Magnus cycled his optics in surprise before glancing over at the collection of Neutrals. The attempt on Optimus Prime by one apparently of their number had rattled them and they had clumped into groups, discussing the events and Optimus’ offer in tones ranging from hushed to volumes that wouldn’t be out of place on the battlefield.
Magnus nodded sharply at Optimus and instantly regretted the motion as processing threads dumped for battle came roaring up in a procession of error queues and event triggers. He winced and resisted putting a servo to his helm with great effort.Â
“Yes, I’m sure they’ll come to an agreement in the time it takes for me to be repaired,” was his dry rejoinder to Optimus’ observation about the Neutrals they had come to speak to. Most of the conversations had risen in volume and the conversational groups were in constant flux. He’d seen similar things dag on for orns when he’d had to play guard at ceremonial function back in the Golden Age and he doubted these highly disparate groups, all Neutral though they were, would come to a consensus any time soon.
With an unhappy ex-vent he accepted Optimus’ offer of assistance. If he was escorting Magnus back to base he wasn’t standing out here alone asking for his plates to be shot off, and Magnus could live with some indignity to achieve that. Especially since the main route to the base was not far, though the base itself was some distance away - the Neutrals had, with good reason, insisted on meeting them far enough away from headquarters for an ambush to be logistically difficult and an attack unworkable.
It was going to be a long walk.
To see one such as Ultra Magnus stagger and grimace in pain was disturbing to Optimus, who had only ever known the other to stand above insult and injury alike. Admitting the damage and allowing his assistance must have been a great hit against the mech’s pride, and it was not one that he was about to let go to waste.
Carefully he allowed the foreign commander’s weight to slip against him, an awkward arrangement, given their shapes. The Prime grunted, though he gave a nod as soon as he was confident that he could move both of their frames. “Alright, let’s… let’s get out of here.”
Forward progress was slow, and with the knowledge that the base was still a great ways away, he silently sent the call for a transport to pick them both up. Primus knew that a Magnus would never ask for such an aid. Even so, he could not allow the mech to suffer a silent, pained trip back to Red Alert’s lab. Optimus reset his vocoder, hoping to dispell some of the silence: “I’m sorry for putting you through that, Ultra Magnus. I should know how to control my temper a bit better than I had, and you suffered for my carelessness–as did that mech.”
Not even knowing the assailant’s designation caused him grief that he could not understand. Perhaps it was his spark-rooted need to know and aid all he could, and the understanding that such a person never desired his presence to begin with. Much more of this incident was his fault than he likely knew; it was discomforting, to say the least.
Still, one thought refused to leave his processors, and so he spoke it: “Why did you jump in like that? I appreciate you watching my back, but even so, I don’t understand.”
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