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It was early morning, no different from any other—so early that the other miners were still lost in recharge.
Orion carefully eased his frame into the ventilation shaft above the Records Hall.
Maybe this time… maybe this time I’ll really find it.
He pressed himself against the metal walls inside the duct and moved in silence, holding his breath.
The Matrix of Leadership—the legendary legacy of the Thirteen Primes—had to still exist somewhere on Cybertron. If he could find it, perhaps the planet would once again overflow with energon, as it once had long ago.
And who knew—perhaps even those born without cogs might gain them.
If that happened, none of them would have to remain miners forever.
If not miners… then what?
Could they become anything?
Of course we could. We would.
Without meaning to, Orion thought of D—his closest friend.
Would they still be together then? What kind of life would D want?
A racer in the Iacon circuits, maybe. Or perhaps a writer—considering how intently D would read the old, damaged datapads Prowl or Jazz sometimes salvaged from the scrapyards.
And then, unbidden, Orion recalled D’s golden optics, shining with reverence at the very thought of Sentinel Prime.
For a fleeting moment, he imagined D standing at Sentinel’s side, a personal guard, perfectly suited to the role.
Holding those thoughts close, Orion Pax stepped into the Records Hall—a place that should have allowed entry only under the strictest security. Perhaps it was because dawn had yet to break, or because few ever came here at all, but the distant footsteps of the guards gradually faded. Only then did Orion, who had been hiding in the vent while barely daring to breathe, carefully lower himself down.
His feet touched the metal floor with a soft, muted sound.
Exhaling slowly, Orion turned his optics toward the walls lined with neatly ordered datapads.
“Matrix… Matrix…”
His digits traced along the shelves, scanning one title after another.
Then suddenly his hand stopped.
〈Cybertronian Ecology: Interface Structure and Functional Analysis〉
The birth of Cybertronians was a story known even to newly forged mechs fresh from the foundries.
The Well of All Sparks, the sacred depths known as Primus’s core—every Cybertronian was forged there. It was basic knowledge, taught as part of standard orientation. Even a miner like Orion could not not know it.
But ecology?
Interface structure and functional analysis?
“…Interface?” he murmured inwardly.
Orion tilted his helm slightly without realizing it. Most Cybertronians were born following Primus’s root form—so why speak of ecology at all? Why analyze their existence as if it were something variable, something studied?
His optics returned to the title.
Maybe this record wasn’t a simple description of the body.
Maybe it was an attempt to approach Primus, the AllSpark, and their origins from a different angle.
And if that was true…
Then perhaps.. Just perhaps.. there might be a clue here.
Something about the Matrix or even Primus himself.
After a moment of hesitation, Orion carefully slid the datapad free from its place.
-
〈Cybertronian Ecology – Interface Structure and Functional Analysis〉
Excerpted Record / Archive Classification: Restricted
Cybertronians possess a form closely resembling what is commonly referred to as the root mode—a structural baseline modeled after the original creator, Primus. This foundational form determines proportional similarities across individuals, including skeletal ratios, joint placement, and spark chamber location. Variations between individuals are finalized later, during the protoform development phase.
Cybertronian classification broadly divides into flyers and grounders. This distinction emerges naturally based on alt-mode aptitude, propulsion systems, and load-distribution structures. It does not denote superiority of rank or ability, and is instead regarded as a result of ecological and functional adaptation.
All Cybertronians originate from the Well of All Sparks, where a spark first takes form. Within the Well, sparks grow while emitting a specific wavelength. Upon reaching sufficient maturity, a protoform body resonant with that wavelength is generated.
During this process, the body’s base frame, coloration, external characteristics, and alt-mode are determined simultaneously. At the same time, an interface panel suited to the individual is naturally formed.
The structure of the interface panel is categorized into two primary types, according to CNA characteristics.
Spike-type units possess an external, storable interface organ. These individuals commonly display brighter color schemes.
Valve-type units possess an internal interface structure. They tend toward neutral or low-saturation coloration and generally have larger body frames.
Among recorded Cybertronian birth phenomena, the occurrence of sparked creation is exceedingly rare. Statistically, however, individuals with valve-type interfaces often possess structures better suited to the formation and protection of a new spark, and therefore tend to develop larger frames.
〈Interface Structure Overview〉
A spike is an external interface organ designed for direct insertion and external stimulation.
A valve is an internal interface organ, embedded within the body rather than exposed. Unlike spikes, valves are specialized to receive insertion, and possess a basic function that allows for the efficient release of lubricant in response to external stimulation and penetration.
The combined interaction of these two interface organs is collectively defined as interface.
Within Cybertronian society, interface functions as an instinctual form of recreation as well as a method of emotional exchange. Most individuals engage in interface as an expression of affection, intimacy, trust, and bonding. In exceedingly rare cases, however, if the CNA and spark data of two individuals merge during interface, the forging of a new spark—without passage through the Well of All Sparks—may occur.
A mech born in this manner is referred to as a sparkling. Unlike those forged through the Well, sparklings are created in a highly immature state and require prolonged protection and care from their creators. Over successive cycles, a sparkling undergoes gradual body upgrades until reaching a point of stable growth and development.
Orion had stopped scrolling without realizing it, his digit hovering as he stared at the datapad’s screen.
Interface.
Spike.
Valve.
Sparked.
Words he had never heard before lodged themselves one by one into his brain module.
His gaze drifted back to the section describing spike-type units.
Brighter coloration…
Almost unconsciously, Orion glanced down at his own body. Reflected faintly in the polished metal surfaces of the Records Hall were the familiar reds and blues of his paintwork.
Bright colors… spike…
He found himself taking a slow breath as he followed the datapad’s descriptions, carefully tracing along his lower frame. Parts of himself he had never once considered suddenly felt vivid—named for the first time. After glancing around once more, Orion cautiously began to guess where his interface panel might be.
After several tentative attempts, there was a soft click.
The panel opened, and from within emerged a partially raised form—soft, flexible, yet not entirely without structure—something like a protoform rod.
“…So this is a spike.”
Facing it, Orion naturally thought of D. of D’s nearly colorless paint.
Then D must have a valve…
The thought brought a quiet smile to his face.
Following the datapad’s guidance, Orion gently closed his servo around his spike and began to move. The unfamiliar sensation coursing through his neural circuits drew in a sharp breath. His body trembled as if his brain module and circuitry were burning, optics whitening at the edges—yet his servo did not stop.
Before long, guided by his movement, the tip of the spike hardened and swelled. A clear seal melted away, and a pink-tinged fluid began to spill free—soon enough to soak his servo entirely.
Overwhelmed by a release he had never experienced before, Orion struggled to steady his breathing, staring blankly at the fluid coating his hand.
So this is fluid… If fluid merges with a chamber, does that mean a sparkling is created…?
Interface organs.
Methods of interface.
Sparklings born from the blending of two CNA signatures.
A forging that bypassed the Well of All Sparks—born not from Primus’s core, but between mech and mech.
Orion didn’t know who had written this record, or why such information had been excluded from official archives. But one word had been echoing in his thoughts ever since.
Sparked.
A being forged from the intermingling CNA of two mechs, through an occurrence so rare it bordered on impossible.
Even without fully understanding interface or sparked creation, one thought continued to surface in Orion’s brain module.
D.
Almost without realizing it—so naturally it felt, as if no other choice could exist—
an image surfaced in Orion’s mind.
A small sparkling with a frame shaped like his own,
but with optics the color of D’s, and a smile that was unmistakably D’s.
D holding that sparkling in his arms.
The moment the thought brushed past him, Orion swallowed hard.
Heat crept slowly across his faceplate. Inside his frame, cooling fans spun up with a low whirr, struggling to compensate. And despite the fact that his spike had already retracted and been stowed back inside the panel, he felt heat gathering there again—unbidden, insistent.
Orion hastily turned his gaze back to the datapad.
This was an academic record.
A scholarly analysis of Cybertronian physiology and ecological possibility—nothing more.
And yet, every time he saw the word interface, D’s name surfaced first in his thoughts.
The more he tried to think logically, the more his reasoning veered off in directions he hadn’t intended.
If something like that were truly possible…
The thought never reached its end.
Perhaps he had lingered too long. Shouts rang out in the distance as guards spotted him and came running. Orion moved on instinct, bolting from the Records Hall without looking back.
More than the medical knowledge itself, it was the unfamiliar pleasure he had felt—and the strange, itchy awareness of D that knocked insistently against Orion’s spark.
From the moment he escaped the archive, Orion Pax’s circuits did not slow once.
Not during the grueling labor in the mines.
Not while hauling energon by hand, lacking a cog and forced to shoulder heavy equipment himself.
Again and again, his optics drifted—past the work in front of him, over the shoulder of D - 16 as D worked silently beside him, steadily extracting energon.
Muted coloration… and a larger, sturdier frame.
The characteristics of valve-type units described in the datapad matched D perfectly. Each time the thought surfaced, heat churned restlessly beneath Orion’s lower panel, and his cooling fans spun with irregular, strained noise.
D noticed.
“Pax,” he said with a frown, concern edging his voice. “Are you malfunctioning or something? What’s with your cooling fans?”
Orion only laughed awkwardly and shook his head.
At last, the long cycle ended. In the deep early hours, when all the miners had fallen into quiet recharge, Orion could no longer hold himself back. He shook D awake.
“D. D—wake up. I figured something out. Something really important.”
D blinked awake, optics unfocused. Seeing Orion standing there, far more flushed and animated than usual, he knit his brow.
Without waiting for a reply, Orion spilled everything—what he had read in the Records Hall, the sensations he had experienced himself, the unfamiliar and overwhelming surge that still lingered in his circuits.
“…So there’s this function we didn’t know our bodies had. It’s called interface. And it’s not just about feeling good—apparently, it can mix our information and create a new mech that resembles us. Without going through the Well of All Sparks.”
D stared at him as if he’d lost his mind.
“Pax. You were acting strange all day. Don’t tell me you went back to the Records Hall again? You know you’ll get demoted if you’re caught.”
“I’m sorry, D! But I didn’t get caught, I got out quietly. And I tested it myself. It really did feel good. And listen according to the records, you’re probably a valve type. So if you and I interface… there’s a chance something called a sparkling could happen.”
Orion finished in a voice noticeably smaller than usual, the confidence he typically carried after causing trouble conspicuously absent.
“Enough nonsense. Go back to recharge, Pax,” D said curtly. “Our output today was barely acceptable. Tomorrow’s going to be worse.”
He tried to close his optics again but he couldn’t withstand the way Orion looked at him. Those clear blue optics, unwavering and insistent.
Pax whispered at his side, over and over—Just once, please. If not interface, then just let me see the valve. I’m a spike type…
In the end, grumbling under his breath, D let himself be pulled along by Orion’s servo, up to the open rooftop of the miners’ quarters.
—
Under the glittering night sky of Iacon, washed in artificial starlight, the two miners sat facing one another.
More precisely, D - 16 sat before Orion, faceplate flushed as he forced himself to spread his tibulen, braving the embarrassment rising unbidden within him.
When Orion’s servo touched him cautiously, D’s frame trembled at the unfamiliar sensation curling at the edges of his pedals.
“Pax… are you sure this is okay? It feels strange. What if I don’t even have a valve?”
“Don’t worry, D. According to the datapad, it should be around the same area as the spike panel.”
Orion’s servo traced D’s lower frame carefully. Each time D’s work-hardened digits brushed near sensitive wiring, his body jolted, pedals drawing tight.
Then—
Click.
The valve panel, sealed tight until now, opened.
Nestled among gray protoform plating was a small, tightly closed valve, a node positioned just above it. Slick with coolant transferred from Orion’s touch, it gleamed faintly utterly unlike anything Orion possessed.
He stared, transfixed, swallowing reflexively.
D squeezed his optics shut, gripping his tibulen hard.
“Pax… do something. This feels weird.”
“…Okay. I’ll try inserting a digit…”
His voice trembled as he spoke, slowly pushing a finger forward. But the entrance, still insufficiently lubricated, was tight—too tight—and the unfamiliar intrusion sent a sharp spike of pain through D.
“Ah—Pax! Wait—stop! It hurts!”
D’s pedal kicked out instinctively, striking Orion’s chest and sending him tumbling backward.
D rushed to him in alarm, but part of Orion’s outer plating was already dented, paint scraped away.
Why does it hurt? Are spikes and valves really that different…? What am I supposed to do…?
As D hovered anxiously, Orion searched his memory for the datapad’s guidance.
“D… I’m sorry, but can we try once more?”
D knew Orion’s stubbornness better than anyone—once he fixated on something, he never let go.
With a long sigh, D nodded faintly and took his place again before Orion, spreading his tibulen once more.
This time, Orion didn’t rush. Remembering the early-morning data, he stimulated the inside gently, circling the area around the valve first.
No one had ever touched this part of D before. The unfamiliar, deliberate attention sent shivers through him, and he bit back a moan with everything he had.
When the valve had finally grown slick with lubricant, Orion parted his lip plates and closed his mouth around it.
If lubricant isn’t enough… maybe oral lubricant can substitute, at least a little…
“W—wait! Stop, Pax—what are you doing?!”
D cried out, breath hitching, but Orion clung to the memory of the pleasure he himself had felt. He persisted, glossa tracing the already-wet valve lips, servo rubbing D’s external node.
The sensation was overwhelming—an intensity that raced through D’s neural circuits and flooded his entire frame.
His optics flickered wildly. The servo that had tried to push Orion away lost all strength.
His tibulen tried to close on instinct, but fear of hurting Orion between his legs kept him frozen. Instead, his own grip tightened, nails biting into his plating.
When the surging pleasure reached its breaking point, D screamed as overload crashed through him, his body arching with the pressure tearing through his abdomen.
It took a long while for the tremors to fade.
Tears streaked his faceplate. Uncontrolled waste fluid spilled from his lower frame, pattering softly against the ground.
Orion wiped his mouth and beamed.
“So? D. It felt good, right?”
But D’s response was nothing like he’d expected.
After the blinding rush of pleasure came something else something raw and unbearable.
Shame.
Seeing himself like this, having lost control so completely, was intolerable.
“I… I told you to stop, you idiot…”
When D finally broke down sobbing, it was Orion who panicked.
“I’m sorry, D. I’m really sorry. I was only thinking about myself. I thought you’d feel good too. I really did.”
His earnest apology slowly quieted D’s tears. Orion tried to help him back to the quarters—
But then D, who had been silent, grabbed his servo.
His faceplate was still flushed. His engine hummed unevenly with lingering aftershock.
Looking down, D whispered, barely audible.
“Pax… if you promise you’ll stop the moment I say I don’t like it…”
His gaze lifted, meeting Orion’s optics.
“…Let’s finish what we started.”
Orion swallowed dryly.
At the low thrum of D’s engine starting up again, he nodded—entranced—and settled once more between D’s legs.
D’s frame, already weakened after a previous overload, burned with residual heat.
His lower valve, its control circuits loosened, glistened as it continuously expelled clear lubricant. Orion reached out with a trembling servo and spread the slick opening once more. Each time his rough, work-worn digits brushed against the sensitive protoform inside—marked by years of mining labor—D twisted his hips, crushing down his moans.
At last, Orion’s digit forced its way fully past the narrow entrance. As D struggled to breathe, cooling fans spinning harshly against the unfamiliar intrusion, Orion felt something tough catch against the tip of his finger. Acting on instinct, he pushed harder.
With a strange tearing sound—rip—the thin valve seal split apart, torn brutally free.
“…Ah. So this is the valve seal.”
Orion murmured, staring blankly at the translucent membrane clinging to his finger. The sense of conquest—of having opened D from the inside for the first time—flooded him with awe, his optics burning bright blue. D shuddered violently from the pain of rupture, yet wrapped his legs around Orion’s waist, letting out a low, broken moan.
“Pax… don’t stop… keep going…”
Urged on by D’s heat-dazed plea, Orion finally drew out his fully hardened spike. But the pressure of the valve was far more intense than he had imagined. Each attempt to push the tip inside was met with constricting resistance from the tight inner walls, and D, overwhelmed by pain, kicked his pedals helplessly, swallowing his screams.
In the end, Orion forcibly restrained the surge of desire rising in him. He pulled his spike free and gathered D—soaked in coolant and lubricant—into a tight embrace.
“I’m sorry, D… You don’t have to push yourself because of me.”
“…You said… we need to interface… for our sparkling to be born…”
Blushing deeply, D reached out as if he had made up his mind. He carefully wrapped his servo around Orion’s rigid spike and drew the tip deep into his intake.
Recalling the relentless sensation Orion had given him earlier, D clumsily moved his glossa, brushing over the sensitive tip. The stimulation was incomparably hotter and more intense than anything Orion had ever felt alone. Pleasure crashed through Orion’s circuits; he clenched D’s shoulder armor hard as his cooling system began to scream in protest.
Just before reaching overload, Orion tore his spike from D’s intake, gasping. Following what he had learned from the datapad, he aligned the tip with D’s valve and released a full discharge of heated fluid. The pink liquid carrying Orion’s CNA overflowed from the narrow opening, and Orion carefully used his digits to press it deep into D’s inner chamber.
When the storm of sensation finally passed, silence fell over the rooftop. D blinked his wet optics and asked softly,
“Pax… if we do this… will a sparkling that looks like us really be born?”
Instead of answering, Orion cupped D’s soaked faceplate. The sight of D—having given him everything, down to his deepest interior—felt more precious than anything else in the world.
“I don’t know… They say the probability is low. But if we don’t give up and keep trying… maybe someday, like a miracle.”
Exhausted by the aftershock of overload, D closed his optics and tightly held Orion’s servo. Their lives were filled with cold metal and the stench of oil, but the warmth passed between their joined hands was real.
“Yeah, Pax… You and I will always be together so If we keep going… someday it’ll happen.”
—
Like misaligned gears slowly finding their place, their interface gradually turned into something familiar—an indulgence in each other. The clumsy pain of the beginning transformed into pleasure that threatened to burn through their entire circuitry. Overlapping frames became a kind of salvation, a narrow breathing space carved out of relentless mining labor.
Full of youthful fervor, Orion clung to D at every opportunity. During breaks in the mines, inside rattling carts hidden beneath tattered tarps, they pressed their frames together without hesitation. In the dark corners of commuter trains, in steam-filled washrooms after everyone had left, even beside sleeping coworkers—Orion would clamp D’s intake shut with his servo and grind against him from below.
“Pax, not here. We’re working.”
D growled under his breath as Orion persistently rubbed his spike panel against D’s valve panel in a corner of the site. But Orion only blinked at him with the wide, pleading optics of a cyber-hound, stretching D’s name out long.
“Deee… but I want to see a sparkling that looks like you soon. Please? Just once…”
Faced with that guileless confession, D always lost. With a sigh, he dragged Orion roughly behind a dark materials shed.
“Quickly, Pax. Got it?”
Even as he said it, the surge of sensation made D’s back arch like a bow. His legs nearly gave out as Orion thrust into him in the cramped space, but D clung desperately to Orion’s shoulders, wrapping his legs around Orion’s waist—caught between the fear of being discovered and overwhelming pleasure.
After the storm passed, the two miners would hold each other tightly, faceplates smeared with sweat and oil.
“When do you think the sparkling will come?”
“Who will it resemble more?”
“I… I hope it looks more like you, Pax. My paint’s dull. I’m not pretty.”
“What are you talking about, D? There’s no mech prettier than you on all of Cybertron…”
“Ha. You’re the only one who thinks that… We’ll need a name too. What should we call it?”
Talking about names, about where they’d go once a sparkling was born and they escaped the mines—those foolish conversations made them feel like the whole world. They didn’t know that cogless miners could never activate a spark chamber. No matter how much fluid they spilled, no miracle would ever come.
With the brilliant lights of Iacon at their backs, the two miners held each other tighter. Tomorrow would bring brutal labor again, but in that moment, they were each other’s only refuge—each other’s only reason to dream of a future that could never quite be grasped.
They shared a warmth like first love—innocent, aching, unaware of itself—and clung together for a long time, convinced beyond doubt that each other was both home and future.
—
Time passed without mercy, and the future they had promised beneath Iacon’s night sky shattered into fragments.
Optimus Prime would sometimes stop short in his empty office.
He remembered D - 16, face flushed red as he rode overload, legs wrapped tightly around Orion’s waist so fluid wouldn’t spill.
“Maybe this time a sparkling will be born… right, Pax?”
That youthful smile—one servo resting lightly on his own abdomen—dug painfully into Optimus’s spark.
At the same time, upon the cold throne of the Nemesis, Megatron slowly traced a servo over his flat abdominal plate. After interface, Orion Pax’s voice—soft, pressing his lip plates to Megatron’s brow as he whispered about the future—echoed like a hallucination.
A surge of bitter scorn and rage rose up.
We didn’t even realize we were being deceived… What fools we were.
When Megatron understood that cogless mechs could never bear a sparkling—that no one, not even Primus, had ever intended to grant them such a blessing—his fury crushed the glass in his grip. Shards bit into joints and seams, yet he held on until they broke him.
Deep in his memory, the warmth shared beneath a tattered tarp on a shabby rooftop remained like an unerasable brand. The innocent, aching dream of a sparkling that would resemble them now lay shattered—glinting faintly like a distant story that could never be returned to.