatron's desire. The force and gracefulness of the opening of what should have been an ultra-secure entrance point of an energon processing plant inspires a sense of complete understanding in Optimus. When Megatron strides through the now-open doorway, Optimus follows with a confidence he has never experienced before.
They enter into a break area, complete with a round table and a cooler. There are three mechs around this table, or who had been around it - the ruckus at the door had drawn their attention and now they stand across from the door, staring suspiciously at the intruders.
Optimus recognizes none of their faces. They are, from left to right, a slight mech of unknown altmode, a racer, and a mech with two free data cables, each sparking to a concerning degree.
Megatron stops suddenly, raises his arm, and points at the mech in the middle. "Octane," he announces, and then turns his wrist and crooks his finger in a come-hither gesture. "We have some questions for you."
Optimus will admit his surprise at the sudden pivot from aggressiveness to this, but he only has a moment to feel it before it is overtaken by another surprise. Octane turns and runs.
It all happens so quickly. It feels wonderful. One second the door is swinging back and forth from the force of Octane's departure, the next Optimus is running down a corridor, feeling freer than a bird.
He does not come to any conclusion consciously at this point, being distracted by the motion of it all, but in about fifteen minutes or so he will decide that it is this moment that he had known that he could not go back to the Archives ever again, and that he was always a failure of the reintegration team, and that maybe his daydreams about a house and conjunx and friends could be separated from the dull and repetitively endless nature of the peacetime job.
There is, after all, quite a bit of violence in peace.
He tackles Octane with enough force to take down Megatron himself, his excuse for which being that he has most of his tackling practice taking down Megatron, and also that he was thinking of Megatron at the moment he threw himself forward. Mostly he was thinking that he couldn't have his conjunx and a 9 to 5 position at the same time anyway, what with his ideal conjunx candidate's apparent distaste for it, and that perhaps he wouldn't need to compromise so much anyway.
Octane hits the floor hard, and Optimus on top of him. And it is this jarring impact that breaks the moment, so that when Optimus looks up his processor is able to notice the end of the hallway, which is another secure doorway.
When Optimus rises he brings Octane with him, easily restrained around the waist. He turns to see Megatron, who had followed him and is smiling with great excitement, holding the other two mechs up by the back of their necks.
"Unfortunately, they aren't stupid enough to fight," he complains.
"The lack of civil liberties is revealing," says the tentacles mech. He had, quite smartly, not attempted to use his shockers to escape the situation.
Optimus shrugs. "We aren't government enforcement. They wouldn't let us be."
Over comms, he asks: ::What exactly is our plan here?::
::A scared straight presentation:: replies Megatron. ::I thought you would like a solution that involves talking, though apparently you're also a fan of the tackling method.:: As he writes Megatron walks forward, herding Optimus towards the next door.
The full surrender of the neutrals - besides Octane, whom Optimus mutes with one hand and restrains with the other - and the slow walk down the corridor makes the whole endeavor quite anticlimactic. Optimus envisions them setting their temporary hostages down at a table and explaining why, very nicely, they oughtn't threaten the security of all Cybertronians out of dissatisfaction for the current way of things. They might discuss how dissatisfied they are themselves, building the roads and working in a cubicle, but that Cybertron needs roads, and life always finds a way to be intriguing, if you squint hard enough.
"Really," says Megatron, as they approach the door. "The first step shouldn't be blowing up an energon processing plant. It should be blowing up your own life. Quit your damn job, if you hate it that much."
"That might be a little hypocritical," says Optimus.
"Well, here I am, saving Cybertron, and then I'll quit my job tomorrow," Megatron decides. He opens the door, and this one requires no convincing of the locks.
There are two mechs on duty, both of whom had turned about at the intrusion. Optimus recognizes Mixmaster in the corner who, having recognized Megatron, had returned to his seat and his cube of energon. The other mech is Hauler, who had been filling out paperwork, but now takes a few careful steps backward.
"Hello!" says Megatron. He parades his two mechs in front of him as they enter, and Optimus carries Octane in behind him. "Would you happen to know any of these mechs?"
Mixmaster silently points to the be-cabled prisoner and Hauler, perhaps feeling the need to have an Autobot participate, confirms this. "He's our third," he says.
"Wonderful," replies Megatron. "He has been colluding with these other imbeciles to blow you all to pieces. Would you like to handle this?"
"I very much would," says Mixmaster, with a grin. Optimus looks to Hauler in a silent 'please play babysitter' sort of fashion, and Hauler promptly promises to get the proper authorities involved, and until then they will tie them to the chairs.
"There's no proof we've done anything wrong," complains Octane, when Optimus lowers him into a chair.
Optimus shrugs and replies, “Then consider this a lesson in who might come knocking at your door, should you choose violence over peaceful reform. I would suggest voting in the next election. Or building your own planet. It really is not as easy as it seems."
Megatron snorts. "There are a great deal of roads that need to be built, it turns out."
They leave the neutrals with Hauler and Mixmaster, tied to chairs with a flashdrive of evidence that must have come from Soundwave. The night air is cool, and they stop to take it in outside the plant's doors.
It is as if Megatron were drunk, the same agitation and honesty, and it is as if it were the war once more, the same passion and certainty. As a mech with no real plan for the future, and as a mech who spent ten years doddling in the uncertainty of moving forward, to Optimus it is an intoxicating feeling.
He reaches forward and pulls Megatron to him, and Megatron allows himself to be pulled with the ease of distraction. He is flying on exhilaration, and Optimus has a sudden fear of being the one to ground him. Except when Megatron crashes into him they do not fall, instead Optimus feels an arm sweep around him and his pedes lift from the floor, and suddenly he is flying too.
Megatron brings his other servo to Optimus's cheek, keeping his helm firmly in place in order to kiss him, which Optimus admits he fully deserves. He'll get back into the swing of kissing eventually, but in the meantime he submits himself to this assistance with great enthusiasm.
Megatron squeezes the bottom of his jaw and pulls, and shortly after there is a glossa in his mouth. Optimus is delighted by this development. His arms, wrapped around Megatron's shoulders, migrate to his neck and helm and, while Optimus attempts to press himself more perfectly around Megatron's glossa, they act of their own inhibition.
He squeezes with too much enthusiasm, and their dentae collide in a painful clack. Megatron extracts himself, and Optimus considers suicide.
"Primus help me," he says. Megatron only laughs, and laughs, his helm thrown back in pure delight.
"Come," he tells Optimus, once he has calmed. "Let's go home."
Optimus, being so humiliated, asks no questions. He follows Megatron to wherever he might lead, and is somewhat surprised to blink and find himself in his own apartment. His processor remains caught on the way Megatron had set him down, with a thunk that had reverberated through his frame, and the way that Megatron had seemed as if to float on the journey back, walking so quickly that Optimus had paid more attention on keeping pace than on their surroundings.
Optimus should have known that Megatron is not a mech who learns well from his mistakes, and yet he is surprised when he is kissed again, soundly and passionately. Unendingly grateful for this mercy, Optimus resolves himself to perfection, which in his case can only be met with total concentration.
Some of the enjoyment is lost, he will admit, when he focuses on not biting Megatron's glossa rather than the acrobatic maneuvers of the glossa, which might qualify for the Olympics. Still, his attention pays off in that he does not further humiliate himself, and in fact he manages to reciprocate in a manner he was once able to do without thought. He pulls at Megatron's bottom lip and sucks, and is rewarded with a quiet moan.
His attention is lost immediately afterwards, when Megatron's servos wander to his hips and he is suddenly being heaved forward and rolled into Megatron.
"Oh Primus," he says, which is a shame. He oughtn't be able to say anything at all. Their kiss now seperated, Optimus looks down between them, comes to the certain conclusion that their small victory today will be celebrated in a very enjoyable manner tonight, remembers his gratefulness, and says
"I can suck your spike?"
Megatron studies him for a moment, then replies: "I am going to keep certain body parts away from your rebellious mouth tonight."
Optimus, seeing the choice between laughter and tears, chooses the former. He collapses into Megatron in a fit, and when Megatron's arms wrap around him his own responsive laughter becomes apparent. And then it is the two of them, in Optimus's little newly-reintegrated housing apartment, losing their minds with more clarity than they had been for ten years previous.
"Fair enough," he says, later. "I am plenty talented with my digits."
"Had plenty of experience using those for the last six million years?" asks Megatron. They are not done laughing.
Megatron picks him up then and, still laughing, carries him off. Optimus lands on his back on his berth, and bends his knees when Megatron moves to straddle him.
"I didn't even have to shoot them," Megatron says. "Are Cybertron's greatest threats cowardly neutrals? Can it be so simple?"
Optimus shrugs, fiddling with the vents above Megatron's hips. "If its the chase that gets you off..." He sticks a digit down into where Megatron's torso meets his hip and is rewarded with a groan. Megatron collapses back into Optmus's knees.
"As long as you don't complain if I have to throttle somebody- ow, no do it again-" Optimus complies. "- then we are fine."
"I am fine with mild throttling," Optimus decides. "As long as the vigilantism remains nonlethal. It is good to see you like this."
"Yes." Megatron rolls his hips forward, grinding their panels together in harsh strokes.
"I missed you like this," says Optimus. "I missed me like this."
"The tackle..." Megatron practically moans the word, which rips a snort from Optimus, who can't imagine the floundering collision in any way attractive. But Megatron's panel snaps open and his attention is drawn to this new and enjoyable territory.
He is, thankfully, more confident in his skills here than kissing. He had much more experience with his digits during the war. He circles Megatron's node and relishes the feeling of Megatron's servos tightening around his knees.
"It's not entirely sustainable, as a practice," Optimus admits. "Vigilantism. Eventually we will have an actual police force-" he plays with Megatron's opening with one digit, keeping his thumb circling the node. He remembers his epiphany from before. "But I suppose - you know, I've been thinking about space travel."
"Hurry," orders Megatron. Optimus ignores him.
"I want a homebase. A house," he continues. "But I'd also like to travel. More than just the occasional vacation. And I hate the Archives. I hate them."
"You are going to kill me if you don’t hurry up," complains Megatron, bucking into Optimus's hand. Optimus withdraws and, being long immune to Megatron's complaining, continues to gently tease his entrance.
"How to combine space travel, a homebase on Cybertron, protecting Cybertron, and a good chase...?" he pretends to ask. He lets the thought hang there, and pushes his digit into Megatron's valve. Megatron chokes and ruts forward, which is as good a response as any. Optimus crooks his digit and begins a quick curving thrust.
"We never said we couldn't be private contractors," Optimus concludes. "And I distinctly remember you saying something about an eventual Quintessan invasion, or the inevitable next war..."
"It's good money," mumbles Megatron. As a reward for his agreement, Optimus adds another digit. Megatron hisses. "That's house money."
"It is!" exclaims Optimus. He withdraws his panel then. His spike pressurizes beside his wrist. With some quick adjustments, and after pulling Megatron forward to rest his hands on Optimus's chassis, he replaces the thumb on Megatorn's node with his spike and wraps his arm around to continue a shallower thrust of his fingers.
"You don't need a rolling mill machine to patrol the solar system," says Megatron, with an attractively telling pause every four syllables. Their fans had spun on at some point, and Optimus relishes the way the air pouring from Megatron's vents brushes against the lubricant gathering against his spike.
He pulls his digits out, spreading them as he does, and pumps his spike twice. Megatron mumbles something in his audial. He's forgotten about pushing himself off Optimus's chest. Optimus doesn't mind.
"You don't," agrees Optimus. It is difficult to maneuver with Megatron's frame in the way, but he successfully manages to angle himself, and the prodding of his spike is enough to rouse Megatron from his mumbling. He pushes himself back upwards, spreads his knees farther, and sinks down onto Optimus's spike.
"Oh frag," says Optimus. It has been a while. He quickly realizes he may humiliate himself once more this evening. Only Megatron emits a noise that makes him think that they might be on the same page. Megatron's servos scramble frantically for purchase on his knees to aid him in lifting himself back up, and when he lowers himself back down again he sinks a little further. Megatron is watching where they meet with a look of determination, which Optimus is beginning to think might be the same as pleasure, to him.
He lets Megatron adjust at his own pace, but when he has settled with a quiet, breathy moan, Optimus grabs him by the hips and lifts him up. He is inspired by Megatron's determination, and he thrusts upwards with a determination of his own.
"We should have been doing this since the peace talks began," Megatron declares. "Frag it all!"
This seems like an incredibly valid point to Optimus, mildly dazed by the overwhelming presence of Megatron over him. He nods his enthusiastic agreement, and the motion manages to jostle a modicum of common sense back into him.
"Well, at least since...ten ye-" he cuts himself off when Megatron's servos push against his knees, pushing himself higher and dropping harder. Optimus thumps back against the thin berth padding and blinks the static from his optics.
"The only issue with the - uh - private contractor idea is that - wait-" Megatron pauses his rise to readjust, which might have permitted Optimus the reprieve he needs to recover, if only he didn't find the gentle rolling and tugging of the readjustment more pleasurable than the previous enthusiastic riding.
"-is that private patrol ships have incredibly small berths," Megatron finishes. Optimus, trying and failing to refrain from squirming, is relieved when Megatron picks the pace back up again.
"Build a big berth in the house," says Optimus. His servos have been massaging Megatron's plating unconsciously, and now he decides he ought to get them more involved again, so he digs them into where Megatron's ventral plating slides into his hips and ensures that Megatron's pace stays quick. "I'm sure we can make do. Patrol ships have couches? And walls?"
Megatron laughs. "And a captain chair," he adds.
"Only one?"
"You can sit on my lap," proposes Megatron, graciously. The teasing does something to Optimus's poor, idiotic processor, and he rolls his optics up at the ceiling with a besotten smile.
Optimus gives himself another moment of staring at the ceiling before he rallies. Megatron is putting in a good effort, and Optimus will be damned if he lies there. He spreads his own legs for better leverage, presses his pedes hard into the berth, and goes about making his own effort known.
Megatron groans, shudders, and then, in what should not have been a surprise but is to Optimus (who generally doubts his own abilities) overloads.
"So the house," Megatron says, a bit nonsensically. He had fallen forward, his servos on Optimus's windshield. "A big berth..."
"A sparring pad," says Optimus, paying no great attention to his words. He, conscious that Megatron might be sensitive, is doing his very best to keep still. "You won't mind the ... eventual, mm, retirement, and the - all the - boring?"
"You can be very convincing," Megatron tells him. He pushes himself back up and begins to roll his hips, thank Primus. Optimus takes this as approval to restart his previous movements. He had been so close, a moment before, and now-
Megatron kisses him. Optimus complies more than participates, having too few processing cells available. As a result of Optimus's only casual involvement, it is probably their best kiss. The combination of it all - the gentle movements, the gentle kissing - builds a pleasurable pressure inside of him. Optimus overloads, hard, and manages not to smash his helm into Megatron's as he does.
"We haven't really solved anything," Megatron complains, ten minutes later. They are staring at Optimus's unblemished ceiling again, and the ache in Optimus's lines has him feeling like they had actually solved every problem in the universe.
"This situation remains miserable for everyone," he continues. "All we'd be doing is living with it."
"Well," says Optimus, with some pause for struggling thought. "Better than dying with it."
Megatron huffs. “I suppose….Cybertron needs roads, but there is bound to be some freak who enjoys the rolling mill.”
“And some freak who enjoys patrolling Cybetron's or it in a dinky patrol ship,” Optimus jokes. And then, more seriously: “and someone who would enjoy the Archives. I think we know who that is.”
Megatron grins. “How much smoke do you think would come out of Prowl's audials if Soundwave applied for your job?”
A lot of smoke, is the answer, but instead of replying Optimus, who had followed Megatron's stare up to the perfect ceiling, reaches across Megatron's chest, grabs a datapad on his nightstand, and chucks it upward. It hits the ceiling with a crack and falls to the berth, leaving a perfectly imperfect line on the once-smooth finish.
“For the next resident,” Optimus declares. “May they enjoy the rolling mill machine.”