Chapter Text
Optimus Prime doesn’t lose control. He simply doesn’t. It isn’t his nature, his make. There is no other being more in control, more in tune with one’s manner, with such restrictions. A person with that amount of will would no doubt remain strong no matter the circumstances. Unflinching. Unyielding.
Seeing him now… well, you might say otherwise.
Strapped down to a berth and thrashing against the cutting restraints, Optimus snarls from beneath his mask. Eye wild and with no sense of himself. It’s animalistic and terrifying. The way he bunches his torso into the air and uses his pelvis to try and break free, you can’t help but watch in horror. Ratchet calls out to the others, demanding they help hold their Prime down while he administers a sedative. But Optimus just won’t be still.
“Ratchet, he’s going to— nn!— hurt himself like this,” Arcee shouts, her upper half sprawled over Optimus' chassis in an attempt to stop the moving. Bulkhead is right there with her, holding Optimus down by the shoulders. Even with a large mech, it is nearly impossible to subdue the out-of-mind Prime truly.
“I’m doing what I can,” Ratchet snaps back, directing Bumblebee to hold onto one of the wrists that’s threatening to break free and kill them all. Could Optimus do that? Kill his friends? Like this, you imagine he could. But would he?
During the pandemonium, you stand watch, eyes wide and hands cold with sweat. There is dried blood on your face, along with ungodly amounts of dirt. You are filthy and nearly soaked to the bone. Tattered clothes are clinging to you while you drip murky sludge onto the concrete floors. Optimus is no better. He’s just as disheveled, scuff marks marring his paint and twigs caught in unsightly places. The only real difference aside from evident physicality was the concerning gash across the Prime’s cranium. Congealed Energon now caked the wound, along with fresh blood flowing down his face and between his optics.
You jump when your name is called. It’s Smokescreen, trying to guide you away from the struggle gently. It works, guiding the shuffle of your feet to the doorway, but once your face falls to avoid seeing anymore, Optimus lets out a deranged growl, slamming his body harder, head side to side. The display is far more violent, and Ratchet takes notice. “Bring her back in! Closer!”
His demand has your heart racing, and you look to Smokescreen for security. All you are met with is a hopeless shrug.
“Ratchet,” you whisper, hesitantly turning back around. The moment you do, Optimus has his sights on you, body rigid as if to ensure you will indeed stay. “I can’t do this.”
“Please,” he vents, exhausted from the fight but happy that Optimus stays still long enough to administer the sedative. However, once the needle is in, the battle ensues, and the team again struggles against the confused bot under them. “You have to stay.”
You glare, mud accentuating your tired features. “I’ve been with him for three weeks, Ratchet!”
“And I’m asking you to stay a little longer! At least until he’s under. I’ll need to figure something out… see if I can mend the damage.”
“See?” Arcee coughs, Optimus elbowing her in the abdomen. “You mean you can’t fix him?”
The injection is working. Optimus' movements have slowed, but the rage is still there. You know he won’t give up until every last bit of his processor is numbed from the effects. “I never said that. But, until I can, I’d like to avoid any further injury. Seeing as she—“ a finger is jabbed your way, and somehow, you feel at blame, “is lessening his temper, she stays nearby.”
“You think I’m doing this?”
“Of course not,” he scoffs, relaxing when one of Optimus's arms goes slack. “He is suffering from a severe injury to his processor and has been without clean Energon for far too long. Who knows what is happening within that mind of his? For all we know, he could see us as a threat.” When all think Optimus has started to slip under, the Prime’s mask retracts, and snarling teeth strike out at poor Arcee, narrowly missing her throat.
“Gee, how’d you guess that?!” She yells.
Bulkhead shakes his helm. “Quiet! Look!”
With bated breath, you wait as Optimus' head slowly lowers back onto the berth. His eyes are flickering in and out, and his fingers are unclenched. After moments of silence, Optimus finally goes limp.
“He wakes up; he’s going to kill us, Ratchet.” Acres pulls herself away, grimacing at the grime that transferred from Optimus to her.
Smokescreen shrugs, muttering quietly, “Only if we’re in his way.” It makes your skin crawl, and you want nothing more than to get out of this place and find a nice, warm shower and a pair of clean underwear.
“I’ll see what I can do about stronger restraints. In the meantime,” Ratchet crosses his arms and looks at you, a deep frown on his lips. “Tell me everything. From the beginning.”
You groan, tossing your hands into the air. Which, in hindsight, was a bad idea. Your shoulder aches something awful. “I told you! We went to check out the Energon mine, and the next thing I knew, we were being shot at and then got stuck in that god-awful limbo world. He was like this when I found him.”
“You’ll need to be more specific if I’m to procure a diagnosis.”
“A diagnosis? Ratch, his head is split open. What the hell is there to figure out? I don’t know how! He was just…”
“Insane?” Smokescreen supplies.
You shake your head.
“Feral.”