Chapter Text
A sea of datapads, both read and unread, engulfed the surface of the reading table with little organization. Piled high like angry wisps of fumes from the Rust Sea, they vibrated whenever one moved around too harshly, a warning of a future wherein whoever responsible would be stuck cleaning up the toppled over mess. By some stroke of luck, not a single soul had encroached the unbroken solitude of the Hall of Record’s history sector, leaving a comforting stillness to settle over the room in its entirety.
Orion had been here ever since their shift ended. For too long, perhaps, mind having become clouded by the sheer amount of data he was trying to process at once. If it had been anyone else, any other miner on Ironhide’s team, they likely would have left things well enough alone. They would have seen the writing on the wall and thought of it as a gift to be able to taste something new, only to return to their assigned tasks. But not him. Never him. He saw the possibilities for what they were and refused to ignore them, knowing that if miners were being shipped off to arenas behind closed doors, anyone could be next. That disturbed him, so much so that he hadn’t been able to properly sleep for several cycles. He couldn’t decide if that was a fate worse than simply being scrapped.
A heavy exvent slipped out of him before he even realized it had been building up in his chest. The side of his face was compressed against the glass plane of the desk, a stylus rolling back and forth underneath his index and middle fingers as he stared at the shelf directly in front of him. Despite the lengthy joors of his off-shift that he had spent here, most had been wasted. His notes were few, results even fewer, and it was hard to say that his detective work had amounted to anything. He’d been spending his time fretting instead, prognostic calculator working overtime to establish a worse case scenario.
Ironhide knew his way around the trigger end of a gun well enough to be able to hold his own, and Ariel’s adaptability meant that she was capable of figuring out how to manage, even if she’d be kicking and screaming the entire way. For everyone else, though, confidence wavered. Though Jazz was just as versatile as Ariel, his rubbish leg replacement crippled his ability to move around, and the likelihood of him getting a better one before being forced into combat were zero to none. Hound was pacifistic to a fault, and his stalwart aversion to conflict was so intrinsically opposed to all that the arena stood for that he’d probably be kicked out for trying to advocate for the wildlife caged behind closed doors. And Ratchet, as stubborn as he was, would rather be incinerated before he ever betrayed his principles, but his status as a registered medic might spare him from being thrown directly into the ring. If whoever was responsible for managing an arena kept him around only for his medical skills, it would be little more than a change in location for him. It would knock him for six, sure, but he’d live.
It was ironic, then, that Orion was unsuccessful in trying to ascertain how he would fare. Doing so would require a level of introspection that he couldn’t muster in the moment, too worried about naming the variables of whatever equation was used to decide who would get the boot, when it might happen, and where they would be relocated to. Without gladiator pits in Iacon, there was no telling where they might be sent to.
Settled over one of the edges of the table, Laserbeak observed his imaginary work with a shine of pity to his optics. He’d been watching ever since Orion had begun studying, and now he seemed utterly bored. :You do realize this won’t amount to much, correct?:
“Because I stopped reading, like, a billion kliks ago? Yeah, I know.”
:It’s more complicated than that,: the avian argued. :You won’t find the information that you’re looking for here.:
Orion frowned. “What do you mean? This place has documents on everything. I just have to look in the right place.” Which was proving to be a struggle, but that had never stopped him before.
:Do you really think that anyone is bold enough to be writing dissertations on the ethics of gladiator games and how participants are usually snatched off the streets? I know you’re smarter than that, Orion. What are you really looking for?:
“I-” Whatever he was going to say next ended up being aborted prematurely, his jaw locking up as he considered the inquiry. He didn’t have an answer. He was absorbing information without a genuine purpose beyond speculation, no real plan being formed alongside what he was learning – and, even then, he wasn’t really acquiring knowledge he didn’t already know. Laserbeak was right in that the datapads he’d gathered were only tangentially related through the chronicling of history, as opposed to being dedicated solely to the topic. He could run around in circles and achieve the same effect; which, of course, was nothing at all.
He groaned loudly, dropping his head against the desk with a thud. The truth of the matter was that he had come to the archives with the express intent of avoiding everyone. Soundwave might have made him swear up and down not to say anything about what they had seen in Kaon, but every part of his processor was shrieking about how he needed to warn the others. Brace his friends for an outcome that may or may not happen, or forever hold his peace when one of them disappears. A catch twenty-two that the universe was holding him at gunpoint to make a choice for.
Probably regretting the conundrum that he had caused, Laserbeak flitted over the workspace and sorted through the datapads himself, humming every now and then. :Has it ever occurred to you that you could get one of us to gather intelligence?:
“I’d have to tell Soundwave,” the miner pointed out in a grumble, twisting his head to look over at the familiar. “And then he’d ask me what I’m doing, to which I’d have to explain that I haven’t been able to recharge at night knowing that any of us could be exiled to the arena. He’s going to say no if I ask him to help me find out where all of those gladiators came from, because I can’t lie to him. He can spot those faster than a bot can hash them out.”
:Your concerns are valid enough for him to bend the knee, I reckon.: It sounded teasing, to a degree. A pot shot at the outlier’s expense. :Though, to be honest, you’re more likely to get sent to the scrapyard than you are to be relocated to a place like Kaon. If Megatron truly was a miner in a past life, then he stands as an exception.:
“If the administrative board is letting this happen, then someone has to know! That can’t keep going on, even if it’s infrequent.”
Beady eyes narrowed. :And who would you tell? I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it's a convenience that everyone already knows about. You’ll be hard-pressed to encounter anyone in a position of power who would actually want to dismantle such an intricate system.:
Orion was silent for a grand total of six astro-seconds before responding. “We can tell Alpha Trion.”
:Elaborate.:
“I know he’s not really a Prime, but he was like their advisor during the rebellion, and that has to account for something!” he said, sitting up straight in his chair. “If he knew about what happens in the mines, he could help us. He could get Sentinel Prime to intervene.”
The other extended a wing and tidied up the arrangement of his blocky feathers. :That sounds like a lofty errand. How are you planning on contacting him? You’re a miner. You can’t just waltz up to the front desk and get an appointment with him.:
For a second time, Orion found himself struggling to come up with a good comeback. The simplest way was getting Soundwave to do it, but that fell back on the previously stated complication of getting him on board with any of this to begin with. An anonymous letter might do the trick, but that required figuring out where Alpha Trion’s office was, and there was no guarantee he’d read it without a proper designation on the front anyway. He could try to talk his way into getting one of the clerks to help in some form or fashion, but a good portion of them already knew his name and avoided him like a virus for his constant breaking and entering. His choices were extremely limited, much like his options in life overall.
The more he ruminated, the louder the intuitive voice in his personality module echoed that any mistake in his plans would lead to punishments far harsher than if he was in the mines. Things were growing bleaker by the klik.
:Now you’re beginning to see the issue,: announced Laserbeak, whose talons clacked against the table as he moved closer. :You’re looking too far ahead and skipping over important details again. Tell me, what did you start out wanting to accomplish when you first came back from Kaon?:
Orion contemplated the question, tracing the seams of the bag slung over his shoulder. “I wanted to know if Megatron really was a miner.”
:Right. So focus on that first. Then you can branch out to other things.:
Orion pushed the stylus forward and saw it spin forward until it collided with one of the stacks of datapads, coming to a halt. It reminded him of his endeavors and the walls he kept hitting. “I guess. Would any of the other overseers know anything?”
Laserbeak hopped onto his shoulder as he rose to his feet, settling in place to watch him gather all of his materials. :Doubtful. None of us have ever overheard anything like that.:
“Cool, cool.” He wasn’t resentful. Definitely not. It was something else, less sharp than what resent implied. Sour, maybe, that sounded right. Sour that things could never be cut and dried, like everything was out to get him.
Normally, there would be a cart left out for patrons to leave behind any unwanted datapads, which one of the clerks would use to put them back where they belonged. Unfortunately, there hadn’t been a single one when he had originally entered, and he was forced to carry all of the tablets by hand and return them himself. It was meticulous work that Ariel would have loved, but he wasn’t Ariel, and his memory banks were too clogged for him to remember where he had gotten everything from. He could guess where most of them had come from based on the gaps in the shelves, but he had to rely on Laserbeak to recall the rest. On his way out of the room, he grabbed the notepad and pen before tucking them away in the bag he had borrowed from Soundwave.
As he stepped into the hallway of ancient dust and bygone kilocycles, Orion stared up into the markings chiseled into the ceiling. Things hadn’t always been like this. Cybertron hadn’t always been carried on the backs of the lowest common denominator, hadn’t always been leveraged against those who were doomed into servitude as soon as they were made. And though he knew that someone had to do the job, he remained disillusioned by how everything, by design, was meant to keep it that way. Progress could only be achieved by those of higher status, and the rest were left to do all of the labor while corroding from exhaustion. They paved the way, but never got any of the credit. He felt trapped, squashed by arbitrary ideals like functionalism and a caste system that used to not exist when the Primes had first liberated themselves from their oppressors.
Or maybe it had existed, and the history books were simply kind enough to refrain from mentioning it until it was pertinent to modern society. Maybe everything had been corrupt from the beginning, with no way to salvage things.
“Why do we have to keep doing this?” he said to no one.
An unfamiliar voice from behind him deigned to reply. “Why indeed?”
He yelped, spinning around so quickly that the speed almost threw Laserbeak to the nearest wall. In the throes of deliberation, he’d failed to take note of the little warnings in his HUD informing him that something new had entered his immediate field of awareness. Behind him was none other than Alpha Trion, as tall and grand as all of the pictures that were imprinted across the archives’ contents. He was as wizened as they came, the sagacity sparkled in his eyes behind the thick lenses of his spectacles. Deep wrinkles under his eyes and a neatly trimmed, argent beard bespoke of how truly old he was. Older than most of the Primes had been before their deaths, even.
Out of instinct, Orion went rigid and bowed, hands clasped together in a silent prayer that Primus would spare him from some sort of embarrassment. “I’m so, so sorry, was I being too loud? I didn’t mean it, I know people are supposed to be quiet in here, I was just talking to myself and-”
“Peace, my young friend,” Alpha Trion interrupted kindly, holding up a servo to stop his ramblings. “You have nothing to fear. I was merely interested in your question.”
Some part of the smaller mech short-circuited, he was sure of that, but he couldn’t get his diagnostic program to run a thorough scan to determine what exactly had been fritzed before he spoke again. “Oh, I-I didn’t really mean anything by that!”
Optics of a deeper blue darted down to the designation tag that was clipped to his collar, which remained telling as ever. “Ah, I see...I recognize you now. You’re the miner that’s been causing a ruckus every now and then for the past few vorn. You gave one of the newer archivists quite the scare a few cycles ago, if memory serves.”
Dread powered up his spark and pounded it against his ribcage like a jackhammer. He summoned a pleasant, albeit forced smile in return. “Yeah, I used to come here unsupervised a lot, but that was before our overseer became registered! Now I’m here with permission.” Shrugging his shoulder to jostle Laserbeak into moving, he made sure the unhelpful chicken was seated against his forearm before continuing. “He’s not here right now, technically, but this is one of his familiars, and the clerks always say I can stay if one of them is watching me.”
“You are the first in a long while,” the elderly sage confessed. “Many have given up the fight for knowledge, although it should hardly be a fight in the first place. Such is the way of war and its necessities, I suppose. You sacrifice much in order to keep things afloat.”
Orion dug the tips of his digits against his leg with his free hand, trying to scratch an invisible itch. “I figured there were others before me, but I was constructed cold a lot more recently than everyone else, so I don’t think I’d know any of them.” He wondered how different things would be if he had, though. The kinship would have been welcomed with open arms, he figured, and he might have been convinced to push Soundwave into becoming a registered user in the archives a lot sooner.
But there was hope. Hope in the words that had been offered, in the undertone of regret that hinted towards his disapproval of the status quo. He clung to that optimism with all of his might, and he was rewarded thusly by his continued conversation with Alpha Trion. “What is it that draws you here, Orion Pax of Iacon?” he asked, gesturing for the miner to follow him as he turned to walk away. “It must be something of importance if you are willing to force your way in, though I have to commend your determination despite the obstacles.”
Briefly, he examined the pros and cons of being wholly upfront about why he was there this cycle specifically. He’d been given the chance he wanted, no middle-mech required to pass along sensitive information. On the other hand, he needed proof that was more tangible than a hypothesis, even if said hypothesis had all of the logic and foundation in the world. Plus, being so direct seemed a little disrespectful. Jazz’s affinity for subtlety was starting to rub off on him, or so he thought. “I like reading. The act of reading, I mean. It took me a while to learn all of the Cybertronian Standard glyphs, but it gives me stuff to do when I’m not working.”
A perturbed expression crossed over the old mech's features, and he looked down at the blue bot with a crease to his brow. “You mean to say that the factories are no longer teaching constructs how to read after they’ve been made? That is rather troubling.”
Worry nipped at Orion’s senses, as if his unconscious admittance had allowed a floodgate to be thrown open wide. But surely that was a good thing. It meant that Alpha Trion knew what needed to be fixed. “We get data packs whenever we come online, but they’re usually restricted to what we need to be able to read while on the job. Overseers and medics aren’t really made specifically for the mines, so they’re usually more verbose than us, and we pick up on things from them if we’re lucky.”
:Orion. Be mindful of what you say,: Laserbeak warned, though he didn’t look directly at him. :Not everything needs to be announced.:
Biting back the urge to make a visual reaction, the miner kept his gaze pinned firmly ahead. :It’s just small talk. No need to be so jumpy. Besides, this might be the only time I get to speak with him!:
As they passed by one grand windows that he had definitely cracked open on one occasion, it dawned on him that he didn’t know where he was being taken. At first, he’d believed that he was being taken to the front desk, likely under the assumption that his time here was over and he was due to return to the quarry. There was more he wanted to do here, datapads that he had intended on renting so that he could share them with his friends, but he didn’t want to end up cutting the conversation short. Not while he was certain that he’d never be able to achieve this kind of communication again.
They stopped before an isolated casement, the light of Iacon trickling into the Hall of Records and splashing the sleek floor with a faded beige. The end of Alpha Trion’s back cloak touched the streak of illumination, and the sight of dirty boots next to the velvety fabric made the most apt visual contrast between the two. A simple miner still young in his kilocycles and a lifelong friend to the Primes. They were so far apart on the rungs of the social ladder that it still felt unreal that they were in the same room, let alone speaking to each other. Ariel was going to be so jealous.
“To speak truthfully,” the primeval mech murmured with a timbre of thoughtfulness, “I have been meaning to discuss this matter with Iacon’s administrative board because of you.”
Orion swallowed the lump forming in his throat, trying not to sound stupid. “Because of me?” he repeated, sounding stupid anyway.
“The tally of illegal entrances listed to your name alone is rather unflattering, wouldn’t you agree?”
An anvil could have been dropped on his head and he would have been less floored, because the revelation was completely earth-shattering. Every time he’d snuck in, every time he’d plugged into the security system to undo the locks and the internal alarm, either someone working in the archives or some part of its mainframe had been alerted. It was unlikely that the temporary loss of function in any of the windows had explicitly been regarded as an attempted break-in, but it had still been perceived, even with Orion’s efforts to conceal any intrusions. Though the rhetorical question could have easily been a bluff, he had been caught before. A few times, in fact, each with its own garrulous admonishment from one of the higher-ups that were quickly forgotten. From there, it was easy to correlate the lapses in surveillance onto him.
He was past the point of wishing that he’d been able to better talk Jazz into accompanying him for his technical skills, but hindsight still had him regretting the miscalculation.
Backtrack, backtrack, backtrack. He had to backtrack. Figure out why this was relevant. His internal fans hummed with force as he wracked his logic system for something, and when he grasped the point, his brain was no longer fuzzy with confusion. “I’m guessing you want to use me as an example for why we shouldn’t have to jump through hoops just to visit the archives?” Being used as a talking point made him feel a little uncomfortable, but if it meant actually getting through the thick skulls of the administrative board, that would be worth more than heeding to his objections.
“Through different wording, but more or less.” Alpha Trion folded his sleeves together and obscured his hands. “We often sacrifice much in order to be on the winning side of a conflict. Now is no different, but much that we have surrendered to the throes of war has escalated into territory that ought not to have been breached.” Silence, for a moment, before he looked down at his companion. “I wonder if that is what you meant before.”
A bitter smile met him in turn. “Does anyone really want to be a miner, even if they were given a choice?”
“If the conditions were different, then perhaps. But the only individuals who can make a difference are hardly ever the ones who need that change. I understand.” They stopped before the elevator, the whirrs of anti-gravity mechanics flaring to life to lift the carriage up while a heavy pause filled the air between the pair. “A few cycles ago, you came here with another. What was his name, if you don’t mind me asking?”
The other waited long enough to hear the machinery, but not long enough to wait for the compartment to reach the floor they were on. “Was he walking weird? That’s Jazz.”
“I see.” The bell rang and the doors swept open, allowing Alpha Trion to step inside. “Well, I shouldn’t keep you for any longer. Nonetheless, I am sure that we will see each other again, young friend.”
Orion’s limbs felt like dead weight, but he forced himself to raise his hand in a parting wave before the gesture would have been rendered pointless. For a while, he remained in place, unmoving aside from the natural rise and fall of his chest. The encounter had given way to a certain calm, the likes of which had settled the inner turmoil of his current worries – its length was short, though, as a burst of energy and enthusiasm coursed through him. “I just spoke to Alpha Trion. The Alpha Trion.”
:That you did,: Laserbeak agreed.
“And he wants to talk to the administrative board!” A devious, borderline sinful chuckled escaped him as he rubbed his hands together, the heat of friction burying past the fabric of his gloves and touching his skin. “Darkwing is gonna be so fragging mad when Alpha Trion rips into him.”
His familiar watcher bent forward and nipped at his ear, both delicate enough to not hurt and hard enough to be felt. :Calm yourself, or else you’re going to forget everything that you were doing.:
“Ah, right,” Orion muttered, snapping his fingers. He whirled away from the elevator to jog towards the staircase instead. Urgency made his stride swift, as he knew that Soundwave would want to hear about this development directly from word of mouth rather than over their communications line. No amount of encryption would change the fact that the overseer valued trading information in-person above all else.
As he entered the stairwell, Laserbeak flew up ahead of him and landed on the top of the railing, apparently disgruntled by the constant movement. :And what do you plan on doing about Megatron in the meantime? If you haven’t decided to put it aside, at least.:
He nearly tripped on the last step, catching himself just before he would have otherwise skidded his knees against the unforgiving floor. Loathe was he to admit that he’d forgotten about the ordeal, but he could hardly be blamed for being side-tracked. “No, no, I haven’t...I just need to get these datapads for Wheeljack first. Then I can think.”
Shiny, amber optics locked with the bright azure of his own, and the avian returned to his place on the miner’s shoulder. :What does that bumbling idiot want now?:
“Oh, don’t be so mean. It’s not his fault that things tend to explode whenever he’s around. That gets us out of work more than anyone else realizes.” Orion coughed into his fist. “Anyway, he wanted me to pick up some advanced scientific principles so he can study them. He’s always building stuff from whatever scrap he can find, y’know? I bet he’d be a killer engineer if we ever get out of the mines.”
Laserbeak made a clicking noise that sounded like a sneer. :I wouldn’t count on that.:
⋆｡°✩
With care, Ratchet adhered the strip of plaster over the bridge of his nose and thumbed the edges down to bond it in place. The sting of pain lessened now that the air was no longer touching it, reduced to a more tolerable ache. “There you go, Pax. Your self-repair program should take care of the rest. Though, honestly, I wish you would be more careful with the tools that we’re given.”
“I know,” Orion sighed, already exasperated before a diatribe could be launched into. It wasn’t his fault that a piece of the drill bit had chipped off while they were harvesting ore, and it certainly wasn’t his fault that it had bounced off the cavern wall and sliced open his face. He couldn’t have been more cautious if he’d tried. He knew, however, that Ratchet was simply being a worrywart as usual. It was in his nature, and that was a good thing.
The medic’s trademark smile was back on his face soon enough, and he stepped back with his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. “I’ve got to say, this has probably been the most eventful thing in a while. It’s been weirdly calm ever since Jazz got his prosthetic.”
“You’re gonna jinx it, doc.”
He blew out a gust of air from the corner of his mouth. “Jinx my aft! I’ll fist-fight Primus himself before I let this dry spell of injuries end so quickly. I can finally get through checking inventory in a single cycle without someone interrupting me.”
The younger mech swung his feet back and forth above the floor, fiddling with the strap that was buckled over his chest. “Can I get a kiss before I have to go back to work?” he requested, feigning bashfulness as he averted his gaze.
“What are you, a sparkling?” Ratchet scoffed, only slightly sincere about his incredulity before he leaned in to offer him a chaste peck right above where his cut was. “There. Now get out of here, before someone accuses you of procrastinating.”
As Orion pushed himself off of the mediberth and began to move for the way out, a series of knocks sounded from the other side. They didn’t sound hurried enough to suggest that an accident had occurred, and the rush of footsteps that usually preceded such an announcement had also been noticeably absent. Then, as if on cue, someone spoke through the gap where the double doors met, a faint but pleasant chirp. “Hello? Doctor Ratchet? I have a delivery for you from the clinic!”
That didn’t sound right at all.
Bewildered, he looked back to the chief medical officer with a raised eyebrow, jerking a thumb in the direction of the exit as if to ask if he knew any better – judging by the way he stomped over with a perplexed frown, he probably didn’t. Regardless, he elbowed the button that opened the doors and stood in front of them, staring at the white and red bot who had come all of this way. “I didn’t order anything, First Aid. What in the Pits are you doing here?”
First Aid, whose countenance was entirely obscured by the typical visor and face mask combination, was still capable of exuding an aura of joviality into the room. Orion had seen him a few times before, usually whenever he stopped by to replace broken tools or computers. “Nice to see you again, too,” he greeted, and if not for the openness of his unrestrained field, it would have been impossible to detect sarcasm through the tone of his voice alone. He held up a handled case towards the two of them. “Anyway, you might not have ordered anything, but somebody else did on behalf of the site. It’s a custom leg replacement!”
Ratchet stared. “What.”
“You know, it’s been a while since we got any recent medical logs from here, but I think somebody mentioned one of the miners here losing a leg pretty recently? Not sure who exactly it was, but-”
“Stop,” he interrupted, holding out one hand while the other rubbed at his temples, eyes squeezed shut. “Who put in this order? None of us had the funds for this when originally needed it.”
As if questioning whether he had the authority to say, First Aid hesitated – the longer that the other medic bored holes into him, though, the more his uncertainty began to flake away like dried paint. “One of the clerks from the archives commissioned it a few cycles ago. Said it was a high priority order from Alpha Trion, which is why we were able to put it together so quickly.”
Against his judgement, Orion laughed breathlessly at the admittance. “Oh slag, really?”
Ratchet wheeled on him in an instant, pointing an accusatory pen in his direction. “What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything!” he protested, alarmed by how quickly the accusation was pinned on him. “Okay, well, that’s not exactly true, but all I did was talk to him! And when he asked me about Jazz, I told him the truth, and even then he only asked if Jazz was the one who was with me at the archives the other cycle. So I didn’t really do anything, honestly.”
“You were with Alpha Trion?”
He waved his hand back and forth in a so-so manner, but mentally sorting through the components of what First Aid had said before had him squinting back at the smaller medic. “Wait, hold on, did you say that the Iacon Medical Facility hasn’t been receiving updates from us?”
“Not for a couple of chords,” he admitted, nudging the case into Ratchet’s hold. “That’s an issue that pops every now and then, especially whenever your transportation period rolls around. We’ll probably get the necessary folders soon, but it meant that we didn’t know about the series of injuries that happened here recently.”
“...you don’t think that’s a bit weird?”
“Not really?”
Orion toyed with his designation tag absently, twisting it between his digits. Someone from the main clinic overlooking an obvious breach in protocol should have been cause for concern, but, honestly, this was par for the course by now. Besides, it wasn’t really their fault. They were always painstakingly diligent about ensuring that everything was recorded properly and cataloged on time, so the higher-ups could shoulder that responsibility themselves if trouble ever arose from the issue.
With a confounded huff, Ratchet turned aside to set down the holder on one of the slabs, popping it open to inspect what was inside. Sure enough, a leg that looked exactly like the one Jazz had lost sat in the center, surrounded by a plastic mold that secured it in place and waiting to be attached to its new owner. “Does anyone on the administrative board know this was sent in?”
“Of course! We made sure of that beforehand.” First Aid began to walk backwards, passing through the open hatch. “Anyway, I better get back to the clinic before Pharma gets mad at me. I’ll let you know if any new orders get sent in!” Bidding them both farewell, he jogged back into the hallway and vanished into its extremity.
A couple kliks passed as the older medic watched him go, but as soon as he was out of sight, he shot a nonplussed look at Orion. “I think that’s enough excitement for one day,” he breathed out, moving to the medical cabinet and popping open the doors to look inside. “You go on back to the others, before anything else can catch up with you. I’ll deal with inventory myself.”
“And the leg replacement?”
“I’ll designate a surgery date for Jazz and send it to one of the nutjobs. Until then, you know that Darkwing would blow a fuse if we did it without telling him.”
“He would,” the blue bot agreed under his breath, slinking out of the room and closing the doors behind him.
Nothing else happened for the rest of the cycle, and that was for the best. In a twist of fate, far too much had been going on in his life, and he felt overwhelmed by the busyness of it all. He returned to work, kept himself from telling Jazz about the leg replacement so that it would be a surprise, and was uncharacteristically placated by the normalcy of it all. The dull sounds of metal grinding against rock and mineral were well-received after having been forgotten in favor of other environments, and the familiar sights of the mineshaft put him at ease. He found out that they had spent so many kilocycles drilling in this strain of the planet’s core that it had almost been drained of its resources, and soon, they would have to move on and make another one in the quarry. It was a testament to their dedication, and their efforts would at least be celebrated by other mining teams. In the meantime, Ironhide saw fit to remind them of the dangers that came with starting a new tunnel. Procedures for bracing newly formed walls and identifying unstable veins all sounded the same to Orion, merging together into an incomprehensible buzz that went in one ear then out the other. Then they all clocked out at the end of the solar cycle and went about their usual activities, all while he fell into the background and minimized his presence among the others.
This was fine. Ideal, even. This preceding serenity was preferable for what he planned on getting up to when night fell over Iacon. Even Soundwave, who was usually so attentive to the goings-on, remained uninformed on account of the extensive care that Orion had taken to shield his thoughts on the matter. What the overseer didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him in the long run, even if the secrecy was bound to nettle him.
He didn’t need Soundwave. He needed Ravage. So he waited.
In the miner’s quarters, the darkness that swathed the area was all-encompassing, only sparing a fraction of light for the naked eye to see the dim glow of operational recharge units. It was just bright enough for him to see what was directly above his berth, allowing him to memorize the patternless ceiling as his chronometer marked the current time. Luna-1’s position in the sky would be at its apex right about now, with Luna-2 following close behind to hover in the horizon’s center a few joors after. It was midnight.
He pushed himself to a sitting posture and glanced around the room, the stifling silence only partially abated by distant snoring from a handful of others sleeping in their stations. Ariel and Ratchet were sharing a berth relatively close to him, and Wheeljack had finally given up on trying to delay his recharge for as long as possible, his time pouring over datapads having reached an end point that left the younger bot in the dark. Even the overseers and administrators, he knew, were deep in defrag. He was sure of that. No one was awake except for him.
He invented quietly, then sent out a ping to Ravage. :I need your help.:
As to be expected, it went unanswered for a while. Then, as he imagined the familiar uncurling herself from where she slept on Soundwave’s berth, an answer was issued. :What is it?:
:Can you meet me outside of the miner’s quarters? Alone. Don’t wake up Soundwave.:
:That request doesn’t bode well for whatever it is that you’re about to ask of me.:
He scowled at the message, thinking over his next message several times to ensure he wouldn’t be misunderstood. :I’m not trying to hide anything from him, I just don’t want him to feel obligated to do whatever I want just because he knows that he won’t be able to stop me.: He didn’t want him to possibly get in trouble as well, but he left that part unsaid.
Another interlude, though not quite as long. :Well, you’ve certainly piqued my interest. I’ll be there shortly.:
Stifling an ensuing exvent of relief, he slid off the side of the berth and picked up his shoes from the floor, creeping to the door as soundlessly as he might. Nobody stirred, and he exited the chamber undetected. He was in the middle of putting on his boots when the unmistakable pair of ruby reds cut through the tenebrosity that shrouded the excavation, piercing through the black to reveal Ravage’s location before she shuffled close enough for the rest of her to be seen. Her tail flicked left and right in slow, but sharp motions. She was interested, if not on guard for whatever was about to be sprung on her.
Setting his volume low, Orion began to walk forward. “I’m trying to break into the records department.”
:You know, I normally don’t put much stock in Primus, but what in his name are you trying to accomplish with that?:
“If Megatron really was a miner, his name will be in there. Every city-state on Cybertron is required by law to document personnel files of all the miners that are put to work, and then they have to send copies to the department here for safekeeping.” His hands traced the occasional bump and groove in the nearby wall, dirt catching under the nails whenever he dug a little too deep. “I don’t know how everything is organized inside, but I do know that there’s a pretty gnarly lock outside to prevent anyone other than the administrators from getting inside.”
The feline’s facial features sharpened with mischief. :And you assumed I could disable it?:
“And the cameras inside, if there are any. You’re the second best that I know for this kind of job after Soundwave.”
:Such fun would be lost on him anyway,: she teased. :You made the right choice. I doubt it’ll take me too long. The security in this place is laughably pitiful sometimes.:
As they rounded upon a corner, Orion stopped and surveyed their surroundings to make sure they were alone before proceeding. He stepped up to the circular vault door and observed it with a hard gaze. It was clamped in place heavily by several bars from behind, which dug into the stone wall that the hatch was nestled within, and a pair of scanners had been installed for identification tags and facial recognition. The library of certificates was, without a doubt, the most guarded location in the entire colliery. With good cause, he supposed. Without proof of existence, one might as well be a ghost across all of Cybertron – and for miners, their personal file here was all that they had.
Ravage paced around the crypt’s entrance, taking in all of its features before deciding that it truly was safe to approach. She perked her ears up and pressed her head close to the door, listening in on the minute sounds that came from behind. Then, she unsheathed a single claw and jammed it into a hole in the tag scanner. :Idiots. They have the cameras connected to these so that they activate whenever someone enters, probably to minimize the amount of storage that would have to be spent otherwise. This will be easy, but stay away from the door for now in case something goes awry.:
She worked, and Orion watched. The claw twisted every now and then, like how one would pick a more primitive lock that had internal components. For the purpose of a digital seal like this, the action was probably done to secure Ravage’s connection to the mainframe through whatever means had granted her access to begin with. It made him wonder if she had always possessed such an ability, or if modifications had been installed in Soundwave’s familiars in preparation for his intended status as a communications officer.
He still couldn’t quite wrap his head around that.
The whine of steel shifting and electronics disengaging wafted into the still air, and the door spun on its axis before it wrested itself inward and opened the department to the two of them. From within, light bulbs buzzed from they were affixed both above and around, and dozens upon dozens of shelves were lined up next to each other in measured rows. It was something of a surprise to see that the files were printed on actual datapads, but perhaps it was a method of ensuring preservation. On the one hand, it was impractical to rely solely on material documentation. If the datapads were lost, so, too, would the information disappear alongside them. But on the other hand, it would be vastly easier to wipe out a digital database than it would be to ensure that every slab in this vault was destroyed. Having both was an ideal failsafe if either were to occur.
:It’ll take us forever to get through all of this,: Ravage proclaimed as they entered. :The first thing we must do is determine how these files are categorized. Alphabetically? Chronologically? I suspect the former, but we’ll have to check. Make sure the door is closed behind you so we don’t get walked in on.:
Obediently, Orion shoved the barrier shut with his shoulder and delved deeper inside. The vault itself was rather chilly, a draft coursing through the interior to freeze him down to the endoskeleton. It must have been dictated appropriate by the ventilation system to be so frigid, and it was a wonder that anyone might have sought pleasure in being the one to maintain this library, filled with too many datapads to count individually without an algorithm. Each one was locked in place by a half-rectangle that was bolted to the shelf, but there were no other apparatuses that kept them there or made them unreadable. The locks on the door had probably been enough to placate the superiors, and for that, he was thankful.
Innate curiosity swelled in him as he reached out to remove one of the tablets, the blunted curve of its side fitted against his palm so as to share the chill of undisturbed silicon. He pressed the switch to turn on the screen, and warmth returned to the device in due time. No password was required, no extra protection needed bypassing. It almost felt too easy.
The subject of the file was what greeted him first, their name printed in bold on the cover page, and though he didn’t know who “A-13 of Iacon” was, the presence of their document towards the front of the records department pointed towards Ravage being correct. But he didn’t move on to the next right away. He glossed over more of the text to familiarize himself with the formatting – and to satiate the want of knowing. As to be expected of a meager certificate, the data that was listed next to the image of A-13 was brief and to the point, detailing only the bare necessities that identified the individual. Their original name, the day they were brought online and how (in this case, forged naturally), the type of alt-mode they had developed after birth, and so on. Nothing came across as being out of the ordinary, which was a little disappointing.
He saw Ariel’s file among the collection, and though it contained no discrepancies, he made a mental note to not look for the ones that belonged to the rest of his team.
As he inspected some of the other datapads and did indeed confirm the alphabetized essence of the index, a realization made itself known to him, and he looked over to Ravage. “Megatron...isn’t his real name, is it? I know that sounds like a dumb question, but I just wanted to make sure.”
The familiar snorted. :Of course not. Unless you’re of the opinion that he might be some long lost spawn of Megatronus Prime, that is, but those are baseless rumors. His name in the ring is merely fashioned after the old Prime. It makes for better entertainment.:
He set down the latest slab, placing his hands on his hips. “Then I have no idea where we’re supposed to be looking.”
With a nimble leap, Ravage mounted the closest shelf and began to trod atop them, making her way towards the back. :Find the section that contains the names starting with “d”. D-16 is what we should be looking out for.:
“D-16, huh?” Orion parroted, passing by the columns of racks and periodically reading through a datapad to check where he was in the order of glyphs. “And I’m guessing you just so happened to hear that in passing?”
:Can you really call it “in passing” if you were deliberately looking for it?:
He stopped his search, peering up at her with bemusement. “You were? What for?”
:For the same reason you need it now.: Through comms, it was hard to detect her place in the room, but it was clear that she had moved far away. He couldn’t see her anywhere, and he wondered if she’d found some other aspect of the tomb that was worth proving. :Would you believe me if I told you that Soundwave had once considered doing this as well? That was a while ago, though. He’s not had the time to consider it as of late.:
“We’re doing all of the hard work for him,” he joked, setting the block back down and thumbing through some more. “Actually, do you think Soundwave is in here somewhere?”
:I don’t think so. The only files that I’ve seen belong to miners. I haven’t come across a single overseer since we started looking around, and that’s probably because they don’t require the same attention.:
“It’d probably be too long for a datapad to keep track of anyway,” he chuckled. There had been a few mentions of outlier abilities, always uniquely particularized in a way that stood out among the more perfunctory descriptions of frame types and creation dates, but Soundwave’s unique talents were too complex even for those expository paragraphs. It was true that he could hear the thoughts of others, but he could pick up on finer frequencies, too, and decrypt those signals without the assistance of secondary tools. Proximity was less of an issue when it came to broadcasts, a fact that Orion had often seen firsthand whenever the overseer wanted to listen to one of the ever-present radio channels in Iacon.
Again, it made his innominate exile from the ranks of war all the more confusing. He could understand it to a point, what with the discomfort of knowing that someone could literally read your mind, but the logic stopped there. He shook his head and went back to looking.
Even though he was in the proper sector, none of the datapads were labeled with Megatron’s first designation, nor did any of them have his portrait attached. The gap between the location of D-15 and D-17 was one that wasn’t reflected spatially, with no empty spot for where D-16 should have been. He tried looking around where it should have been and grew no closer towards achieving his goal than before, and though he was understandably confused, he was equally intrigued by the error. Either they had been wrong in assuming that Megatron had once been a miner, or his file had been moved elsewhere. He could only pray that it was the latter, or else uncovering the truth was going to be even more challenging than expected.
:Orion?: Ravage called into their line. :I’ve found something. Come see this.:
Startled by the sharpness of the command, he obeyed, leaving behind the shelf that should have housed their prize and making his way through the profound depths of the library. The back end of the chamber fell in sight, and he could make out the visage of Ravage’s indistinct form sitting behind another round door. A sign was hooked into the wall above it that read “RESTRICTED ACCESS” in bold red, a warning to those who didn’t belong.
Without an astro-second of hesitation, Ravage plugged in the same claw into the same type of badge reader that had hindered them outside. :No cameras in here? Interesting. Whatever is in here must be something that they don’t want to create evidence of. And it looks like only a few administrators are allowed in here, too. I wonder what that’s all about.:
A shiver ran up Orion’s backstrut as he gawked at the scarlet bleeding into his vision, remaining behind his eyelids whenever they blinked automatically. As tiny of an input that terror had on his decision-making process, it clawed for a prominent spot in the swirl of emotional responses stewing in his mind, and when it hooked onto his sense of awareness, it screamed at him. It told him that he was on the cusp of learning something that he did not need to know, and it begged him to give up this foolish mission. There were other ways. Other avenues to investigate. He didn’t have to go through with this. And, for once, he felt inclined to listen.
The locks in the door clicked open before he could change his mind, and Ravage pushed the door open impatiently.
Fear, in spite of its prominence, had not given life or shape to any expectation that might have logically been formed to explain the purpose of the forbidden compartment. He would have been surprised by anything, and though the sight of cabinets mirroring the layout of the arranged shelves behind them was mundane, it still had him rooted in place. An ominous shadow eclipsed the perimeter, held at bay in the center only by a single, feeble diode. It could have been worse. But it could have been better, too. Neither sentiment made Orion feel any less anxious about forcing onward, a strange numbness sweeping over his tactile systems as he opened a drawer and looked inside. More datapads. More files.
He had to browse through several other containers to make sure they were looking under the correct glyph, and to his relief, he did eventually find the document for D-16 in the corresponding aisle. They had all been right, and the proof felt heavy in his hands, like a weight that could only be let go of once he read through the entire thing. As Ravage took a seat next to his feet, he powered on the tablet, its cerulean hue cutting through the surrounding blight. According to the report, Megatron had been cold constructed in Kaon a few vorn before Orion and had been transferred to a mine precariously situated on the surface, but the stream of information didn’t end where it normally would have. There was more.
“CLASSIFIED: FOR ARCHIVAL PURPOSES ONLY
INCITING INCIDENT
Mining team headed by [REDACTED] experienced a cave-in at the [REDACTED] location that required an outside rescue team. [REDACTED], [REDACTED], and D-16 were successfully retrieved. [REDACTED] was declared dead upon arrival. Cave-in was described by miners as having occurred because of faulty equipment, which resulted in stalactite formations of silvanite collapsing from the ceiling and crushing [REDACTED] to death due to the change in pressure inside of the tunnel. Internal investigation will be required to confirm this, but the story was corroborated by all surviving parties, and a cursory check of the equipment indicates that it was broken prior to the accident. No evidence suggests foul play.”
“...by the Primes,” he whispered in disbelief, reading over the passage more times than he could recount. It felt borderline unreal. “Is this where they keep records of everyone who’s died?”
:Why would the other names be censored, then?: Ravage noted. A line of uncertainty wrinkled across her snout, but she kept her optics locked on the screen. :That’s not all there is. Keep going.:
“INCIDENT AFTERMATH
During the initial medical assessment of the surviving miners, [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] were successfully treated. D-16 refused to cooperate and tried to re-enter the quarry in search of [REDACTED], unaware that he had perished. When some of the rescue team attempted to restrain him, he retaliated and crushed the chest of one of the members, breaking past the spark chamber and killing them instantly. D-16 promptly fled during the chaos by [REDACTED].
CONCLUSION
D-16 will be declared dead alongside [REDACTED]. The other miners will be decommissioned and the mining site will be permanently shut down. All records of D-16, [REDACTED], [REDACTED], [REDACTED], and any files related to the site at [REDACTED] will be copied, updated appropriately, and stored in the restricted access library. All other copies will be promptly destroyed physically and deleted from the database.
D-16 is not a high priority case. Unless reclamation of him becomes either 1.) attainable; 2.) practical; and 3.) unobtrusive, immediate retrieval is unnecessary. Enforcers do not need to be notified of the incident.”
Through his disgust, he had repositioned himself to sit on the floor, his legs too shaky to continue keeping him upright. So Megatron’s circumstances had been coincidental, and miners weren’t necessarily being banished to the arena. That was fortunate, and it dispelled much of the worries that had plagued Orion before. Still, the implied and unprejudiced execution of the remaining members of Megatron’s old team made his spark twist, a daunting reminder of what promise hung over the head of every miner who might step too far out of line. It wasn’t really the incident itself that truly beset his judgement, but rather the backlash that arose from the undeniable crime. This was a degree of suppression that seemed entirely too indiscriminate for what was, at worst, negligent homicide; an accident. Megatron might have killed someone, but hardly did it seem to be an intended death, all while his teammates were made to suffer in his stead. It was cruel, and wrong, and an affront to the very ethos of their society that hinged upon unity, where all were one - should be one.
:We should leave,: Ravage said with gentle concern, breaking the tense quiet and resting a paw against his knee. :We have what you came here for, and I’ve already duplicated the text for Soundwave. He’s going to want to know about all of this.:
He swallowed back the dryness in his mouth. He didn’t want to go see Soundwave anymore. Not right now, at least. “At this joor?”
:At this joor. This is important to him.:
“Can I ask why?”
The familiar shuttered her optics shrewdly. :You should ask him that, not me.:
With nothing left to delay the inevitable, the datapad went back into the cabinet and the drawer was shut, returning everything to its original state. As he picked himself back up, however, a treacherous thought made itself known to him without introduction: did he have a file here? Did it recite the numerous breaches in protocol that he had performed? Did it delineate each time that he broke into the Hall of Records, borrowing the dates from the archives’ own records? He knew that he would be better off ignoring it, should it be true. But now, instead of angst digging its talons into him, that accursed inquisitiveness returned tenfold to take back its place as his driving motivation. He didn’t need to know, but he wanted to, and if he left without even bothering to look, it would haunt him for the rest of his cycles.
If the familiar at his side had been able to guess what his new intentions were, she remained mercifully silent as he tore into the drawers anew. Still, he could perceive the stress radiating from her stiff and purposeful movements. It was instinct for her to relay information to Soundwave, and not being able to do so as soon as possible wasn’t sitting well with her. :I’m going to make sure that we’re in the clear. I trust that you’ll come get me when you’ve found what you’re looking for now?:
“I will,” he promised, flashing her a weak smile that fell into a flat line as she departed. Without a doubt, he would. He didn’t want to stay any longer than he had to.
It had been so long since Orion had actually answered to his earliest name that, amidst his search, he almost forgot it entirely. He’d shuffled through several others before, old epithets that hadn’t been able to stand the test of time and change as he got older, and the faded memories blocked the path to his first. O-78. It felt hollow. Not quite belonging to him anymore. But it was in the cabinet under the proper glyph, and it was in the certification now in his hands. He didn’t look too much older in his photograph than he did currently, and the only pronounced differences were the lack of bandages on his face and the hair that was cropped shorter. Life still persisted in the shine of his optics, and his usual smile retained a quality of earnestness. That made him feel a little better. He was still O-78 in enough respects to recognize his own face.
For his entire life, he had been told that he was a cold construct, and that he’d been made specifically for the mines. It separated him from those who were born from the hot spots across the expanse of the planet, whose purposes in life had been up to the whims of their unseen god rather than be crafted to suit whatever was needed at the time. Ironhide had been forged. Ratchet had been forged. Everyone else on the team, so much newer than those two old mechs, had been constructed. There’d been a chip in Orion’s shoulder ever since the types of creation had been explained to him, but for the most part, he had been able to accept things as the truth. Ariel was able to spin it in a way that sounded more appealing, reshaping the concept to emphasize the importance that cold constructs had in the community; if not for them, forged bots might be forced to do work that they weren’t fashioned to handle.
But as he scrolled past the cover page, the fuel in his tanks ran cold when he read over the two lines of text under the date of his creation.
“CREATION TYPE: forged
CARETAKER: Codexa”
It had been a lie all along.