He'd never really had much of an urge to leave before. Granted, this time around it was for a relatively innocent reason - an urge to know somewhere else, driven solely by pure scientific curiosity. He'd been elsewhere before, yes, but he hasn't exhausted his mind of anywhere other than Cybertron for millenia. Tired of not being tired, if that was something he was capable of. It probably was; his hands were meant for endless work, and during the war that was something far more easily achieved. Peace had its endless benefits, and he would not be so shortsighted as to deny them, but he was idle. Restless. The knowledge of it bored into his very being, settling heavy in the tail-ends of his psyche, dragging around alongside him until he was certain that he might go a little stir-crazy from the added weight of it. He'd go off somewhere else and burn himself out, and then he could come home and be normal about his workload for another little while. Running off to Primus-knows-where was a bit of a drastic move, but as much as he'd like to pretend otherwise, he'd never really been good at responsible decisions. A lot of his memories could be classed as gross mistakes. His choice of transport could prove to be another one, but he'd like to give them the benefit of the doubt. That doubt being why Nitelight was now waiting where he was told to be waiting, quietly swinging his legs off of the edge of a raised platform that wasn't really a seat, but he'd placed himself there regardless. It'd be fine - nobody had told him to get down yet.
Cybertron gleams like a jewel in the light of her distant star; a magnificent sight, even with the millennia of war that has left her surface scarred. It takes three days for the system authorities to approve Hadal's credentials and allow him access to the trade frequencies. Three days in which he stares at that vibrant ball of metal and wonders how many living there struggle to swallow the too-sweet taste of peace. Three days in which he muses on the fact that, across the boundless cosmos and the countless species that inhabit it, war is altogether the same.
On the fourth day, he opens his comms to the usual flurry of activity. Most contacts are simple enough; traders eager to discuss his inventory (warily accepted), unsavory types wishing to wield the firepower of a Hekatonite dreadnought for themselves (these he ignores), even a few requests from scientists to board and study his systems in detail (these he declines, as politely as he can). Only one stands out to him as unusual: an open contract from one of the natives who simply wants to be anywhere else.
Hadal accepts, even if it's ultimately against his better judgement. It's been several months since he last accepted passengers; and that contract had been one of the shortest he's entertained, less than a year's passage across the Perseus Arm. Hardly enough time to build a lasting rapport with the group of excitable tourists to which he had been both home and guide. There's trepidation, of sorts, as he notifies the wannabe runaway that he is willing to listen to their terms.
βhe's never ferried a Cybertronian before. He's heard the rumors, of course; the horror stories of technoism and other assorted atrocities that trouble even him, desensitized as he is. He can only pray he's negotiating with one of the less questionable members of their race. A pacifistic Autobot or even a polite neutral would be acceptable; a Decepticon warmonger less so.
He mentally prepares for the worst, then shunts his attention towards the traders. His cargo of naquadah proves to be especially popular in this sector (a fact memorized for future opportunities), and the returns are surprisingly lucrative for a civilization so recently impoverished by war. Hadal lingers in Cybertron's orbit for the better part of a month, bartering a variety of new cargo, before the time inevitably comes to move on.
βan invitation to a pre-determined rendezvous is sent, belatedly. He lets his system diagnostics cycle in the background of his vast intelligence as he dispatches HKE-4 and HKE-7 to the planet's surface to meet with his prospective passenger. As small as they are in comparison to the native populace, his drones have little trouble navigating the bustling spaceport.
"Nitelight?" HKE-4 and HKE-7 stand shoulder-to-shoulder in mirrored stances, their hands folded politely. "I am ready to depart; I apologize for the delay. I trust you are still interested?"
