#optimus but what if he was old. angry at everyone and everything and lurked in the shadows | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

desdemonafictional · 3 years

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TFA Fantasy WIP

Sentinel Prime, His Imperial Benevolence, The Auspicious and Holy Oneself, Emperor in Perpetua, entered the little farming villa like a spoiled brat waltzing into a tent of freaks. He cast his smugly disinterested eye over every dusty window and dinged up bit of furniture alike, observing the lack of bustling servants or fine hangings brought out for his arrival.

Optimus ground his jaw quietly.

“We apologize for the austerity,” he said, still standing stiffly at the door where Sentinel had shoulder-shoved past him to get inside. “The Orion House doesn’t have… much staff. I’m afraid we can’t receive you with all the honors due to a Prime.”

“Oh please,” Sentinel said, “don’t trouble yourself with a formal reception. I’ll just consider this a hunting party, how about that? Like old times, eh, Optimus?”

Bumblebee inched sidelong along the wall, leant sideways, and out the side of his mouth he said, “Y’all two know each other?”

The high ceilings of the Orion were indeed not dissimilar from the hunting lodges they had stayed in together from time to time, as junior officers in the Primal Guard. The air conditioning out here in the countryside was rudimentary, and the summers burned hot under the watchful stare of Hadeen, especially with so many bodies crowded into a single house putting off their own mechanical heat. It was, however, a manor house and not a hunting lodge. It was Optimus’ manor now, in fact, ever since he had been relegated here seven vorn earlier.

“Shall we make a room ready for you, your Benevolence?” Optimus said, ignoring the yellow car prodding at his side.

Sentinel gave the place a judgemental once over and said, “Just the one night, I think. We mustn’t trespass on your… hospitality.”

And with that, the rest of his retinue came sweeping in. Chamber attendants with berth dressings, a chef and cooks, secretaries—the Orion filled up immediately, bursting to its seams with activity. Optimus glanced through the window, and noted that out in the front of the house Sentinel’s guard was already setting up silk tents and laying camp with military efficiency.

“Bumblebee,” Optimus said, “why don’t you show the Prime’s bots where they can set his fixings for the night?”

“Uh,” Bumblebee said, “um, right—just this way, gentlemechs! You’re in good hands with me, I know everything there is to know about the Orion! Hey, stripes, you single—?”

Sentinel fell back to stand beside Optimus, not looking at him, in a parody of casual camaraderie.

“So I guess the pipsqueak isn’t your sweetspark,” Sentinel smirked. “That or you’ve developed a thing for being cuckolded?”

“I’m still single,” Optimus said. “I don’t have any sweetsparks.”

“What, not even that bulky hulk I saw out back?” Sentinel asked, grinning unpleasantly. “I bet he’s easy, rubes like that always are.”

Optimus squeezed his fist open and closed at his side, bruisingly tight, but discreetly. Sentinel was the Prime, and the Prime could say whatever nasty, petty thing he liked.

“Bulkhead is a brilliant engineer,” Optimus said, in an only slightly repressive tone. “He single-handedly designed the new extractors for the crystal fields, and the harvest is coming at 21% increased efficiency this vorn.”

“Whatever, farmer stuff,” Sentinel said. “I don’t give a scrap about that. You’re really still single? Seven vorns that you’ve been out here, and you haven’t even picked up some knobkneed crop duster for a tumble? Don’t tell me you’re still holding out for a conjunx.”

Optimus didn’t bother to point out that he’d been in mourning for most of that time, like Sentinel would have been, if he hadn’t been selected by the Matrix not one vorn after the hunting accident that took Elita from them both. Primes weren’t encouraged to mourn the loved ones from their previous lives. Just the angry edge to Sentinel’s bitter humor proved that he was still mourning, in his own way, and probably the empire would have been better off if he’d been allowed to deal with it on his own terms before being thrust into the mantle of Imperial Personage.

Optimus missed the friends they had been, before the bitterness.

“You know no decent court mech will have anything to do with a relegated bumpkin Count,” Sentinel pointed out. “Conjunxing is not in your future, Optimus. You’d be lucky to take an amica, like the peasants do.”

“There’s nothing wrong with taking an amica,” Optimus replied.

“Yeah, not for peasants and destitute washouts,” Sentinel said. “Hey, maybe you could be somebody’s subordinate conjunx, how about that? Not that you’d have any luck tempting a courtier away from Iacon with this…” he grimaced at the high ceilings and bare walls, “cabin in the mud.”

“Are you done?” Optimus asked, a little too forwardly for good manners.

“Watch it,” Sentinel said, narrowing his eyes. “If you’re not properly gracious, I’ll reconsider calling you back to court.”

“Re-?” Optimus skipped a pump beat. “Reconsider?”

Sentinel smirked again, this time with less humor and more coldness, and patted Optimus on the shoulder. “I’ve been thinking about it,” he said. “I could use more allies in the capitol. And you would be an ally for me, wouldn’t you, Optimus?”

The fragile shoot of hope withered all at once. Whatever Sentinel wanted him back at court for, it wouldn’t be out of the goodness of his spark. He still hated Optimus too much; any gratitude would be a yolk around Optimus’ neck for the rest of their lives.

“Yes, of course,” said Optimus. “I am at the service of the Primacy, as ever.”

“I thought you would be,” Sentinel said, and his smirk turned keen, and then he said: “Alright, show us where we can do some freshening up around here. You have body servants around this slaghole? I need a deep polish before dinner.”

His Imperial Benevolence came out of the shower quite a long time later, which was fortunate for his cooks, who had hastily taken over Optimus’ kitchen and were rushing to fill it with servable fuel. Optimus had quietly pulled his own kitchen staff—all two of them—away to help clean the place up a little more for guests. Sentinel’s cooks had ransacked the house’s pantry, pulling long spools of brass and bricks of gold onto every counter, vials of soluble compounds, crystals, seasonings. The cooks kept clicking their tongues at the spread. Optimus had the feeling that he was being Disapproved of.

In the house there were two cooks, one body servant, a housekeeper, Optimus, and the engineer (Bulkhead) who was out overseeing an upgrade to the manor rain pumps this month. The house had been on the empty side, before Sentinel, and now it was crammed full in every room with someone doing something. The change was a little bit dizzying. Bumblebee seemed to be loving it, though.

“Don’t make me clean,” he was whining, a squeegee dripping unhelpfully in his hand. “I want to go out and see the soldiers, let me go out and see if the soldiers need anything.”

Optimus pressed his lips together. “If you go out there now, I won’t see you again until tomorrow.”

“Yeah, okay, so? Sentinel’s cooks got it covered, you don’t need me.”

Optimus wondered if there was a polite way to say “I’m more worried one of them will lean you over his saddle bag without waiting for permission.” Bulkhead might or might not be easy, it wasn’t Optimus’s place to guess, but he had a distinct feeling Bumblebee would be.

“Just go get the place settings out,” Optimus told him, “when that’s done you can gossip with anybody in the house, but don’t go outside. I might need you.”

Bumblebee thwapped his cleaning cloth against his thigh and grumbled all the way out of the room. Optimus gave it depressingly low odds that he’d be obeyed the whole night, but, well, he’d done his best. He didn’t have time to be monitoring his staff all night, not when Sentinel was lurking about the place.

Besides, what were the chances Bumblebee could even bud new sparks? Less than thirty percent of the population could do it, under the best circumstances.

There was a shout from the direction of the baths, and Optimus whirled in time to see servants roiling away from the exclamation like insecticons in a disturbed hive. He pushed his way through the aimless anxiety and then—with a deep vent to pre-emptively cool himself—let himself into the washroom, where solvent was splattered all over the floor and Sentinel was splattered across the chest with globs of polish.

“My Prime,” Optimus said, leaning his hip against the wall. He didn’t smirk. He thought about it though.

Sentinel whirled, steam all but blowing out his vents. “One of your bumbling idiots broke my washkit!” He jabbed his finger at a very complicated looking fold-out case, enameled with blue and white and utterly smashed across the floor between himself and the body servant.

“I—” the servant said, “Optimus—your Courtesy—I was setting it out for the Prime, but one of the containers was—”

“Your idiot threw it at me!”

“One of the containers—there was a springloaded compartment and—”

“And it bit you like a needle-mouthed pit beast?” Sentinel mocked, furiously. “That case was one of a kind! My concubine made that for me!”

Optimus glazed at the poor smashed object. It certainly did look one of a kind, with that complicated enameling out the outside, the nested compartments all conjoined in different ways, like a puzzle box.

“Ugh,” Sentinel said, and glared down at his abdomen. “And you got them mixed up too, look at this, my paint is peeling, everyone knows you’re not supposed to mix cosmetic chemicals.”

Actually, it was peeling. Kind of bubbling too. That was alarming enough that Optimus pushed off the wall and went to fetch a dry cloth and a jar of water from the cabinet. Plain water was usually safe to mix with chemicals, whereas solvent was… not.

“Now I need to fix my paint too,” Sentinel seethed. “I wanted to go hunting tonight! I won’t have time to go hunting once we reach the border, it’ll be nothing but handshaking and touring the facilities!”

“I’m sure we can get your paint patched with plenty of time for dinner,” Optimus said, and sat Sentinel down at the edge of the great sunken oil pit (empty, as it usually was, the budget for hot oil being very slim at Orion House). He knelt down and dragged the broken kit back towards himself, fishing through the wreckage until he came up with the little jar of touch up paint in Sentinel’s classic blue.

“Um, my lord count,” the servant said, from somewhere behind Optimus.

“Don’t worry about it,” Optimus said, without looking back, “I’ll take it from here. You go help the others with dinner.”

“And get my hunting kit out more carefully this time!” Sentinel shouted after him, leaning so far forward that Optimus had to tilt his head out of the way to avoid bonking his Prime’s chassis.

Gently, Optimus pressed a palm to Sentinel’s chest and pushed him back into his seat. Sentinel slouched back into the bench seat, letting his elbows hang over the empty tub behind him. He eyed Optimus, his face tilted away at an angle that seemed half suspicious, half uncomfortable.

“You know you’re a Count now, not a cadet,” Sentinel said. “Below your station to be scrubbing and polishing anybody, even the Prime.”

Optimus’s half smile was more irony than humor. He wasn’t about to leave poor Screwshine alone with Sentinel, after that fit of temper. He focused on lathering up the powder paint and paint-thinner into something he could work with.

Sentinel let Optimus push his leg out of the way to get a better angle at the stripped plating, but his sidelong gaze didn’t ease up. “Not angling for a spot in the Primal Harem, are you?”

Optimus nearly shuddered at the thought. What a nightmare, locked up in the harem with a mech who hated him for the rest of his functioning. No amount of luxury or status was worth that. “No, my Prime. Definitely not. I just wasn’t going to let you keep terrorizing my servant all night.”

Sentinel scowled, but he also relaxed. “I wouldn’t have to yell at your staff if they weren’t a bunch of incompetent ninnies.”

“You’re the Prime,” Optimus said, fixing his frown firmly on the paint, and not on Sentinel’s face. “You’re meant to comport yourself with more grace than that.”

“Hah,” Sentinel said, and his face twisted into an even darker configuration, “what would a washout coward like you know about any of it, anyway.”

There was an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the smooth soft sound of paint applique. Eventually, Sentinel snapped, “Hand me that pill case, the pink one, it’s down in the slag pile.”

Optimus was reluctant to pause, thinking of the quick drying paint, but obeyed after only a second’s hesitation. He dug it out and handed it up, considering the esoteric pink inscriptions in the white enamel. White was the color of philosophy. Pink was the color of life. When Sentinel shook out a couple of the little capsules, in the moment before clapping them to his mouth and swallowing, their insides sloshed with a viscous magenta sludge.

“What… are those?” Optimus asked, feeling a little sick just from looking at the things.

“Mm?” Sentinel knocked back a quick swig of something from his subspace pocket and then coughed, wiping his mouth absently with the back of his hand. “Oh. Prima Materia. Divine Oneness philosophy is all the rage in Iacon right now. Guess you wouldn’t know about that out here in the boonies.”

Optimus frowned and wracked his memory storage. “An alchemical elixir?”

“Yeah,” Sentinel said, and tucked the little pill case back into his subspace pocket. “Couple a day, supposed to make you live forever. When the old chancellor came down with Zero Point Crytosis last orn, the court was hysterical. I don’t say this very often, but every once in a while, I miss soldiers.”

Optimus made a face at the idea of taking those goop capsules twice a day. “You sure that stuff is safe?”

“Please,” Sentinel said, “I’m the Prime. My alchemists aren’t grabbing any old dirt off the back of a truck and calling it gold. Anyway, one of my concubines is a chemist, and a damn good one for all she needs the smart mouth knocked off of her. She mixed the slag herself.”

Optimus continued to regard it doubtfully.

#tfa

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