JUST A GIRL AND HER DOGS

He sighs, vapor pluming from alar slits. “I wanted to thank you, properly, for helping them—and myself. I also wanted to ask...What benefit do you gain from aiding us?” The question isn't accusatory, rather cautious. “We're fugitives on your Earth. Should we be discovered, you will reap punishment much the same.”

“I'm returning a favor. Your...” You rifle around internally for the right descriptor. “Your comrades saved many people some time ago. They saved me, too. A little bit of hospitality is owed.”

“You owe us nothing, but your care and graciousness aren’t in vain.” Optimus holds your curious stare; where you cannot see, his servos tighten along the roof and siding at his subordinates' continued remarks that have turned inappropriate.

'All that fighting and no way to blow off some steam for—What?—ages? No wonder he's always so—What's that word again? It starts with a 'R'?'

'Resolute? Righteous? Rigid?'

'Rigid!'

His derma press together and twitch infinitesimally.

You hum at his response and Optimus is brought back to the conversation. “You know, they told me stories about you before you joined us here. So many stories.” Gentle, tired laughter carries from your throat.

Optimus stills, an amalgamation of past events are recalled from memory processors; warfronts, past allies, adolescent times, accidental mishaps, comrades' deaths, his death. He deigns to ask what you've been told. Optimus will speak with his subordinates later.

“Hopefully, they did not bore you,” he says.

“No,” you sigh, bracing your hands on the guardrail. This is closest you’ve been to the mech, and, even still, the distance is polite. “No, they didn’t. They were very entertaining.”

“My comrades, or my stories?”

You peer upwards. This great autonomous creation before you has just made a joke, evident in the slight tilt of his mouth. It’s jarring for some reason, as if you believed the concept of humor was beyond him. And you are reminded in that moment of a statement made to you by Ratchet.

‘Relatively speaking, Optimus may be the last Prime, but he’s young.’ Ratchet had said. ‘And he insists on carrying burdens that aren’t his. He carries all of our burdens, too—it’s what makes him a leader you’d just die for.’

And you see this youthfulness now, brief as it may be, beyond the scarred metal and collected demeanor. “Both, I’d say.”

Optimus Prime looks upon you with an expression not meant for your understanding. “Then perhaps you can tell me some of your stories as well.”

‘I mean, I get it, she’s a pretty little human. I’d want a bite of that, too.’ A wolf-whistle follows shortly after this statement.