the archivist of iacon

“Again.” 

             The origin of life.              The meaning of life.

              … and how did Orion get into such hiding places.               More importantly, how did the tiny tyke escape so easily?

              Ratchet’s question earned several little giggles. Each peal of laughter was happier than the last, but faded away to the sound of more banging.

  On ne choisit pas d'où l'on vient;                                                                                                                                      ( on choisit ce qu'on ｄｅｖｉｅｎｔ )   

                                                      ♔                                                      

✠⋅⋅⋅||; Whomever Knock Out thought he had caught up to, it was not the Prime. Instead, Orion looked over at him and sighed.

                     ❝Knock Out, I know the ship is dark, but I am not Optimus Prime.❞

Well… I don’t feel comfortable shipping Optimus and Orion but if you really want to see it…..

        The soft touch of digits along its barrier sent a rush of corresponding energy back to him, his own optics flickering to the scatter of evanescent sparks in wonder, then raising back to Orion’s as his question was answered with interest.

        What answer is given does not offer any insight to how or why Orion had ended up in this place, but for now that did not matter, though it must have meant something that the lost librarian had simply found his way here by instinct.. that Megatron himself had wandered here simultaneously.

             Around them he peered, into the erect stacks of data-pillars, with only the filtered light of the sun above to illuminate them. Once they litter the massive archives with their ambient light, and seemed to sing to the librarians that tended to their calling with pious reverence. None of such memories was accessible to Orion, who could only see the few that stood and the many that lay in haphazard disarray.

             For all he knew—all he could know— was that this was where he belonged, but it was not as intended. It was like Orion had the right key to the right lock, but either the key had been shaved or the lock’s tumblers had come entirely out of alignment.

             Well, at the very least, Megatron did seem to fit into the puzzle, although the fit was still awkward and struck out of balance. Harmony could be tuned up with a little work, so Orion peered upwards to the long height of the titan…

                              Innocently unaware that he should be frightened.

At his thoughts, Megatron shook his helm. No, perhaps it was best not to think, to hope and to dream, if only to save him from wounding his spark deeper.

Bright azure dimmed at the mentioning of his enemy. “I am sorry that you were undoubtedly forced to suffer at Optimus’ servos. He has brought destruction and death to many worlds and I fear gravely for this one. At least you are safely returned to us,” he stated, but wondered if he was being too familiar.

Once more he turned his gaze to wander upon the length of the fuel lines, watching as the poison taint was squelched from the archivist’s circuitry. It pained him to have to watch Orion suffer so.

So helpless he had become to stop the monster his once brother had turned into.

Venting, he approached, stopping at the edge of the berth which Orion rested upon. Hesitantly, he reached out a servo, digits sharpened by millennia of endless warfare.

“I know what it means to lose a brother to the vileness of his own ambition,” he said softly. Slowly, he stretched his servo and laid it upon Orion’s shoulder. To touch the armor he thought he would never have a chance to again—he repressed a shudder.

              This was not a dissimilar curiosity formerly held, where Orion marveled at the gladiator and tried to understand the intricate tessellation of his thoughts and see what lay beyond the raw surface.

              There—right there— in those optics he saw first glimmer of familiarity; at least, Orion hoped it was there, but it could very well be his wishful imagination. Rather than display the soft and whimsical smile, the displaced archivist tucked his helm and fidgeted with his empty digits.

              “Nemesis Prime—that is what they call him here, because it was already confusing enough with Optimus and me, a third one just throws the entire balance off—” He was rambling; he winced.

              Preambled with a steady inward vent, Orion calmed himself and looked upwards. No one had bothered to ask how he was truly treated, so this was the first iteration of his tale. “Nemesis Prime was not so terrible to me as I had envisioned. He was worse to the others, and when it was just I… well, he found me more of an oddity than a subject of his malevolent interests.

              Added to the rambling confession, Orion said with some shame, “The terrorcons were truly more terrifying, and only for their constant noises; it was rather unnerving. I do not think he had any harm in mind for me.”

              On that stream of thought, he already skipped to the last statement with an ignition of passion that made a coruscated display within his optics. “There is not as much here on board the Nemesis, but Meg—Lord Megatron—” the correction interrupted the flow, and he paused to bite at the soft malleable derma.

                                                                                                            Do not hold back in front of him.

Shifting his weight, he adjusted his stance as Orion spoke, ex-venting with disdain. “Lord Megatron is what they called me when I began to lead Cybertron into war,” he shook his helm, “Lord Megatron exists upon this vessel, but it is not I. I am only a solider—once a gladiator—here to put an end to my enemy. You may call me Megatron, Orion.” 

                                                                                                                                                Silencing his frivolity.