Chapter Text
Cybertron had already become a utopia, and the enemies of a utopia were all imaginary foes that could be defeated through effort.
--Excerpt from Senator Shockwave's speech when introducing the Utopian Imaginary Enemy bill
The commuter craft hummed with a worn-out buzz, its interior and exterior bustling with noise. Orion wasn’t sure if the emotion in his spark was excitement or disappointment.
Even though seats on the craft bound for Messatine were always discounted due to perpetual low occupancy, he still couldn’t afford a first-class ticket—so he lacked even a shred of privacy. The bot beside him had been staring at him the entire ride, and Orion shifted uncomfortably, trying to make the parole number on his shoulder pad less noticeable.
“Just got out of prison?” The yellow-and-purple medium-sized bot beside him finally spoke halfway through the flight. “What’d you do?”
Orion turned his head to look out the porthole, refusing to answer.
“Come on,” the mech scoffed. “Look at you… Theft? Illegal publishing? Couldn’t hack it in Iacon, so you’re off to the miners’ turf to beg for scraps?”
“Sort of,” Orion mumbled.
“There we go. Learn to talk—don’t be such a silent jar. Who doesn’t have one of these?” The bot twisted awkwardly in his seat, gesturing to his right shoulder pad, where a faint, electroplated-over number peeked through. “Name’s Swindle. If you want to survive, you picked a good spot—full of low-level Cybertronians. They’re stupid. Easy to rip off.”
“I’m not here to rip anyone off,” Orion said, his voice tight.
“Whatever.” Swindle shrugged. “Want me to hook you up with some connections? Or introduce you a job? Usually newbies would stick together with us. What’s your name?”
The craft’s hum grew louder as the landscape outside shifted from endless pale yellow rust sand to scattered ruins and abandoned open-pit mines—hollowed-out scars Iacon had refused to fund filling. Orion tore his gaze from the window.
“No, thanks,” he said. “I already found a job.”
“On parole? Lucky you.”
They didn’t speak again until the craft landed. As Orion stood to leave, Swindle muttered, “Good luck with your job, big shot.”
Messatine—a border planet of Cybertron, rich in tungsten ore and energy crystals, enough to keep generations of cold-constructed miners working until their parts wore out.
Though far from the homeworld, the planet’s administrators still parroted Iacon’s orders, issuing flashy, useless policies. In reality, the Cybertronians here ran a small, autonomous society—disconnected from Iacon’s nobles, yet still shipping armor materials and energy crystals back to the core nonstop.
“All I need is to turn them to my side when conflict erupts. Not that you’ll matter in this move, but isn’t this the perfect escape Primus gave you?”
That slag, Orion thought, shaking off the memory and resetting his optics in annoyance.
He’d been sitting in the spacecraft dock waiting area for half a cycle. The last commuter craft’s passengers had long gone, but the local guide who’d promised to meet him was nowhere to be found—and his internal comms remained unanswered. When he checked again, he saw the guide had blocked him.
Great. He’d paid half the commission. Now money flew away.
He gathered his luggage. According to his built-in map, his destination was dozens of miles away. Forget learning the local customs—if he left now, he might still make it to the teaching site on time.
There is no effective transport. If he could transform into a flyer, he’d bypass the chaotic roads and buildings, but his mode was a heavy truck. So he switched between root mode and vehicle mode, trudging toward his goal.
Fortunately, the residents didn’t seem to care about his parole number. Unfortunately, they despised all outsiders. Even when Orion used the local Messatine dialect to ask directions, bots just glared and gestured for him to leave.
He finally reached the teaching site: a low, drafty house in front of an abandoned mine, split into a tiny classroom with no electronics, barely enough space for a dozen students and a residence. The fence was skewed, the walls scuffed—no one had lived here in ages.
The lack of electronics didn’t bother him—he had a holographic projector on his arm. The drafty walls? He’d fix them. Besides, he had nothing for anyone to steal.
Orion was adaptable. He walked inside and out, confirming no one had come to check if he’d arrived on time. In other words, if he ran away now, no one would notice.
Yes, I’m that insignificant, he thought.
Still, he sent a message to his parole officer Ultra Magnus.
I’ve arrived in Messatine.
Ultra Magnus replied instantly: Good. I’ll send the follow-up parole requirements shortly. There’s a tracking chip under your shoulder pad armor—activated now. I’ll report to my superiors.
Thanks, Orion typed back.
Ultra Magnus is a responsible bot. Orion opened the file sent via the comms; it was crammed with dense information, making his optics ache. He let out a sigh, settled himself patiently on the somewhat shabby charging bed in the room, and tried to get through the file on his data pad.
It seemed that the folks back in Iacon were quite confident that Orion would resign himself to staying here without causing trouble. Or perhaps this lax supervision was under Alpha Trion’s orders. Orion would be spending the next few hundred vorns here, and either way, having fewer guards watching over him was ultimately a good thing.
Just then, a noise outside—spray paint on wood. Then the crack of breaking glass from the front hall. Someone had thrown something in.
Orion didn’t move from the charging bed. He kept reading the file Ultra Magnus just sent, until the troublemakers outside muttered, swore, and left.
When he stepped out, the walls were covered in messy red spray paint. The characters barely resembled Cybertronian Common. Orion remembered: on Messatine, only administrators learned Common. Workers were illiterate, so they’d developed their own script—simpler, but enough for daily use. His job was to teach them Common.
He pulled up a translator. Even without it, he knew the words weren’t nice.
Robbers from Iacon.
Thieves who steal armor and energy.
Slag.
Surprisingly mild, all things considered.
He looked at the walls which needs repaint and the fence that is more broken than before. Then he thought of something absurd, yet crucial.
He didn’t know where to collect his salary.