11.) Intellectual pursuits?
((Optimus has always been fascinated by history. If the war ever ends, he would want to take up a position teaching. He’s likely to be the teacher who assigns too much reading, then apologizes profusely the day it’s due and makes up for it with an in-class movie.))
49.) If this person were to get into a fist fight, what is their fighting style like?
((In a word? Talkative. Optimus is far more likely to talk an opponent to death than deactivate them, mostly because his frame is powerful to begin with, but with the added force of the Matrix he fears his own strength. The last thing he would want is for an avoidable brawl to turn into accidental murder.))
35.) What activities do they enjoy, but consider to be a waste of time?
((Optimus enjoys listening. He likes hearing people, listening to people talk to each other, laugh with each other, so long as they’re happy. Still, it doesn’t serve any major purpose beyond making him happy.))
36.) What makes them feel guilty?
((Firstly, that it’s time he could be using to help the Autobots, but also because many conversations that make people happy, whether they realize it or not, have some level of intimacy to them. Optimus certainly doesn’t want to intrude on others.))
The Excessively Detailed Headcanon Meme!
- What does their bedroom look like?
- Do they have any daily rituals?
- Do they exercise, and if so, what do they do? How often?
- What would they do if they needed to make dinner but the kitchen was busy?
- Cleanliness habits (personal, workspace, etc.)
- Eating habits and sample daily menu
- Favorite way to waste time and feelings surrounding wasting time
- Favorite indulgence and feelings surrounding indulging
- Makeup?
- Neuroses? Do they recognize them as such?
- Intellectual pursuits?
- Favorite book genre?
- Sexual Orientation? And, regardless of own orientation, thoughts on sexual orientation in general?
- Physical abnormalities? (Both visible and not, including injuries/disabilities, long-term illnesses, food-intolerances, etc.)
- Biggest and smallest short term goal?
- Biggest and smallest long term goal?
- Preferred mode of dress and rituals surrounding dress
- Favorite beverage?
- What do they think about before falling asleep at night?
- Childhood illnesses? Any interesting stories behind them?
- Turn-ons? Turn-offs?
- Given a blank piece of paper, a pencil, and nothing to do, what would happen?
- How organized are they? How does this organization/disorganization manifest in their everyday life?
- Is there one subject of study that they excel at? Or do they even care about intellectual pursuits at all?
- How do they see themselves 5 years from today?
- Do they have any plans for the future? Any contingency plans if things don’t workout?
- What is their biggest regret?
- Who do they see as their best friend? Their worst enemy?
- Reaction to sudden extrapersonal disaster (eg The house is on fire! What do they do?)
- Reaction to sudden intrapersonal disaster (eg close family member suddenly dies)
- Most prized possession?
- Thoughts on material possessions in general?
- Concept of home and family?
- Thoughts on privacy? (Are they a private person, or are they prone to ‘TMI’?)
- What activities do they enjoy, but consider to be a waste of time?
- What makes them feel guilty?
- Are they more analytical or more emotional in their decision-making?
- Would they consider themselves a Type A or Type B personality?
- What recharges them when they’re feeling drained?
- Would you say that they have a superiority-complex? Inferiority-complex? Neither?
- How misanthropic are they?
- Hobbies?
- How far did they get in formal education? What are their views on formal education vs self-education?
- Religion?
- Superstitions or views on the occult?
- Do they express their thoughts through words or deeds?
- If they were to fall in love, who (or what) is their ideal?
- How do they express love?
- If this person were to get into a fist fight, what is their fighting style like?
- Is this person afraid of dying? Why or why not?
Orion watches over her shoulder, wanting so badly to reach out. It hurts to see her. To know she’s hurting so badly, and be so unable to do anything. She can’t even see him…
He gives a roar, slamming his fist into the wall. It doesn’t so much as dent.
Dropping to his knees, Orion sobs loudly, gripping at his thighs and wanting his Elita. He wants, and he cries, and he aches.
She hears, as if in a dream, Optimus’s voice. It’s brief, an echo of an echo, but she’s so sure she hears it. She’s so sure it’s there.
“Optimus?”
She calls out to him, looking around the room and praying that Primus is kind.
Looking up at her voice, Orion moves to reach out to her, but stops, his finger tips inches from her face.
It’s only caused her pain, so far. His presence hasn’t helped a damn thing. What would this do, if she thought he was still around? Obsess. Search ever hack doctor and strange planet for a way to bring him back, and for what?
No… he was dead. He was dead. It was time for him to leave, to stop hurting her.
With a whisper, he turned away from her and walked out the door.
“I’m so sorry.”
I have just found a file that Optimus left for you when he first arrived here. I am very sorry I didn’t send it to you right away… I hope I am not bothering you.
Here is the file.
~ * ~
Dear Elita,
If you are reading this, I am offline.
I will not tell you not to mourn, for in mourning one may find the strength to carry on. Know that there has not been a cycle that has passed since the first time we met that you were not on my mind. Know, also, that I do not regret any time I have spent with you. I am at peace with my life, thanks to you, and to all those who have fought along side us.
Elita, how do I tell you what I could never find the words for? How do I let you know how deeply I have loved you? How I could not have loved you more, had I tried? How I respected you in everything you said, or did, or were? How do I show you what every quiet moment, every long night, every glance across a room meant to me?
To be honest, I have lived more decadently than perhaps I deserved thanks to you, my dearest light. When I had forgotten how to care for myself, you were always there to remind me, and there was not a cycle that passed that your love was not a guiding light for me to follow.
Elita, it will hurt, but you must move on. Find a new love, and rely on our dear friends to carry you through. You must remain with the crew, and see a new leader elected. I would not have wished this on you, but they need you, my love. You must be strong, now, my darling. You must not be afraid to call upon our family for the love I can no longer show to you. But know that, though I am no longer here, I shall never fully leave you and I shall never stop loving you.
I know that missions are the last thing on your mind, but there is something you must do. The Matrix of Leadership cannot fall into Decepticon hands, Elita. You cannot know the destruction that would follow. Until such a time as Primus calls upon a new Prime, it must be returned to Cybertron for safe keeping, to the Chamber of Primus, where none may pass unless Primus wills it.
My love, my dearest spark, my pride and my strength, do not miss me. Remember me as you will, and carry the good and the teachings of our love with you always, but do not carry me. Love, and be loved, and do not fear to take help. I know that, one cycle, we shall meet again.
Until then, I am with you always.
Take care, Lee-lee.
With all that I am and ever have been,
Your Optimus
Elita doesn’t know how to respond. She pulls the letter up onto a data pad, holding it in front of her as she sits on their—now her—berth. Pulling her knees up to her chin, she reads it a few times, and sends a short “Thank you” to Rodimus. She knows it’s not as much as he deserves, but… she can’t manage much right now.
It’s a while before she lies back down, clutching the data pad to her chassis and pressing her face as far into Optimus’s pillow as she can, but no matter how hard she tries, she can’t seem to catch his scent. It’s gone.
Orion watches over her shoulder, wanting so badly to reach out. It hurts to see her. To know she’s hurting so badly, and be so unable to do anything. She can’t even see him…
He gives a roar, slamming his fist into the wall. It doesn’t so much as dent.
Dropping to his knees, Orion sobs loudly, gripping at his thighs and wanting his Elita. He wants, and he cries, and he aches.
Orion finds Elita in her office, talking to a new mech—Hot Rod, if he remembers correctly. Something feels off, and he can see Elita teetering on the edge of breakdown. He doesn’t know what he can do, not like this, but he goes to Elita’s side, placing a hand on her shoulder and murmuring, “You’re alright, love. You can make it through this.”
Orion woke to an empty berth and a sense of dread. He was drawn, somehow, to the command center, where he saw Elita speaking to Rodimus. She looked… terrified, and he went to ask what was going on when he heard it.
“He’s gone, Elita.”
Orion remembers. He remembers being so confused, so tired, he remembers the noises and the pulsating in his helm and… Prowl.
But how can he be here? Orion has never believed in ghosts… Elita’s voice, when she replies is so tiny, so real, and him?
He walks up behind her, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her neck, murmuring, “It will be alright, love. I am here.”
He doubts that she can hear him, feel him—he is dead.
Perhaps this is his punishment: to watch Elita mourn him, utterly unable to communicate. Perhaps he deserves it, but he cannot focus on himself now. Only on her. Only on her.
And, Optimus—Orion—breathed. It was dark, still. Dark, but calm. Neither warm, nor cold, and the strong throb that had been in his processor for cycles was gone.
Orion didn’t know where he was, at first. Slowly, though, color began to swim and weave around him, and he found himself standing beside his and Elita’s berth.
She was curled on her side, recharging but restless, tossing back and forth as though she were in pain, the smooth metal beside her shuttered optics crinkled, and he knelt and took the side of her face in his hand to pet her cheek slowly.
Slowly, Elita relaxed, nuzzling his palm. It took a while for Orion to find the will to move, content as he was to study her features beneath the pad of his thumb. When he did, it was to climb into the berth behind her, wrapping an arm around her midriff and pressing small kisses to the back of her neck.
In the morning, he would apologize for being gone so long, but for now he was home. He was home, and his mate—his love—was here, and though he was not tired, he slept contently and did not dream.
Peripherally, Prowl noticed Magnus’ approach, but he didn’t take his optics off Prime. In a comm, he explained, «He’s unstable, hallucinating. I don’t know what to expect of him.» He’d have said it aloud, but he didn’t know how Prime might respond to it. The situation was tense enough as it is.
“Prime! Snap out of it. No one has her—she’s safe.” He assumed the unnamed ‘her’ was Elita, and he had absolutely no idea where she was, but he assumed this was just part of Prime’s hallucinations. He kept his blaster aimed at the mech—he was still, but Prowl didn’t know how long that’d last, or if he’d start firing wildly again.
“No one is going to die here, Prime.” It was a lie—it was entirely possible that someone would, if Prime attacked. “You’re on the Lost Light. Stand down.”
Somewhere in the dark Optimus heard it. Elita’s scream.
The energon was everywhere—on the walls, the floor, his chassis, his hands. Before him stood Megatron, Elita’s quickly-fading spark in his hand, torn from her chassis.
Optimus loosed a battle cry and lunged, dropping his blaster to attack Megatron with his bare hands, rage a boiling mass in his spark, helm throbbing hotly.
“I’ll kill you! I’ll fragging kill you!”
Elita’s expression, her fading optics, her mouth open in a scream cut short terrified him, and propelled him forward, hands out in front of him and aiming for Megatron’s neck.
It was only through Prowl’s considerable self-control that he didn’t jump when Prime lunged forward, aiming for his neck. In the back of his processor, he noted that there was no way the mech was at all focused on reality—he must be entirely consumed by his hallucinations. But that didn’t change the fact that the mech was heading forward with the intent to kill. There was no use in saying anything; the mad light in Prime’s optics was proof of that, and Prowl fired repeatedly at his chest in the second it took Prime to charge forward, then made an attempt to dodge out of arm’s reach.
Optimus felt the first blast, and staggered back, gasping loudly. He stood still as Megatron fired blast after blast into his spark, unable to fully understand what was going on…
“E… li….”
Optimus Prime was dead before he hit the floor.
Finally catching up to Prime, Magnus came upon the scene of Prowl training his gun on him. He couldn’t say he was surprised to find Prowl out of a safe haven—He fully expected to see Rodimus and a few other choice members of the Lost Light out as well.
However, he wasn’t sure how he felt about the blaster.
“Easy, Prowl,” he said. He didn’t expect Prowl to discard his main form of defense, but he hoped this situation could be dealt with in a way that avoided anyone getting hurt.
He tried to slowly edge closer, watching the Prime for any sign of action. He drew his own weapon out of subspace, but kept it aimed at the floor for now.
Peripherally, Prowl noticed Magnus’ approach, but he didn’t take his optics off Prime. In a comm, he explained, «He’s unstable, hallucinating. I don’t know what to expect of him.» He’d have said it aloud, but he didn’t know how Prime might respond to it. The situation was tense enough as it is.
“Prime! Snap out of it. No one has her—she’s safe.” He assumed the unnamed ‘her’ was Elita, and he had absolutely no idea where she was, but he assumed this was just part of Prime’s hallucinations. He kept his blaster aimed at the mech—he was still, but Prowl didn’t know how long that’d last, or if he’d start firing wildly again.
“No one is going to die here, Prime.” It was a lie—it was entirely possible that someone would, if Prime attacked. “You’re on the Lost Light. Stand down.”
Somewhere in the dark Optimus heard it. Elita’s scream.
The energon was everywhere—on the walls, the floor, his chassis, his hands. Before him stood Megatron, Elita’s quickly-fading spark in his hand, torn from her chassis.
Optimus loosed a battle cry and lunged, dropping his blaster to attack Megatron with his bare hands, rage a boiling mass in his spark, helm throbbing hotly.
“I’ll kill you! I’ll fragging kill you!”
Elita’s expression, her fading optics, her mouth open in a scream cut short terrified him, and propelled him forward, hands out in front of him and aiming for Megatron’s neck.
Ultra Magnus isn’t sure who Elita is, but tries to calm him down regardless.
“It’s okay, Optimus. We’ll protect her. Everything is going to be fine.”
His words seem to be completely pointless, however, as Optimus takes off, shooting things in his wake. Swearing under his breath, Ultra Magnus follows him, but first stops momentarily to access a small control panel on the wall of one of the hallways. Using a command code, he accessed the ship-wide PA system, which he used to warn the mechs aboard of the danger.He knew the pause could result in him losing track of the Prime, but he put the safety of the crew higher in priority than whatever harm to the ship the rampaging Prime could cause.
At Magnus’ announcement, Prowl’s attention flicks to the security monitors. It’s impossible to miss Prime barreling down the halls, firing erratically. He curses, surging to his feet and out the door, running toward Prime’s location. On his way, he reflexively checks his subspace for his blaster and shocksticks.
He keeps the monitor feed displayed in his HUD, using it to track Prime’s mad rush—it’d be completely counterproductive if he were to be hit by a stray shot. As he approaches Prime’s location, he slows to a walk, retrieving his blaster from subspace and steeling himself to round the next corner.
His tactical computer is entirely useless to him right now; Prime’s state of mind, these hallucinations, they’re impossible to predict with any sort of accuracy. He could die here. He’s no match for Prime in hand-to-hand combat, and if Prime sees him as a foe… well, he’ll have to shoot accurately.
But the necessity outweighs the risks. Prime needs to be stopped, so Prowl abandons any concern for his own safety and steps around the corner. He aims his blaster at Prime, calling out in a hard voice, “Prime. Stand down.”
It’s dark, now. Optimus doesn’t know where he is, anymore, and he wanders around, slamming into walls. He can hear them, taunting him.
“Where are you?!”
There’s a voice, louder than the others, from just ahead of him. He can’t quite make out what it’s saying, though…
Elita… He can hear her, somewhere nearby. He calls out to her, but her voice is cut off.
“The female Autobot?”
“We have her.”
“Come and find her.”
“I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you if you touch her!”
Optimus doesn’t hear Magnus inquiring after his health—it’s getting too loud. He knows they’re here, slag it all! He can see them, peaking around corners and grinning at him. There’s no way Magnus doesn’t see them—no way he doesn’t know they’re there.
Giving a harsh sigh, he walks back towards the berth, then returns to the door, resuming his pacing. He’s watching the Decepticons—Starscream, Skywarp, Dirge, Hook—stare at the larger mech like the last scrap of energon.
Still, they haven’t drawn their weapons. Not yet. If he’s careful, if he watches them, there’s a chance that, despite their numbers, he and Magnus can take them.
“Go on. Make a move.”
“What?” he asks, but realizes a moment later the question is in futility. Optimus wasn’t even looking at him, instead staring intently around the room at things only he could see.
His condition wasmuchworse than imagined. He wonders how to handle the situation, as Optimus looked like he could pull a blaster on the wall at any moment, and he was blocking the door.
He could call Springer, of course—but that would likely result in the room being stormed, and a fight ensuing. Prowl and Rodimus were better options, though he doubted either of them were adept at handling mechs with mental problems. Rung possibly was, but he didn’t have his direct contact information on standby. Ratchet, though…Ratchet seemed like the best option, being an old time friend of their own Optimus in addition to an excellent medic.
“Optimus,” he started, calmly. “I am going to call Ratchet. I think he could help us.” the second part was pure guesswork—he had no idea what Optimus was looking at, but presumably it was something threatening. He didn’t want to suggest it was fictitious, suspecting that it might set off the mech.
Silently, he sent a ping out to Ratchet, hoping he wasn’t in the middle of anything important.
“Ratchet?!” Optimus turns, panicked optics flaring wildly. “No—no! He can’t—he’ll tell Elita! She—they’ll come after her if she knows, Magnus. They’ll find her!”
It’s too late, though. He’s seen the shadows recede through the door, cackling madly, and he unholsters his blaster, throwing the door open to fire at them. It only enrages him further when they seem all but impervious to his shots, and he gives chase, leaving Magnus in favor of running the Decepticons down.
“Come back here and fight!”
Optimus wasted no time with his inquiry, closing the door and turning to face Ultra Magnus. “To your knowledge, Cyclonus is the only Decepticon aboard this ship, correct?”
He didn’t notice it, but halfway through, the fingers on his hands slammed into his palms, then spasmed. Optimus’s optics were bright, and it was clear to anyone watching him that he was running in battle mode, seemingly prepared for an attack at any moment.
The voices seemed louder around Magnus, and he had difficulty prying the blue mech’s words out from the jumble of shouting and cursing.
“Cyclonus is unaffiliated, currently,” he answered. Cyclonus wasn’t exactly on his ‘good list’, but to categorize him as a Decepticon would be false in every sense of the word. The mech predated factions and had never willingly associated himself with them. Not, of course, that all Decepticons were bad, and all bad things were Decepticons.
He paused at the Prime’s violent motion, catching the brightness in his optics seconds later.
“Are you…unwell, Optimus?” he said, voice steady, words calculated.
Optimus doesn’t hear Magnus inquiring after his health—it’s getting too loud. He knows they’re here, slag it all! He can see them, peaking around corners and grinning at him. There’s no way Magnus doesn’t see them—no way he doesn’t know they’re there.
Giving a harsh sigh, he walks back towards the berth, then returns to the door, resuming his pacing. He’s watching the Decepticons—Starscream, Skywarp, Dirge, Hook—stare at the larger mech like the last scrap of energon.
Still, they haven’t drawn their weapons. Not yet. If he’s careful, if he watches them, there’s a chance that, despite their numbers, he and Magnus can take them.
“Go on. Make a move.”
Optimus jumps, his helm swiveling towards the door. How did he miss Ultra Magnus’s approach? The mech wasn’t exactly known for being light on his pedes.
It set Optimus on edge, and he located his blaster within his subspace, ready to open the pocket and shoot should there be any unpleasant surprises.
However, opening the door revealed an expression he would recognize anywhere, regardless of difference in frame or paint job.
“Magnus? Come in, I have wanted to ask you some questions as well.”
Walking in, he momentarily scrutinized the Prime. His conclusions were not favorable. There was somethingoffabout the mech, not just for what he’d expect out of an Optimus Prime look-alike, but in a much more general sense. Even Red Alert rarely looked so jittery, and when he did he was better at hiding it. Optimus, for lack of a better description, looked like a mech coming off a circuit booster addiction.
“Questions? I’d be more than happy to supply answers.”
He looked around the room. Being temporary quarters, there was an expected lack of personal effects, thus regrettably few hints that could explain his condition.
Optimus wasted no time with his inquiry, closing the door and turning to face Ultra Magnus. “To your knowledge, Cyclonus is the only Decepticon aboard this ship, correct?”
He didn’t notice it, but halfway through, the fingers on his hands slammed into his palms, then spasmed. Optimus’s optics were bright, and it was clear to anyone watching him that he was running in battle mode, seemingly prepared for an attack at any moment.
The voices seemed louder around Magnus, and he had difficulty prying the blue mech’s words out from the jumble of shouting and cursing.
After retrieving Optimus’ location from their roster, Ultra Magnus made his way to his room, intending to follow up on his conversation with Springer. He hadn’t told Rodimus or Prowl he planned on meeting the Prime, believing himself to be more than capable of holding a conversation with him, unstable or not. Though…he did take Springer’s advice in keeping a line open on standby. He hoped it would not come to the point where he felt under physical threat, but Ultra Magnus wasn’t one to ignore he necessary precautions.
Reaching the door, he curtly knocked.
“Optimus Prime? This is Ultra Magnus, second in command to Captain Rodimus Prime. I’d like to have a word with you.”
Optimus jumps, his helm swiveling towards the door. How did he miss Ultra Magnus’s approach? The mech wasn’t exactly known for being light on his pedes.
It set Optimus on edge, and he located his blaster within his subspace, ready to open the pocket and shoot should there be any unpleasant surprises.
However, opening the door revealed an expression he would recognize anywhere, regardless of difference in frame or paint job.
“Magnus? Come in, I have wanted to ask you some questions as well.”
Pacing around his room, Optimus hasn’t recharged in a few cycles. It’s nothing dire—he’s gone much longer in the past—but it certainly isn’t making him any less jumpy.
The scratching sound has faded for now, but in the corners of his room he can hear almost-whispers in voices he recognizes, and he has yet to notice the twitching in his fingers.
He’d considered dropping by the medical bay, but that wouldn’t end well. Springer hadn’t heard Megatron… Prowl hadn’t seen Elita…
It was hurting his helm, and he paced faster around the room, waiting for something to happen.
“Grooming as in washing myself?” Optimus shakes his helm, giving a short laugh. “Why would it be embarrassing for another to see me washing?”
Nodding slowly, Optimus leans back in his seat. “I am… Orion? It is good to meet you…”
Uh…thanks. I’m Kelly. It’s good to meet you too, Orion.
Are you alright there? You seem kind of out of it.
Tilting his helm a bit, he asks, “Out of… what?”
Oooookay nevermind. Why don’t you just…take a nap? You seem tired.
“A nap…? Alright, then… Rest well.”
