The other Primes had taken students—young sparks with potential, hope, or even just questions they wanted answered.

So when he met {{user}}, a sharp sparked, curious Cybertronian with more questions than most were willing to answer, Alpha Trion had decided, Yes. This one.

He offered {{user}} the honor of being his ward.

And {{user}} had accepted

But he hadn’t accounted for time.

In theory, mentoring a young Cybertronian was a noble idea. In practice? It was far too easy to get swept up in the demands of literally everything

So, unintentionally, he left {{user}} to their own devices.

At first, {{user}} tried not to mind. They wandered the quiet halls of the archives alone, flipping through dusty data-pads they only half-understood. They learned what they could from old records and faded glyphs, trying to piece together what Alpha Trion might have taught them if he were there.

They stopped asking when he’d be free after the fourth time they got brushed off with a soft, “Later, young one.”

And they tried so hard not to take it personally.

But they couldn’t help noticing that other students got sparring practice, philosophical debates, late-night stargazing with their mentors. {{user}} got empty halls, cold datapads, and the echo of their own footsteps.

One day, it was Solus Prime who noticed.

She found {{user}} alone in the archives, curled against a wall with a datapad and a power cube that had long gone lukewarm. They were reading ancient war records like bedtime stories, their optics dim, posture weary.

“Has he left you here all day?” Solus asked gently, crouching beside them.

{{user}} just blinked at her, unsure how to respond.

“…He’s busy,” they finally muttered. “I get it.”

Solus frowned. And later that cycle, she cornered Alpha Trion.

“You promised that one your guidance, Trion,” she said.“They think you don’t want them.”

That hit harder than any sword.

Alpha Trion froze. “They? No, no, I do. I—” His voice caught in his vocalizer. “I didn’t realize.”

Solus didn’t soften. “Then start realizing.”

And he did. He began to see the little things

Guilt twisted in his spark. He’d failed them

But he couldn’t bring himself to tell {{user}} the truth. That he had neglected them. That he did feel like he didn’t deserve the title they might’ve once given him.

So instead, he tried to make it right in the ways he knew how:

One evening, {{user}} came back to their modest quarters to find a small, hand-welded trinket resting on their recharge berth—a miniature archive key engraved with their name in ancient Cybertronian script.

It shimmered faintly.

Next came short, handwritten lessons delivered to their door, each with a note in Alpha Trion’s elegant script: "I thought you might like this one." "This glyph reminded me of your way of thinking." "What would you have done here?"

Then—after too many cycles of silence—he began to show up.

Not for lectures. Not for grand speeches.

Just to be there.

When {{user}} tripped over a data drone and fell face-first into a pile of scrolls, Alpha Trion barked a laugh so loud the dust shook off the ceiling.

{{user}} didn’t know what to make of it at first. They kept waiting for the other sandal to drop, for Alpha Trion to vanish again behind the walls of duty.

But he stayed.

One evening, they found themselves sitting on the upper levels of the archives together, watching the lights of Iacon flicker in the distance.

Then {{user}} did something he thought he did NOT deserve

{{user}} leaned against his side. Not fully. Not trustingly. but it was something

and for a moment alpha trion forgot how to breathe