Transformers: War of Attrition

The senate was furious that someone had “desecrated the exhibit”--blind to their complete hypocrisy. The conversations the exhibit started had apparently shifted from “relics of a bygone era” to “hey he looks TERRIFYING, I also would have fought with every circuit in my frame to do something about that” and even a few “he looks regal, I can see why people found him compelling”, which the senate was not fond of. 

Additionally, his little flight over Iacon sparked article after article, most calling him some variation of “senile lunatic” and the rest pondering “what function an outdated Prime could serve”.

So. No more news. Instead, Optimus hunted for some form of literature. There was a small library containing mostly scientific texts, but little else. He was getting ready to give up on his search when he found a collection of small storefronts, practically overlapping with how close they’d been shoved together. A small sign in front of what looked like a refuelling station declared: “poetry from 1500 to 2300”. Checking his internal chronometer, he was excited to see that it was 1700.

He had to curve his shoulders inwards and duck a bit to get in through the door, but the inside was much more spacious. Looking around, there were a few patrons with various energon treats against one wall and a small group of Vehicons closer to the center of the establishment, speaking in hushed tones.

“--the sparkmaker was unknowing His creations quick outgrowing

The confines of his belief

The parameters he made without relief And the sparked sparkless toiled on, endless

The work they were forged into, relentless

Blamed for every small infraction

And yet never granted a fraction

Of gratitude for–” She cut herself off with a gasp, seeing Optimus. He had tried to be unobtrusive, but being both large and brightly colored made that a bit hard.

He sheepishly ducked his head, holding his hands up in the universal I hold no weapon in my hand, I mean no harm gesture. “Please, do not let me stop you.”

She scowled, puffing herself with bravado, a familiar strut in her walk—it reminded him of Starscream. “And why are you here? To preach to us?”

A Vehicon painted vibrant purples scoffed, “As if you’d have anything worthwhile to say to a Vehicon.”

Optimus frowned, crouching slightly to be more at optic-level to the femme in front of him. “May I have your designation, poet?”

“P-477,” she snapped, plating flaring defensively. “But my name is OSHA. Like the violation.” She jutted her chin defiantly. “It’s an Earth-name.”

Optimus nodded sagely. The Vehicons were the youngest members of the Cybertronian race, and still had much to learn. Memories of Jazz explaining his own tumultuous history with names and his reasonings for choosing them kept him from laughing.

“See, I called myself Ricochet, cuz all the bad things a mech could do to me would bounce off of me and hit ‘em twice as hard… Hey, hey! It’s not that funny!”

“Among the Autobots, there is no difference between the term designation and name. My apologies if the difference among Decepticons is an offensive one; this is an error I will strive not to repeat.” OSHA seemed shocked at receiving an apology from the Prime, but much less defensive, so he pushed on. “Your poem sounded fascinating. Would you mind telling me what it was about?”

She hesitated, then nodded sharply and looked him in the optics. “We all have mixed feelings towards Shockwave. He is our creator. But he is also the one who told everyone that we were not real mechs. He called us MTOs, or Made To Orders. Because we do not have a spark, he said we were incapable of ‘true independent thought or deep emotion’. But we feel. And we think. And we do something Cybertronians don’t do, but humans do: we dream.”

Optimus’s optics cycled to their widest aperture and he found himself leaning closer to the femme, “Vehicons dream? That’s fantastic. I’ve always wondered what it would be like. Is it restful?”

“Sometimes,” pitched in the purple Vehicon from before. “But it can also be a pain. I once had a recurring dream about a steel beam talking to me. That was pretty annoying. I’m Gregor, by the way.”

And with that, the floodgates were open. The Vehicons happily chattes with him.

“I just wish that Lord Megatron would have seen this,” OSHA admitted. “Maybe then he would have seen that we were more than what we were built for.”

Optimus’s spark ached. This was the very thing that created the Decepticons. “You are much like him. I’m sure he would have adored you, had he known.”

Her fans began to whir in embarrassment. “How am I like him? I’m hardly intimidating.”

“Before he was a warlord, he was a poet,” Optimus reminded. “He spoke extensively on various forms of oppression and the constant search for personhood. Hearing you now, it reminded me of his first few rallies. His first platforms were the sparse few breems he was granted after winning his matches, reciting essays and poems to crowds of apathetic mecha. But then he began to assemble gatherings in places much like this one, touching the sparks of others one at a time. When I say I think your poem was beautiful, I mean it.”

“Oh, I’m not that great. I mean, I rhymed fraction with infraction!”

Optimus gave her a lopsided smile beneath his mask. “Even the clumsiest of words can meet their mark when executed with enough sincerity.” He looked at her, at the crowd of Vehicons around them, and made a decision. He fished out an old, battered data pad from his subspace. “This,” he said, reverently placing it in her servos, “Is my most prized possession.” He curled her fingers around it and let go. “And now it is yours.”

She clutched it to her chest, “Um, what? What is it? Why would you give it to me?”

“It is a collection of poems written by Megatron and myself, before the war started.” He paused, letting that sink in. “We believed that every Cybertronian was capable of artistry and beauty. We also believed in the inherent ties between art and reality. That every poem or painting had the ability to change the world around it, just as much as it was influenced by the world. Art is a conversation with yourself, it is a question thrown out to the universe, just loud enough for others to hear. And he would have wanted you to have it, to draw inspiration and comfort in the fact that this is not a path you walk alone. Besides, I have it safely stored behind my primary firewalls,” he tapped the side of his helm, “there is no removing it from me. Please, take it.”

She subspaced it, and an awkward silence fell over the gathering. 

“I feel like we have to do something now,” said a Vehicon who had yet to introduce themself. “Isn’t there something going on by that old medic’s office?”

And so Optimus was dragged along to something between a protest and volunteer work, laughing and giving gentle critiques to the writings of the Vehicons along the way as they filled him in on the situation.

“Frag,” muttered Epsilon, the Vehicon who had led the charge. “Looks like they’re really struggling with hauling all that debris.”

“Hauling, you say?” Optimus revved his engine, his battlemask snapping to reveal his grin. He sauntered over to the collection of mechs trying to lift a fallen beam and said, “Please move aside.” Within moments, he had wrapped his grappling wires around them and transformed into a truck, his engine roaring as he flung forward with all his might, slowly dragging the giant beam behind him, an assembly of Vehicons and low ranking officers from both factions cheering him on. “Hey!” an Enforcer called out, scowling. “That’s vandalism!” Optimus popped back into root mode, looking down on the Enforcer with a hand on his hip.

“Is that so? Is this not public property? Are they not just trying to clear this space so they can set up a clinic here?”

The Enforcer stepped back as he loomed, but kept their voice steady. “They know they aren’t supposed to be doing this.”

“And what is this?”

“They haven’t bought this space–”

“And will the senate let them? Or did they take the payment and then say that their paperwork wasn’t in order and refuse the sale while pocketing the shanix?”

“That’s not the point—”

“It rather is.”

The Enforcer retreated back a few more steps, “You’re on thin ice.”

“That was bold,” a white and grey minicon walked up to him.

Optimus’s optics crinkled at the corners, “Rewind, it is a pleasure to see you. What brings you here?”

“Oh, the usual. Between documenting horrors beyond mortal comprehension, I figure I need to get a few fluff pieces out.”

A bark of laughter unexpectedly worked its way out of Optimus’s intake. “Very well, then.”

More Enforcers came by, all lingering, but none doing anything so far. It put everyone visibly on edge, many of them flinching when an officer would look their way, but Optimus was content to haul scrap in peace until he heard yelling. “Put down the weapon!”

“It’s a hammer! For construction!” Gregor shouted back. 

“I’m warning you!” a static whine sounded.

“It’s down! I dropped it! See?”

But the whine did not ebb. It only built.

Optimus was moving before he could think, shooting a comm to Rewind: “Don’t get yourself caught or hurt, but record this and livestream it, if possible. The public can’t see the Decepticons, or any of us, as the aggressors. We can’t afford the backlash.”

“On it, Prime.”

Optimus skidded in front of the Vehicon, turning to shield Gregor, pushing him away so he wouldn’t get caught in the charge as the electrified line of the taser shot forward and pulsed thousands of volts into his frame. He grit his teeth and did not scream. His battle computer was laser focused, offering solution after solution. He could reach and grab the wire, pull the mech closer to him, and deliver a nonlethal blow. He could activate his grapplers and shoot the mech through the spark. He had hundreds of ways to get out. But none of them would result in a desirable outcome.

So he did as he always did: he endured. He endured until the weapon’s charge faded and the line dropped from his frame.

He turned to the Enforcer, vocaliser full of static, “If you are quite done attacking civilians, we have a clinic to build.” 

The enforcer set their jaw, “And who are you to speak to me like that?”

“I am just exercising my right to help my fellow Cybertronian. Would your superiors like to hear about what you’re doing, Badge #607E-A? How about the senators? Under what charges will you bring in Optimus Prime?”

“Resisting arrest.”

“I see.” He glared the mech down. “Then arrest me. See what happens.” Optimus offered his wrists to the mech.

The enforcer turned around, shaking with fury. “Any of you pick up a weapon, and the prime won’t be quick enough to shield you from the consequences.”

“Who can move quicker: the war build or the telescope?”

The enforcer did not answer, just left.

Optimus wasn’t usually drawn to make such a functionalist statement, but there was a certain satisfaction in turning their logic against them.

He kneeled down and offered Gregor a shaky servo, who took it with wonder. “You protected me?”

“Of course.” Optimus considered his next words carefully, and addressed the small crowd. “The time for change is upon us. Soon, you will not have to face this discrimination. Soon, the senate’s tyranny will be put to an end. I have outlived my purpose, this I know, but I promise you: you will be saved. But you cannot let them beat you down. Keep talking, keep writing poems, keep building clinics, and keep each other safe. We can find harbor in our fellow Cybertronians, in our communities. But we must consciously keep them connected, for your gathering and your joining forces is precisely what the senate aims to disrupt.”

It wasn’t long after that that Jazz sent him a message: “One last speech for the road, Prime? Really?”

“I have to ensure Megatron has a chance to truly rally the people, Jazz. Besides,” he laughed. “I might have one more speech in me before I go.”

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