He would have arrived early, matching the Warlord’s time, except his train was a bit late.
Such hadn’t sat well for him. Concern already soaked him through, coming out in the way he fiddled with his stylus and the way he chewed at his derma, watching the skyline pass and the gardens approach.
He’s the first one off the tram when it begins to slow, brushing past any mechanical that was in his way.
He skids to a stop outside of the gardens, chronometer registering a few moments until his appointment, and thus he leans against the nearest hard surface to bring himself together. He’s had three days (and then some, cycles taken to get here and cycles spent doing nothing) to prepare, to ease himself and keep himself from looking like an absolute fool, and yet it doesn’t seem to matter.
He glances into the garden, half-hidden behind a delicate formation, and balks at the sight of powerful silver and violet.
His spark contracts painfully.
His chronometer pings. He has no more time left.
It’s a confident Pax, the Archivist who keeps the Iacon Archives in one piece and helps all he comes across, that walks out into the designated meeting space. His Datapads are settled under the crook of one arm, the other hand filled with two reasonable bottles of a roughly-cut highgrade, and he has plenty of styluses in his subspace.
He looks ready, but a careful brush against his EM field reveals nearly the obvious.
“I’ll admit,” he says, with the cheery sort of confidence that any service-oriented mechanical is capable of throwing onto their voice. “You are… far larger in person. It is one thing to know your structure, I suppose, and another to see said structure standing before me.”
He barely graces the very bottom of Megatron’s abdomen.
Megatron’s field, by contrast, is tight to his frame, barely detectable to those not touching him. Millenia of paranoia practice. The time ticks to the hour, and there he is, like clockwork. Some things transcend the multiverse, so it would seem. Orion’s punctuality and… his size. In fact, this one seemed to be even a little smaller than his own had ever been. The warlord chuckled, grinning down at the young archivist, at the supplies in his servos.
“You are different than the others. Much younger… and yet you seem to know so much, already, don’t you? Before you begin to ask me your questions, I have one of my own.” The old warrior turned, motioning for Orion to follow him. He took a few long strides over towards a bench, standing before it with his arms crossed behind his back, waiting for the archivist to take his place. Only after the young mech sat down did he speak again, voice even and serious.
“How did you come to know about the war? Before I can begin to answer you, I must understand your… personal context.” The warlord will remain standing until he receives an answer, towering over Orion even from a few steps away.
Megatron's back up 