Work Text:
Fortress Maximus could neatly sum up his life into a series of “before” and “after” segments, in much the same way most ‘bots native to Cybertron could. Battles fought, battles won, battles lost. Further divided into subdivisions: those met, those lost, deaths and tragedies and injuries that all wove together to form a full picture of someone’s life.
At the very least, he could neatly sum his life up into neat sections in the “Before the Lost Light” category, with events in the aftermath falling into a category that could be best described as “a hot mess.” Even after Ultra Magnus had passed on the mantle of Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord to him, it appeared as if his life would always be touched, at least a little bit, by the chaotic energy that clung to life aboard the ship. And as he pieced himself together on Luna-1, recovering fragments of himself from the “Before Overlord” era, he wasn’t sure he minded too much.
The change from the rigid structure his military life, the only thing he had known up until the last handful of years, had been was a welcome thing.
Away from the base of operations, where Red Alert and Cerebros to take care of their own tasks, Max wandered the surface of Luna-1. “Wandering” was perhaps not the right word - wandering was what Outrigger did, as he cataloged the Titans that towered above them, satiating a seemingly infinite curiosity. Max had his own business to attend to, in what could be referred to as the “after Roboids” period of his life. Primarily, cataloging what was what and trying to figure the order of repair.
Various animals - beastformers, he reminded himself, Cybertronians locked into their alt modes - milled around, like staying with like. On the odd occasion he would have to shoo away a felinoid from something like a petrorabbit, but he had yet to see anything come of it. It was as if they knew, on some level, that they were not animals. There was a part of him that was aware that they could simply ask about the experience, but Max in the “After Overlord” era did not think he would be able to. There was some undeniable feeling of kinship towards the Roboids, one that made him so protective of them.
As he passed by a something that could be called a herd of equinoids, had they been true beasts, one approached to nudge his hand, and in response Max paused to gently pat his muzzle.
“We’ll get you guys fixed soon,” he said in a low tone. Determined. Confident in the truth of his words, no matter how soft he spoke them. “I promise.”
The equinoid looked at him for a long moment, then moved on. Max watched him leave and return to the others, wondering - as he had many times before - how long they had been stuck in this state. Acting on pure instinct, he reached to touch his left arm, a finger tracing an invisible seam of an injury long since healed, left there by Overlord long ago. His mind lingered on the memory of pain that was all that remained before shutting it down, pulling himself away from the teetering edge of What Had Been so he did not fall in.
Three years is an awfully long time to wait for any kind of rescue. Too long, he thought. Hope whittling away under agony and despair as hours, days, months passed until there was nothing at all. Just a gaping void of wishing that Primus would allow him to die.
But with the Roboids, he was able to step in. Intervene as soon as he was able. Will be able, in the few cases that he had yet to solve, ones that caused his spark to ache. Max did not regret killing Demus, even if had not strictly been the lawful thing to do. One less monster abusing those who could not defend themselves in the world cost Max no sleep. Even when Magnus had lectured him on how it was not his job to be judge, jury, and executioner, it was difficult for him feel any sort of guilt. All he could do was assure him that those who had purchased Roboids would not be harmed when those still out there were recovered.
He neglected to mention that that was more out of worry of invoking the wrath of the Galactic Council than anything else. And while he did not admit to the reality that there was a sense of fury prickling along his circuits over the fact he could give little more than a slap on the wrist for their crimes, he was sure Ultra Magnus knew of this truth regardless. And he hoped, at least to some degree, that Magnus understood, and maybe even agreed.
Though that hope might be asking too much.
Max continued on, enjoying the tranquility of Luna-1 as he cataloged the Roboids, as Cerebros had requested of him. Which he had done with some hint of alarm and annoyance, Max recalled with a small, fond smile. The former mnemosurgeon had not expected the sheer number of ‘bots he would need to be repairing, when Max first informed him of the cure. He would help them, of course, despite the complaints he made clear on the daily, but he had the condition that Max was to be the one who to make the records and tell him what was what. His reason being that Max was the one who brought them there, and Cerebros would like to avoid being on the receiving end of an angry beastformer.
“Besides,” he’d said, with enough of a dramatic flair to make Red Alert roll his eyes, “they seem to like you a lot.”
This was true, he supposed with some degree of amusement.
He considered it, as he passed through the crowd. Considered how, after years upon decades upon centuries of upholding a fearsome reputation, he had slowed. His temper, stoked by the Autobot’s war, could not last forever with no battles to be fought; his rage and anger would burn away at him until there was nothing left. And it almost had.
But in the “After Garrus-9,” “After The War,” “After Every Awful Thing That Could Happen,” he had been helped to reconstruct himself. It was a process to be sure, still ongoing and sometimes more of an uphill struggle than he would like, but he had help. Rung, and the rest of his staff. Redirecting his hurt and anger, letting himself become something…softer. Into someone who would rather spend his days patrolling the surface of Luna-1 and helping others than running a wartime prison.
Which was, all things considered, a fine new chapter to find himself in.