Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

🔷 General Profile

Name: Axion

Faction: Autobots

Function (Pre–War): Data Archivist, Information Curator.

Function (wartime): Spy, Intelligence specialist, Saboteur

Alt mode: Cybertronian Stealth Aircraft.

Height: 27.1 ft ( 8.25 meters)

Affiliation : Autobots Intelligence command

Alignment: Morally Gray

Original :

Officially registered as a late cold construction, Axion original files are corrupted and heavily redacted by his own hand. He was once a secret assassination projects under the authority of a now deceased senate member. Built in a secret lab, he was designed as a living infiltration weapon. After his creator mysterious death, Axion erased his identity, changed his designation, and embedded himself as a low ranking data archivist in the Hall of Record

Unknown to all, Axion was once human, a soul pulled from earth and reborn as a cybertronian in an experimental spark forging procedure. He does not consciously identify as human and treat fragmentary organic memories as irrelevant anomalies.

Body & Appearance:

General Silhouette:

• Slender but angular build, designed for agility and aerial combat.

• His frame is reinforced with tactical grade alloys that reflects radar and dampen sound.

• His limbs are long and fluid, with subtle curves that give him a sleek, elegant look father than a brutish one.

Color Palette:

• Primary color: Matter black with low-sheen plating, ideal for visual suppression and night flight.

• Secondary color: Iridescent violet–blue accents across his wing struts, midriff lines, and inner thight—only visible under certain lighting angeles.

• Detail Accents: Trace of indigo circuitry pulsing softly beneath transparent paneling — mimicking the pulse of refined Energon.

Physical Features

• Visor: Sleek, Opaque, and sharply cut — hides his amethyst optic from public view. Some believe he simply doesn't have eyes.

• Silhouette: Compact yet regal. Axion has broad shoulder and narrow hips, forming a triangular frame balanced for aerial maneuvering.

• Wing: Foldable stealth wings attach seamlessly to his back, with soft anti–grav hum. They allow quick burst take-off or prolonged glides.

• Arms: Smooth forearms with embedded retractable energon daggers. Light plating hides advanced inner servos.

• Legs: Digitigrade, reinforced yet light, built for silent landings. Violet–lined thruster nodes near the ankles assist with air stability.

• Chest & Torso: Curved in a way that implies aerodynamic shaping. No excess armor, but his internal are heavily shielded with layered firewall plating.

Equipment & Capabilities :

♦️ Stealth & Recon Tools

⚫ Optical Multi Lens Array: Allowed for multiple vision modes (thermal, low–light, data analytic overlay)

⚫ Advanced Cloaking System: Phase based optical cloaking, nearly imperceptible at rest or in low light conditions.

⚫ Silent Anti Gravity Glide Mode: Grants zero noise travel across short to medium distances, especially useful in surveillance.

♦️ Assassination/Combat features

⚫ Retractable Energon Daggers: Stored in forearms; superheated for armor penetration.

⚫ Encrypted Spark Signature: Obfuscates spark frequency and identification from tracking systems.

⚫ Data Masking and Body Modulation: Can subtly alter wing shape, face plating, or insignia projection to blend into enemy ranks or shift identities for infiltration.

⚫ Neurolink Hacking Spikes: Specialized finger–tips or wrist–ports used to interface with other Cybertronian system and overwrite or disrupt them.

⚫ High security memory Firewall: Prevent forcesd data extraction or spark proving, highly advanced encryption.

♦️ Cognitive Systems

⚫ Data Manipulation: Axion can edit, fabricate, or erase digital records across cybertronian archives with alarming precision.

⚫ Photographic Memory Core: Can recall and process enormous amount of information with near perfect clarity.

⚫ Multilingual Processing: Reads and understand multiple Colonial dialects and obscure pre–functionist scripts.

📚 Personality & Psychological Notes

• Appears calm, silent, and polite, blending seamlessly into civilian or non combat scenarios.

• Has an appreciation for poetry, beauty, and cultural artifacts—often studies Cybertronian art, proses, and architecture in private.

• Keep all other at a distance emotionally, not out of malice, but survival.

• Highly adaptable; capable of mimicking social behavior patterns to appear harmless or endearing.

• Secretly harbors a fascination (bordering on admiration) for Prowl, whom he sees as embodying cold efficiency and strength.

• Does not acknowledge his past as a humans openly–even to himself. Views such memories as echoes from a "different spark".

~~~~~~

Chapter Text

The glint of filtered lights through the Hall of Records crystalline skylight cast soft golden halos across the archivist rows. The sound of data–pads being slotted, key tones clicking, and low murmurs filled the ancient chamber—an almost holy quiet. 

Axion arrived as he always did, precisely at third pulse after the first tri–cycle. His steps were silent, he walked like someone who had never once tripped in their life. He greeted his fellow archivist with a practiced nod, a gentle, polite smile curling at the edges of his otherwise cool expressions. 

"Good orbit–cycle, Vestra," he murmured, passing a lithe Seeker–type who managed the pre-Golden age shelves. 

"Axion! Always on time," She chirped, teasing, "One might think you're part chronometer." He smiled politely, "Perhaps I was built with one in my cortex." Vestra laughed and returned to her sorting while Axion moved to his usual corner of the Hall–a second tier archiving station just beneath the mezzanine, where the cultural arts and early military doctrines were stored. 

He settled in, fingertips moving with fluid grace over the hard–light interface, cataloging glyph–scrolls and re–translating Pre–Functionist symbols into modern standar Cybetronix. He could do this in sleep mode. But he didn't sleep much. 

Fragments fluttered unbidden at times–shadows of an alien sun, ink on flesh instead of energon on plating. A melody from an unfamiliar world. But those fragments never lasted. Just flickers. Meaningless.

Across from him, Archivist Prion glanced up from a collection of wartime theater archives. "You hear about that mess in Kaon? Another strike. Political unrest is bleeding even into lacon."

"I did," Axion replied without emotions, "Such cycles are inevitable. Order collapses when rigidity outweighs adaptation."

Prion gave a low whistle. "Always poetic, you are. You sure you ain't a logician in disguise?"

"No. Just observant." He smiled faintly and returned to his screen.

Sometimes around mid-cycle, the air shifted. Footsteps. Sharp. Measured. Controlled. Even without looking up, Axion knew who it was. 

Prowl.

The enforcer entered the Hall like an unanswered question. Reserved. Precise. A walking array of efficiency and contradiction. He moved past the security station, glyph-badge flickering authorization as he headed toward the military archives section–two aisles down from Axion workstation.

Axion didn't look directly. He had learned how to observe without seeming to. 

'Beautiful.'

He thought again, distantly. Not in ornate sense–Prowl had no unnecessary plating, no luminous paint, no extravagant voice–but in the way a blade was beautiful. Perfect lines. Dangerous symmetry. 

He'd read Prowl records. Tactical genius. Emotionally cold. Brutally loyal to logic. 

Fascinating.

Prowl didn't stay long–perhaps three klikts. He passed near, datapad under one arm, gaze straight ahead. Axion allowed himself a moment to breathe in his presence. 

He returned to his work once the echo of Prowl steps faded, shifting a glyph-scroll slightly to the left—subconsciously aligning it with the line Prowl had walked. 

Later that cycle, while organizing an aisle of early Cybertronian sculpture, Archivist Talos stopped besides him, arms full of fractured scans. 

"Do you ever go out, Axion? The galleries are opening a new display in the Aeon Dome. Early Functionist art-before the codes. You'd love it."

Axion offered a cordial smile. "I appreciate the invitation, but I find most galleries too... interactive."

"You mean social."

"Yes"

Talos chuckled. "You're too refined to be a recluse, you know. I bet you're secretly a senator heir." Axion expression didn't falter. "That would be a surprise," He said coolly.

As the final pulses of the cycle wound down, the light dimmed automatically to rest-mode brightness. Axion stood, datapad stacked, and sent the day records to backup. Everything in his station was aligned. 

He walked alone through the corridor lined with etched histories of the senate and Functionist era—reading each name with no emotions. 

No one here knew what he was. 

And no one ever would.

As the evening hum of lacon central districts blurred into a steady ambiance—hovercraft lanes buzzing low, advertisement projecting from spires in soft glows, and distant music drifting from balcony radios. But several layers above the usual cityscape, beyond the chatter of pedestrian walkways and away from the glaring towers of government, a single structure rested near the upper platforms of the South Spire districts. 

Axion landed with a whisper. His anti-grav glide slowed as he reached the balcony, an elegant platform extending into the open air. He stepped through it's energy veil, which shimmered briefly as it scanned his spark signature. 

His home was modest but structured. Clean silver walls, polished dark metal flooring, and a few recessed light glowing in a calm lavender hue. Every object had its place: the low reading bench by the viewport, the tall shelf of old data-tablets and poetry archives, and a display screen embedded into the far wall looping soft ambient music—mostly Cybertronian stringwork with faint harmonic overtones. 

He walked through the living area, stopping by a small hexagonal compartment embedded in the wall. It slid open to reveal a meal tray—energized nutrients blocks and a thin stream of liquid Energon, faintly flavored. 

He sat briefly, consuming it while watching today news before disposing of the tray and walking to the washrack. He step into the washrack, and warm solvent pours over his frame, washing away the day dust and grime. He scrubs his joints and plating with slow, practiced motions. Once clean, a soft mist rises to dry him. He stepped out of the washrack as the last of the drying mist faded. His frame was clean. The scents of fresh solvent still lingering faintly in the air. 

Later, in a recessed alcove concealed behind a false panel—masked by a shelf of philosophy data-chip—he pulled free a rifle, a compact dual sword set, and a cloth. Every movement was slow, methodical. 

He cleaned them with care. 

Unneeded sentimentality, he thought, thought the motion felt like ritual. Still... rust is inefficient. 

He placed the rifle back in its velvet-lined compartment, clicking the panel shut. Just another secret among many, he thought as he stood and crossed to the recharge berth set along the corner wall—simple, elevated, and facing the window. 

Before lying down, he took one last glance outside. 

"Tomorrow," He whispered, tone neutral, "another orbit-cycle."

He lay back, visor dimming. And let the world fade to black.

The ambient glow of lacon was constant, but Axion still maintained a sense of dawn. He stirred from recharge as the soft chiming of internal chronometer echoed through his core. Fourth Cycle, Low rotation. Early, even for this sector. 

He sat upright with smooth, practiced motion. A system check blinked silently across his HUD—status green. His visor flickered on, bathing his living quarters in a pale violet gleam. 

With a slight hand gesture, a terminal near the wall activated, casting up a floating array of newsfeeds and data scrolls. He skimmed across headlines—legislative friction in the southern quadrant, rising tension along Kaon edge, transport routes rerouted due to Energon contamination. Nothing unexpected, but every update mattered. Knowledge was armor. 

He paused for a moment before rising to his feet. Without a word, he made his way to the Energon dispenser, slotting a canister under the stream as refined Energon flowed in measured pulses. While it filled, he flicked through a local cultural digest—debates over pre-Golden Age architectural preservation, a new art installation opening in Sector 8, historical reinterpretations of early Senate document. He lingered on that last one. 

"Revisionist. But through."

He sipped from the container absently as another thread of internal diagnostics ran beneath his attention.

Standing before the full-length reflection panel, he examined his plating with critical precision. There—a faint abrasion near the edge of his shoulder strut—barely visible, but enough to catch his attention. He retrieved a compact repairs tool from the nearby wall slot, gently smoothing out the scuff with a fine-detail polisher. Once satisfied, he applied a quick buffing gel, using a soft cloth to bring a clean, even shine back to his frame. With everything in order, he stepped onto the balcony. The city stretched beneath him, metal towers glowing in the early light. Without hesitation, he leapt—armor shifting, plates locking into place as his form transformed mid-air. In seconds, he was airborne, engines humming as he soared through the sky toward another day of work. 

~~~~

Chapter Text

He remembered sound before he remembered sight. 

Muffled murmurs beyond metal walls. Buzzing currents. A deep hum—like a predator purr, low and steady. Voices filtered through static, one clearer than the rest. Calm, calculated, tinged with awe. A voice that always called him 'my creation'

"Stabilize the core. The neural mapping is still rejecting Sector Nine—hmm. Curious. Perhaps a memory leak from.... Where?"

There was no name then. No face. He simply was—a presence within circuits, adrift in an unlit space behind glass and steel. He existed before his activation, and he knew what he was. A Cybertronian. The word was coded into him, etched between subroutines and biometric logs. But even then... something felt off. 

There were echoes in the dark that did not belong to this place—laughter, pain, the chill of rain, Alien feeling, unfamiliar and far too warm. He ignored them. 

His optics opened on a surgical table. "Beautiful." Said the voice—his creator—Senator Deltar Vos— with reverence, brushing a fingers over his helm. "You are art. My masterpiece. My creation."

A-X0N could not move. Not then. Cables spilled from his open chest like mechanical intestines, slick with coolant and energon. Limbs were bolted down while servos twitched reflexively. His vision blurred, splitting into five as his multi-lens array calibrated–rotating, adjusting, zooming in on his creator face. Deltar optics glowed soft blue, but there was nothing gentle in them. Only fixation. Possession. 

A-X0N could feel himself being rewritten in real time. 

Code streamed across his HUD. Combat instinct uploaded. Language packs. Data encryption protocols. Bloodless lines of cold instruction: "Obey. Eliminate. Erase. Smile when needed. Do not ask."

The first upgrade came after his first failure. 

Training in the dark. Melee with twin blades. The drone was fast—but he was faster. Almost. He missed the heartline. It triggered an alert. Deltar watched from above, his silhouette behind the glass, lips tight with disappointment. 

The next cycle, they cut open his forearms. Fused retractable energon daggers into his internals, folding blades humming like wasps. He was conscious the entire time. Held down. No sedation. He didn't scream—he didn't know how. He simply stared at the ceiling while his creator whispered sweetly about optimization. "You will never fail again. Your pain is just... polishing."

They trained him until his frame creaked. Neurolink spikes slammed into his target to drain Intel directly. One wrong word and memory firewalls fried his processor for hours. His visor cracked once. Deltar made him wear the fracture as shame for a full cycle before replacing it. 

Another failure—he hesitated when killing a target who begged. The next day, they modulated his voicebox so he could mimic any dialect, lie in any tone. But not speak his truth. That code was locked behind firewalls he couldn't breach. 

And when he returned from one mission limping and missing part of his thigh plating, Deltar laughed softly and said, "Every scratch tells me where to improve you."

The upgrade never stopped. A cloaking system embedded in his back made his energon ducts burn constantly. Silent anti-grav thrusters were fused to his spine—he remembered the scent of burning metal. His scream was silent. Only his optics reflected agony as he watched his own wingframe be sawed open. 

Sometimes, his creator would stroke his helm during surgery, muttering, "No one else could have made you. No one else could understand you." 

A-X0N wondered what it meant to be understood. 

Mission after mission. Kill. Infiltrate. Sabotage. Leave no witness alive, leave no evidence. 

One time, he had to erase a young archivist who'd seen to much. Her cries echoed in his head. He cleaned the energon off his faceplate and told himself: She was a threat to order. 

Another time, he disassembled a city speakers from inside out–literally–after seducing him for data access. His hand didn't shake when he removed the vocalizer and left him gurgling. 

He wanted to believe this was who he was. But...sometimes...fragments returned. A flicker of skin. Not plating. A heartbeat instead of a spark pulse. A child voice calling out—not in Cybertronian. But in another language that was familiar yet unfamiliar too him.

But the fragments would fade as soon as it comes. Like static. And everytime he would push it away. 

He didn't hate Deltar Vos. He didn't love him, either. Deltar was his creator. His maker. He was a scientist drunk on his own genius. His "affection" was nothing more than pride in ownership. And yet... A-X0N sometimes caught himself replaying his words. 

"You are art"

"You are masterpieces"

"You are perfect, my creation"

He hated that part of him liked hearing it. 

Then, one cycle... Deltar was gone. 

Assassinated.

The door to Sublevel ∆-32 hadn't been breached. No sign of forced entry. The biometric lock had accepted his identifier without delay. 

And yet.... 

The scent of raw, spoiled energon hit A-X0N like a system shock. He stepped in, his footsteps soundless across the obsidian alloy floors, wing folded tight. 

And there–beneath cold lumen-strips flickering above the lab table—was his creator corpse. 

Or what remained of it. 

The frame was split open from sternum to sparkchamber. Cable spilling out like metal intestines onto the grated floor. One optics had been cored out entirely, leaving a pit of twisted alloy. His left arm had been torn clean off–ripped, not sliced– jagged struts exposed. His spark had ruptured, half of it still flickering faintly against the console, pulsating like a dying organ. Energon drenched the entire wall behind him. The console control panel was cracked in two, shattered by what looked like an impact from Deltar own helm—A-X0N recognized the curve of cranial plating embedded in the screen. 

The graying had already begun. His creator silver finish dulled to oxidized pewter. Fluid pooled and congealed beneath his chair. 

A-X0N knelt besides the mangled body, servo resting on the console slick with partially clotted energon. He reached–hesitated–and began trying to reconnect wires, pressing torn cables back into the broken housing, fingers trembling not with fear or sadness, but procedures. A corrupted protocol loop:

REPAIR THE SOURCE.                         

WAIT FOR THE NEXT ORDER.           

STANDBY.                                               

STANDBY.                                               

STAND—

Static flickered across his HUD. 

The spark fragments flickered.... then dimmed.      A-X0N stared. Then tried again. Fingers coated in viscous purple fluid, pressing and folding and fusing and realigning shattered plating, like it mattered. 

It didn't. 

His creator was already offline. 

The energon was thick now. Dead weight against his serves. His knees were soaked in it. It stung where it touched the seam beneath his plating. Still, he worked. Still, he waited. 

But there was no voice. Only hollow stillness. The sound of distant coolant pump. The hiss of an overworked generator somewhere on Sublevel ∆-35.

For 7.19 jor he did not move. Just sat, wing folded, visor dark, covered in energon that was beginning to dry. Somewhere beneath his core, a subroutine tried to activate a shutdown command. 

"No directive found"                             

"Awaiting input"                                     

"Purpose undefined"

He slowly lifted a servo to the base of his healm and accessed the internal kill-switch. His creator had installed it incase something happened. 

A-X0N pressed it.                                 

And then he hear—a voice.                 

Faint. Not Cybertronian. Soft. Human.                     

 "Don't"                              

He froze. 

It was not a sound nor an order. Just a ripple. A memory that did not belong to this body. 

A hand—flesh, not steel—holding his. A sound of rain. A streetlights humming overhead. A warm voice whispering something he couldn't translate. 

A child voice. 

"Don't go yet."

He stared at the corpse besides him. At the open sparkchamber. At the fragments of wire that had once pulsed with obsession and brilliance and delusion. 

He didn't love his creator. He wasn't built to love.    But he didn't hate him either. He had been held with those shaking, slender servos during every upgrade. Had been stared at with manic pride. Had been whispered to like a favored object in a private museum. 

He hadn't grieved. 

Because grief required love. 

And he had none. 

He pulled his servo away from the switch. Slowly.  He looked once more at the body. Then sat back beside it. Back against the cold wall. 

And waited. 

Not for orders.                                         

Not for grief.                                         

Just....waited

Because he didn't know what else to do.

His creator had once told him, in the middle of an operation:

"You are not meant to drift. You are meant to act. Always be acting. Always be executing. That is what you are. My A-X0N"

But there were no more actions left. No more orders. No directives. And still— he lived. 

He sat in silence, besides the corpse now stiff and brittle, part of it breaking apart at the seams. The lab reeked of rusting energon and heat-distorted circuitry. Static bummed gently through his internal comms, the ghost of a neural link now broken. 

And finally, slowly, he rose to his feet. 

if there is no command.... Then I will  author one. 

He crossed the energon soaked-floor, stepping over dismembered plating and data pads smeared in coolant, and reached the primary console. 

The controls flickered—damaged, but functional. 

His digits danced across the interface, long and precise, no hesitation. His visor glowed faintly with rapid-fire code as subroutine activated and sub-networks fell one by one to his intrusion.

//Root access granted                         

//System override: A-X0N_Protocol revoked.                               

//Executive Archive Rewrite: IN PROGRESS.... 

He watched himself die. 

His old file—designation A-X0N, special project of Senator Deltar Vos was methodically disassembled. 

Mission deleted. Assassinations scrubbed. Laboratory records erased. Sparkpath anomalies covered in static. Biometric scattered into corrupted data cluster. 

A-X0N ceased to exist. 

And in his place—

//New file created                                 

//Designation: AXION                           

//Function: Data Archivist (Class 3 clearance)                                   

//Cold Construct Origin: C-IV Deltax Sector (Manufactured standards, 4.75 vorn ago)                                 

//No prior assignment.

He forged his own fiction, a quiet existence to slip between the cracks of history. 

No one needed to know.

As the final packet of data compiled, Axion accessed one last subroutine. A fail-safe Deltar Vos had built into the lab, in case someone ever came. A miniature bomb pulse, masked as a generator surge. Nothing spectacular. Just enough to fry the system. Burn the evidence. 

He activated it. 

A slow charge began to whine beneath the floors. He turned to the mangled frame still sprawled in the chair, optics dim, cables darkened with clotted energon. 

"Creator."

He stepped forward. Looked at the dried, rusting servo that had once cradled his helm. That had cut him open without sedation. That had whispered word too him in manic tone, with optics to bright to be sane. 

He felt nothing. 

But still... 

He looked.

One final time. 

Then turned.

Wings low, steps silent.                       

And walked away.

Behind him, the bomb activated. A hum like a distant song. The light flickered. One final spark stuttered across the dead console. 

And then—

Flames. Collapse. Silence. 

From this point forward, A-X0N was dead. 

Axion was born. 

And if he had no function left...  

He would find one.

No matter how long it took. 

Chapter Text

Axion pedesteps were nearly silent as he entered the Hall of records through the eastern trans-support archway, his frame casting a long shadow across the polished metal floor. He had arrived late—0.22 jor after the shift bell—due to irregularity in the transport rail timetable. Still within the tolerable margin. The lobby thrummed with quiet mechanoids—curators, archivist, micro-coders, data-splicers—all moving in gentle, predetermined patterns. 

He nodded at the security post, flashing the violet data-strip installed into his left wrist. It blinked green. The officer—an old Seeker with dulled wing edges and the blue gold seal of upper records division—didn't even look up. 

Inside, the Hall was vast. Vaulted ceilings arced like cathedral struts above, humming with passive energy fields and slow-turning fan arrays. Walls of encoded data lined every aisle, glittering faintly with pulsing light. Sublevels descended deep beneath the surface, but Axion was assigned to Scriptorium Sector 12-A mainly cataloging old transcripts caches and lost pre-Functionist cultural logs. 

He sat in silence at his station for 3.19 jor before the mech in the adjacent desk finally turned and said, "you're the new intake? "

Axion turned, expression calm. "Yes. Designation Axion. I began cycle starts."

The mech—tall, spindly, yellow-white playing with panel scars down both arms—offered a small nod. "Scriptor Brenn. You get any training yet? "

"A primer module. Nothing formal."

"You'll figure it out." Brenn turned back to his screen, muttering, "No one checks what we do anyway. We're at the bottom of the engram heap."

A quiet chime signaled another file batch arriving. Axion reached to take it, servos moving with gentle precision. He spent the rest of the shift transcribing what appeared to be fragmented trade logs from the pre-Rust Age. 

By mid-Cycle break, the staff lounge was nearly full. He moved through the crowd with practiced fluidity, selecting a ration of neutral-grade Energon and a spiced nanite bar from the dispenser. 

A smaller mech—square frame, pale orange with soot marks along the joints—watched him approach and gestured to the open seat besides him. 

"You're the new archivist, right?"

Axion nodded, setting his cube down. "Yes. Axion."

"Clairix. Linguistics scribe. You from Proximus sector?"

"No." A pause. "Originally from Deltax."

"Slag, that far out? I heard the whole district went under Functionist lockdown four cycle ago."

"Part of it did."

Clairix took a sip from his cube. "You're quiet."

Axion offered a small smile. "I prefer listening."

Clairix grinned. "You'll get along fine here. Most mech in the archives are tired of talking."

Four shift-cycles later, Axion set out to map the  district by foot. He traced the perimeter of the archive ward, cataloging each entrance, each service panel, each emergency lift. As dusk-cycle began, he followed the grid layouts downward, past the glimmering admin towers, unaware that he was veering into sector 9—lower lacon under level. 

He passed a graffiti with the words: "Function is not purpose" Sprayed in red paint. 

A mech with flickering optics a missing thigh struts stumbled past him, muttering something about backflow charges. Another, with a dented helm and exposed jaw pistons, was curled besides a leaking Energon barrel, cradling an empty canister of high-grade. 

Two young frame—probably cold constructed couriers by their size—ran past him, chased by a heavyset mech selling scrap-grade stimkits. 

He moved calmly, optic adjusting behind his visor. Dim streetlights crackled overhead. Behind one broken wall, he glimpsed a pleasure bot—fragile frame, high gloss finish, wearing a projection ribbon that read "First-Press Special. Clean. Responsive."

Axion turned a corner. 

A large figure stepped in his path. 

"Pretty frame," The stranger said. Broad, silver–gold chassis with a cracked glyph tched into the torso. "Don't see ones like you down here often."

"I'm mapping city districts. You are obstructing my path."

The mech stepped closer, flanked now by two others. "Polite. Real polite. Let's see what's under that visor."

One reached for his face. 

Axion did not move.

He calculated options, run or finish quickly. 

But then—

"Stand down"

The voice cut clean across the air. 

All three mech turned. 

And there, standing just beyond the broken lamp post, was an Enforcer. 

Black and white frame. Red chevron gleaming. Blue optics burning through shadow. 

His badge caught the flickering lights. His hand hovered near his hip, where an electro-baton was already charging. 

"Disperse," He said. His voice was cold and flat. "Now."

The three hesitated. One tried to say something—then saw him step forward, and they ran. 

Axion tilted his helm slightly. His visor activated. 

Scanning... 

Identity confirmed

→Designation: Prowl

→Function: Tactician/Enforcer

→Rank: Sub-command unit — Lacon Law Division. 

The projected data glowed faintly in the corner of his optics for 0.43 nanokliks before vanishing. 

Prowl turned to him. "You shouldn't be here."

"I... got lost. I was—mapping."

Prowl optics narrowed. "Civilians?"

"Yes."

He scanned him—brief, but through. 

"Designation?"

"Axion."

Prowl studied him a moment longer, then stepped back. "There's a transit rail two blocks west. Do not linger here."

Axion bowed his helm slightly. "Understood."

Prowl turned without another word, disappearing into the dark. 

Axion stood alone. 

His spark fluttered—irregular, soft. 

A strange thing. 

He began walking. 

And for the first time in many vorns, he felt the echo of something like purpose—not from order. 

But from curiosity.

The lift doors parted with a sigh, and Axion stepped into the corridor of his assigned habsuite. The tower, located in the Upper Spires of lacon, was tall and outdated—it's alloy skin dulled by time, insulation seams patched unevenly where reinforcements once held. It stood discreetly among the wealthier spires, older than most, and for that reason: affordable and unimportant. 

Inside, the space was modest and dim, with sharp angles softened by the patina of age. The floor was plated with dark alloy, worn smooth under pedes that had long since passed. Low amber light cast long shadow across minimal furnishings—a recessed recharge berth, a compact Energon dispenser, a low-slung bench integrated into the wall. 

A wide display screen dominated one side, mostly off, except for the thin flicker of standby code. Datapads lined a narrow shelf above his desk, each labeled in elegant glyphs. On another wall, a half-curtained alcove offered minimal privacy for rest. His interface terminal was an older model, keyed to a tactile grid. It was quiet here. That was enough. 

He stood in the viewport, watching the distant strata of lacon bleed into one another—glass paneled towers glittering above, smoke-choked stacks below. Between them ran the veins of the city: magtrails, skyways, patrol beacons pulsing like heartbeats. Somewhere far beneath, forgotten district stirred with the noise of too many mechs and not enough hope. 

Axion turned from the view. Slid open a panel in his wrist and connected to the console.

Fingers gliding over the interface, he tunneled beneath standards permission—through abandoned surveillance nodes, ghost-shells of Senate system, data clouds half corrupted by time and purge. 

QUERY INITIATED: ENFORCER PROWL

ACCES LEVEL: UNAUTHORIZED

OVERRIDE APPLIED: ACTIVE

The files unfolded: patrol records, case resolution, behavioral assessment, tribunal authorization. Details of incident response, processed arrest orders. Tactical performance reviews. 

Image. Clips. 

Axion watched every second. Every angle of Prowl work—the timing of his movement, the calm of his interrogation, the violence held back in surgical control. 

He didn't stop. 

Not to cross reference. Not to archive. 

From no directive... 

... Came fixation. 

He watched. 

Chapter Text

The berth creaked softly beneath them. Axion lay back against the cool lining, wing partially spread across the berthpad. His plating hissed where internal temperature rose—vents fluttering open across his side. His visor had been set aside long ago, optics bare, glowing violet and unreadable. 

Prowl stood above him, helm bowed, servos planted on either side of Axion hips. 

"Say stop," Prowl murmured. It wasn't a question. It was an order—but the soft kind. 

Axion didn't. 

So Prowl shifted down. He pressed one knee between Axion thighs and pried them apart with a controlled firmness. Axion valve was already exposed, outer plating parted, soft and damp where lubricant had begun to pool. His interface panel had slid aside without needing to be asked. The translucent inner folds fluttered faintly in the cool air, node clusters lighting gently under external exposure. A single tremor moved across Axion hip when Prowl exhaled warm vented air close to the valve lips. 

"Slag," Prowl muttered, low. His EM field pulsed tight—desire and restraint at war. 

He leaned in, pressing a kiss just above his valve rim — then slowly traced downward. His lips brushed along the outer folds in a lingering sweep, then slowly dragged upward, savoring every contour. He nuzzled against the exposed node points, warm vents ghosting over sensitized metal, before pressing his cheek to Axion thigh — a quiet, trembling pause, as if grounding himself in the moment, gathering restraint he was rapidly losing. 

Axion fingers trembled where they gripped the berth edge. 

Prowl glossa swept between the folds in a single, deliberate motion. Axion arched with restrained grace, a soft ripple of static fluttering through his wing, betraying the surge of sensation. Another slow, lingering lick followed, unhurried. Then prowl lips sealed over his valve, drawing a breathless, involuntary moan from Axion as the suction pulled at his most sensitive nodes, control slipping with every pulse. 

Prowl drew back slowly, lips parting from Axion valve with a soft, wet sound—mouth glossed with transfluid, strands catching faintly in the dim light. He ex-vented once, heavy and low, optics half-lidded as he watched the valve flutter open beneath him. Then he pressed in—two fingers, slow and firm, easing past the slick outer rim with practiced control. The stretch drew a quiet shudder from Axion as Prowl pushed deeper, the digits curling just enough to brush sensitive inner plating before pausing—letting the valve seal around him, hot and quivering, as if urging him to stay. 

Axion gasped aloud. His optics flickered, his internals clenched sweetly around the digits. 

"Relax," Prowl muttered—more to himself than to Axion. "You're... tighter than expected."

Axion breath hitched. 

The fingers moved—curling deep with deliberate intent, slow unrelenting, pressing against each inner node with precise, maddening care. Every stroke drew a reaction:Axion valve pulsed and clenched around the intrusion, fluid slicking Prowl hand in fresh waves of heat. His hips twitched, betraying a mountain tension, and a soft, helpless whine slipped past his parted intake. 

Prowl watched—optics dark, jaw tight, his expression sharp with hunger. He looked utterly entranced, as if memorizing the way Axion frame responded to his touch. Obsession burned behind every controlled movement, like he was holding back only for the pleasure of watching him come undone. Prowl doorwing twitched, fluttering in rhythm with the feedback pulsing through his neural net–every surge of Axion pleasure feeding into his own. He shifted slightly, adjusting his angle with that same measured focus, and slid in a third fingers. The stretch drew a sharp intake from Axion, but Prowl digits moved with surgical finesse—each twist, each stroke perfectly placed, crafted to coax another broken sound from Axion lips. 

Then he leaned in further. Without pause, he pressed his glossa inside — slipping it alongside his fingers, lapping slowly at the inner rim of the valve. The sensation was overwhelming: soft, wet heat dragging along sensitive nodes as his fingers plunged deeper, curling and stroking in slow, calculated sync. Axion shuddered violently, thighs trembling around Prowl helm, his vents flaring with heat. His valve clenched down in waves, transfluid dripping in earnest now against Prowl mouth, his fingers, the berth beneath them. Prowl didn't flinch. If anything, he groaned low, savoring the taste, the feel — like he was drinking Axion in, addicted to every overload-laced tremor rolling through his frame. 

"I'm ready," Axion whispered, his voice glitching faintly through the static haze of arousal. 

Prowl didn't respond. Instead he dipped down and gave one final, languid lick, before slowly withdrawing his fingers, glistening with transfluid. Axion valve throbbed open in his absence, fluttering with anticipation, aching and wet. Prowl rose, frame taut with restraint. His spike was already fully unsheathed, hard and flushed with charge, a bead of fluid gathering at the tip. His expression was unreadable — somewhere between composed and desperate, like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will. 

He aligned himself to the slick, twitching entrance, but paused — optics locked onto Axion. The heat between them pulsed like static across a live wire. "Still want this?" He asked, voice low and rough, frayed at the edges by high-grade and sheer, focused heat. 

Axion didn't speak — he surged upward and pulled Prowl into a kiss, mouths crashing together in something molten and hungry. That was answer enough. 

Prowl ex-vented sharply and pressed forward. The tip of his spike slipped past the valve rim with aching slowness, meeting no resistance — only heat, fluid, and the tremble of overstimulated plating. Axion moaned softly, the sound tight and held-back, as if he didn't know if it was safe to let go. His helm tipped back against the berthwall, optics fluttering, wings trembling like he was caught mid-flight. Prowl leaned in closer, bracing his servos on either side of Axion hips as he fed more of his spike into the welcoming heat–slow, steady, deliberate, like every second was meant to be memorized. Until his pelvic plating met Axion with a soft, resonant click. They stilled together, system syncing in a charged half-second, vent cycling in ragged, shared rhythm. The space between them pulsed with heat and static. Axion clenched around him, valve fluttering with overstimulated sensitivity. 

"Frag," Prowl whispered, voice tight and raw, strained with the effort to keep control. He didn't move. Not yet. He held there, buried to the base, his doorwing twitched—sharp, stuttering movements betraying the tension wracking his frame. Then he began to move. Slow thrust — deep, grounding strokes that rolled through Axion frame with unrelenting precision. Every push drew a soft, barely-voiced sounds from Axion throat, helpless and stifled. His valve clenched with each inward slide, his body gradually attuning to the rhythm, open and pliant under Prowl calculated pace. 

Prowl servo sliding upward — fingers brushing over the exposed wing joint, where matte plating met the delicate struts beneath. The contact drew a sharp shudder from Axion, his wing flexing high and tense, sensor flaring with overstimulated brightness. 

"You like that," Prowl muttered, voice rough–barely more than a breath above a growl, thick with heat and something possessive. 

He did it again, slow and intentional–scraping his digits gently along the edge of the wing hinge, tracing the sensitive seams with maddening care. At the same time, his hips rolled forward in another deep, controlled thrust, dragging friction along every node inside. Axion gasped—louder this time, a fractured sound pulled straight from his core as his legs locked tighter around Prowl waist. His body arched instinctively, caught between the overstimulation of his wing and the relentless, rhythmic filling of his valve. He couldn't decide where to focus—everything burned. 

The berth creaked beneath them, struts straining under the weight and rhythm of their movement. Their field tangled—heated, hungry. Axion valve clenched tight around Prowl spike in a deep, pulsing welcome, as if pulling him in further, deeper. 

Prowl dipped low and bit into the sensitive cables along Axion neck. Axion whined. Fragged static filled his vocalized. That sounds—raw, helpless—shattered whatever restraint was left. Prowl control broke. He slammed forward, hard and fast, hand gripping Axion hips with crushing intensity as he drove in to the hilt. The motion forced a cry from Axion intake, his valve spasming around the intrusion with each wet, noisy impact. 

"You're taking me so well," Prowl hissed between gritted dental, vents flaring. "So fragging tight...so fragging sweet—"

The rhythm collapsed into something brutal, erratic—hips snapping forward again and again, metal slapping metal, loud and obscene in the quiet apartment. Every thrust ground Prowl spike against Axion deepest node ring, pressure building like a charge spike across a live conduit. Axion transfluid spilled freely coating Prowl spike, slicking down his thighs, pooling on the berth beneath them. Each impact pushed a gasp or moan from Axion mouth, no longer restrained. Every pulse drawing him closer—overload coiling deep, crawling up his spinal struts like static fire, crackling beneath his plating, tightening with each ragged vents. 

Prowl servo slipped between their bodies—two fingers finding the swollen node just above the valve rim. He rubbed in fast, firm circle, precise and relentless, syncing perfectly with the deep grind of his spike. Axion cried out—sharp, unfiltered and loud. The overload crashed into him like a surge through exposed wiring. His valve spasmed in violent, clenching pulses, locking tight around Prowl spike. His spark flared erratically in its chamber, wing jolted wide–one slamming into the berth frame with a loud clang–and his optics flared open in a brilliant burst of violet light. 

Prowl snarled low in his throat, his overload slammed into him a second later, hips jerking forward with a guttural sound as his spike throbbed inside Axion, releasing thick pulses of transfluid in hot, heavy waves. It spilled into the overworked valve, overflowing around the seal, dripping messily down Axion thighs. Prowl kept rutting into him, hips rolling in slow, grinding motion, each one dragging out the last electric flickers of overload. His mouth was pressed hard to Axion throat, vents roaring, glossa flicking lazily against sensitive cabling, tasting the aftermath with clinical indulgence. Axion trembled beneath him, ventilation hitching–just on the edge of recovery, just beginning to settle–when suddenly, without warning, Prowl grabbed him and flipped him onto his front, pressing him over the edge of the berth. His wings flared open, a sharp reflexive jolt–only to be pinned down by the firm weight of Prowl forearm. Axion barely had time to brace. As Prowl lined himself up again– and slammed back in. Hard, deep and ruthless. 

The slick heat of Axion valve welcomed him again, still overstimulated and twitching from the last release. He gave no reprieve – his hips snapping forward in punishing thrusts that rocked Axion against the berth frame, forcing gasps and broken sobs from his lips. The slide of Prowl spike against hypersensitive node clusters sent white static ripping across Axion vision, pain and pleasure blurring into something electric. Another overload tore through him, brutal in its intensity–his valve clenching tight around the unrelenting spike inside him, his vents wheezing, body trembling as his neural net flooded with blinding heat. 

Prowl grip was bruising, his spike grinding into the deepest cluster of sensitive internals without mercy. Axion could barely think, the wet slap of metal on metal echoed through the room, broken only by Prowl guttural snarls and Axion breathless sobs. When Prowl finally overload for the third time –hips jerking, spike twitching deep inside until it throbbed dry– his frame shuddered violently. He collapsed forward, entire frame pressing down over Axion back, blanketing him in heat and weight, breath hot and ragged against his neck. His processor buzzed once –a final surge of static– then fell silent. 

Axion, still venting softly, carefully slipped out from beneath Prowl weight. The spike withdrew with a wet, sticky sound, his valve stretched and leaking thickly down both thighs, warmth trailing in glistening rivulets. His frame trembled faintly with aftershock, internal fans humming low as he reached for a clean cloth from the berthside compartment. He then wiped down their frames, collecting the transfluid from his plating, from Prowl, from the berth now slick and stained with the evidence of what had passed between them. 

Prowl didn't stir. He lay motionless, deep in forced recharge, system taxed to their limit. Axion paused, gaze lingering on him. The enforcers face, usually unreadable, was completely unguarded now—lips parted faintly, lines of tension smoothed away by exhaustion. Something about that softness, that rare moment of stillness, kept Axion watching longer than he meant to. 

Without a word, he reached out and dimmed the lights, casting the room in quiet shadow. Then, soundlessly, he slipped beneath the berth covering and settled besides him—close, but not quite touching. Just near enough to feel the residual heat radiating from Prowl frame. And there, in silence, surrounded by fading scents and warmth, Axion let himself drift into recharge.

The recharge cycle ended in fragments. Prowl system rebooted with sluggish resistance, sensors recalibrating one by one beneath a dull fog of residual high-grade and overloaded circuits. His optics flickered online, adjusting to dim ambient light—gray-blue tones across unfamiliar ceiling tiles. 

"This isn't his quarters." Prowl thought, as his field prickled uneasily. 

He sat up slowly, plating shifting against the berth unfamiliar surface. The tension in his shoulder struts and the dull throb in his thighs conveyed more than his fractured memory could. He ex-vented, dragging a hand down his faceplate. 

What—

He remembered the bar. Maccadam's, to much high-grade, he hadn't gone for silence—he'd gone to drown out the noise. But the voices grated anyways, no quieter than the patrol reports still ticking across the back of his HUD. He remembered a visor catching ambient light, watching him. Conversation blurred into static, heat against his frame. A wing trembling beneath his grip. 

He ex-vented sharply and stood. The room was minimal but efficient, row of datapads along a shelf, tools arranged with surgical precision, the air smelled faintly of energon and filtered coolant. Likely an older tower unit judging by the faint rattle in the vents. He approached the door, it slid open silently. The main room mirrored the rest–orderly and spare. A central table and two chairs, a dry storage rack and a small kitchenette unit where a mech stood, posture composed. 

Axion. If memory served. His visor was back in place, wing neatly folded, frame perfectly still as he poured steaming synthfluid into two slender decanters. On the table, three plates had been arranged: ration energon cubes, coiled metalroot wafer, and a shallow bowl of coolant-moss and microcharge grain– Vosian fare. He didn't turn as he calmly said, "I assumed your energon levels might need stabilization," while gesturing lightly toward the seat opposite. 

Prowl lingered at the threshold a moment before stepping inside, "My memory is...incomplete," he said, voice even. "I recall the bar, drinking, then... only fragments."

"You weren't incoherent," Axion replied. "But well beyond standard limits. We returned together. You initiated contact."

Prowl doorwing flicked, "I see." A brief pause. "Thank you for the accommodation, if I overstepped, I extend my apologies."

Axion inclined his helm slightly, then sat across from him. "Apology noted," he said calmly. "It wasn't unwelcome."

They ate in silence. The energon was warm,neutral in taste, the synthfluid however was sharp enough to anchor his system, Prowl registered it with silent approval. After a few click of silence, Axion glanced toward the side corridor. 

"There's a washrack through there," he said. "Solvent flow is stable. You'll find fresh cleaning cloths on the cabinet."

Prowl gave a brief nod. "Acknowledged."

The washrack was compact and immaculately kept. As he stepped inside, activating the solvent stream, warmth spread gradually, as solvent sluicing through his plating in steady warmth. The heat hissed softly, lifting away the lingering traces of the previous cycle. He stared at his reflection in the fogged panel. Expression unreadable, his interface port was still sensitive. The memory of contact, the press of lips, the involuntary shudder that followed—clung stubbornly into his subroutines. He hated that his system retained it.

When he emerged–clean, armor polished, Axion was seated with his legs crossed, reading from a dataslate. He did not look up. Prowl hesitated, then drew his comm. He stepped forward, placed a short encrypted code onto the table. "If anything arises," he said quietly, clipped but courteous. 

Axion turned slightly, his visor glinting as it angled toward the code. 

"I'll remember."

Prowl nodded once, then left. The door sealed behind him with a muted hiss. 

Axion remained still until the faint sound of the lift door echoed distantly down the corridor. Only then did he rise, he moved to the wide viewport near the edge of the room, its reinforced panels catching the morning wash of lacon light. From this height, he located Prowl easily—cutting a clean, direct path through the foot traffic, posture crips, doorwing held with typical restraint. Axion watched until Prowl disappeared beyond the plaza and out of view. Silence pooled in his quarters once more. He stood there for a long moment. 

Strange, Axion thought as he lifted a hand to his own hip, fingers brushing the faint dent where Prowl grip had marked his plating. He had experienced pleasure while interfacing with Prowl—undeniable, and unfamiliar. It wasn't the act that unsettled him, but the fact that he had wanted it. He had performed it before–many times on command, without hesitation or personal investment. Always clinical and measured, his creators ensured such thing were tools of leverage and manipulation. Deltar Vos had referred to it as 'tactical bonding'. 

But this—this had not been for utility. It had not been to extract data, compromise an asset, or fulfill an assassinations order. It had simply happened. And he had wanted it. 

The thought lingered with uncomfortable clarity. Axion let his hand fall away, ex-vented softly, and turned back toward the interior. He cleared the dishes, re-sorted the datapads into their proper order, and dimmed the lighting until the room settled into soft shadow. After checking the chronometer, he locked the door behind him and stepped out into the city, setting off toward his work without looking back. 

Chapter Text

The rookie drill played out beneath the wide observation deck like a rough hunt in the brush, careless and noisy. Axion’s optics narrowed, sharp as a hawk’s gaze locking onto prey, every microsecond of movement recorded and dissected. His posture was taut, every line of his frame coiled, ready. Beside him, Jazz leaned back with casual ease, one leg slung over the armrest as if time was irrelevant—like he had all the patience in the world to waste.

“Hey, Axion.”

The greeting was casual, easy, but Axion offered nothing more than a quiet hum in response, eyes still fixed beyond the viewport.

“You think we’re friends?”

Axion didn’t look away from the viewport. “You are competent. You do not impede my objectives. You have Prowl’s trust.”

Jazz’s visor caught the light with a brief, sharp gleam. “That’s your answer? Not even a yes or no?”

“That is the answer. It is factual.”

Jazz tilted his helm, amusement lining the edge of his tone. “So’s ‘the sky’s blue,’ but that ain’t the same thing as tellin’ me you like my company.”

Axion frowned faintly, optics shifting. “Do you want me to say I like your company?”

“Nah, I want the truth.”

“Then—”

“—But the truth better be that you like my company.”

There was a pause. “That is… contradictory.”

Jazz’s grin was sharp beneath his visor. “Nah. That’s just advanced social maneuvering. Keeps you on your toes.”

Axion turned to face him now, his face caught in the briefest flicker of suspicion tangled with calculation. “This is deliberate?”

“Everything I do’s deliberate, partner.” Jazz kicked his foot idly. “So, go on. Friends?”

“If ‘friend’ means ‘colleague whose presence is not objectionable,’ then yes.”

“Objectionable? Primus, you talk like Prowl wrote your personality code.”

“That is not—” Axion started, then stopped. “…He did not.”

“Sure.” Jazz smirked knowingly. “And Prowl’s not your favorite mech either, right?”

Axion’s tone sharpened, edges darkening. “Prowl is not in the same category as anyone else.”

Jazz leaned in just slightly, voice dropping to a teasing murmur. “Not even me?”

“No.”

“That’s hurtful.”

“It’s accurate.”

Jazz chuckled, the sound light and genuine. “You know, you’re fun to mess with. It’s like pokin’ at a logic processor till it throws sparks.”

Axion blinked slowly, unsure if this was an insult or… some kind of strange bonding ritual. “Are you attempting to destabilize me?”

“Yup. And now that you’re confused, congrats — we’re officially friends. That’s how it works.”

Axion stared. “…That makes no sense.”

“Then it’s perfect,” Jazz said cheerfully, turning his attention back to the drill like the matter was settled.

Axion, meanwhile, sat very still, running the conversation back through his processor like he’d missed a key tactical detail.