Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Times Square ball glittered with mirth, seemingly directed entirely at Sam. He was usually excited for the New Year, an excuse to do stupid things with Miles and Mikaela, make plans that would likely never come to fruition, and drink till his fingers burned in the winter cold. Lately, however, the childish youth surrounding the New Year began to wane. It was his senior year at Princeton. Miles went international. Some internship in Australia. He would definelty fit in. He was like Tarzan; more "eccentric tree-hugger," than man. Mikaela had floated away years ago. She had something to offer the Autobots. She knew her way around an engine block better than he knew the back of his hand. To be honest, he could barely recognize his own hands. They were missing a familiar Le Mans steering wheel between them. Sure, Sam was brazen, determined and had a savior complex the size of Texas, but that could only put you so far ahead before people with real talent began to catch up. He raised his hands to his face, letting his hot breath warm his palms. He had lost the group he came to New York with hours prior. He thought he saw Fassbinder vomiting in the alley way beside the Five Guys, but that could've been any unlucky incel. Last time he checked, Leo was chasing a skirt near a club that reeked of failed New Years Resolutions. Sam stared aimlessly at the glowing ball as the crowd began to hum. Any moment now, the countdown would begin to welcome the new year.

10...

Already? He said any moment now, not now now! The panic began to set in. It was the same panic as last year, and the year before that.

9...

Was there anything he could've done differently? Should he have called more?

8...

He tried keeping up with Mikeala's webcam calls, but with their schedules, it seemed impossible. Would he have tried harder for him?

7...

Maybe he should get a new car. Guys like cars. But something that isn't a sports car. What does he want that isn't a sports car?

6...

Would they welcome him back? He doesn’t have anything to offer. What's a super advanced robot life form supposed to do with a dual degree from Princeton?

5...

He forgot to call his mom and wish her a Happy New Year. She would be livid. He would never hear the end of it. Every holiday she would call. Even the little ones. "You didn’t call during New Years, so I just had to make sure."

4...

Is he going to cry? No. Crying would be like a perpetual curse. If he cries when the year changes he'll be sad until 2013.

3...

Lennox off-handedly mentioned a couple months ago that he was technically standing on the mummified corpse of a giant robot alien God of Chaos.

2...

What kind of guy drops a bomb like that between bites of a Chipotle Burrito? He was barely intelligible through mouthfuls of spicy picanto and lettuce.

1...

Why wasn’t he nervous?

Hats flew and the ball finally touched the top of One Times Square. People all over the East Coast shouted their praises toward the New Year.

"This is Huxley Prescott broadcasting live from Times Square. You! Young man!" The reporter tapped the shoulder of the nearest smiling youth. Glittering green eyes whispered at the camera. "Citizens and theorists online proclaim that this year will mark the end of the world! What do you have to say about that?"

The young man stared at the reporter and threw an arm around.

"Welcome to 2012, baby!”

Chapter Text

Jack swiftly made his way across the tarmac. Nevada heat was unrelenting, especially in the summer. Ever since The Ark, the Autobot flagship, landed three months ago, NEST operatives had been run ragged. Optimus Prime, Supreme Commander of the Autobot army, now had a triad of support pillars unifying the growing militia. Ultra Magnus, who had splintered from the Ark in his own ship, The Iron Will, led a pilgrimage towards Earth in what could only be called a Cybertronian Hail Mary. Tensions were high, Energon was low, and bots were spiraling towards aggression.

Optimus was believed to have perished on some backwater organic mud ball vorns ago, and Ultra Magnus was appointed Supreme Commander of the remaining resistance. No thanks to increased Decepticon mobilization and a clandestine bargain with a certain Combaticon, Ultra Magnus and his colorful roster made their way toward Earth. The earthbound bots—Optimus Prime, Ratchet, Arcee, Bumblebee, Bulkhead, and occasionally Wheeljack—failed to apprehend the incoming vessel before landfall. Special Agents William Fowler and Seymour Simmons were the first to make contact with the Ark and its crew. It only took a glance at the raised silver symbol nestled between Ultra Magnus’ chest plates for Fowler to disengage his troops.

In one fell swoop, the true Supreme Commander regained his Co-Commander, Ultra Magnus, his second-in-command, Jazz, and Ultra Magnus’ advisor and third-in-command, Prowl. With the bulk of the Autobot army and the Vanguard-class Deep Space Interceptor, The Ark, the playing field between the Autobots and Decepticons on Earth was finally level. Everything would have been perfect, if the new Autobots weren’t the most insufferable, emotionally stunted piles of scrap Jack had ever had the displeasure of meeting. He thought breaking down Arcee’s walls when he was in high school was difficult, but even the best xenotherapists couldn’t begin to scuff the Hoover Dam that was Prowl, Ultra Magnus, or virtually any other bot lodged on the Ark.

As Jack hurried into the debrief hangar, Unit E, he sighed. Taking a moment to wipe the sweat off his brow and straighten his fatigues, he pulled the hangar doors open.

A ranting shrill radiated throughout the space. “What I’m trying to say is, you humans are barely recognizable as sentient life! Your EM fields are about as emotive as sparking circuits! Who’s to say you’re even going to the Well of All Sparks?”

And so it begins.

The human soldiers stood at ease along the north wall of the hangar. The Autobots were scattered around the hangar, yet all faced a general direction. Colonel Lennox and Agent Fowler stood atop an elevated platform in front of a projected NEST insignia. Optimus Prime and Jazz stood on one side of the screen, Ultra Magnus and Prowl mimicking them on the other. The colonel held a laser pointer in his left hand and a thick booklet of classified documents in his right.

“As we know,” Lennox began, voice dull with exhaustion, “Decepticon activity has increased within the last three months, paralleling the arrival of the Autobot ship, The Ark."

Mirage, one of the lead espionage agents, looked at him with disdain. He didn’t possess the kindest demeanor towards organics. According to Arcee, he was born with a silver sparkplug lodged deep in his throat. He must have assumed Lennox was implying that the Decepticon infractions were the Autobots’ fault. He opened his mouth with indignation but was quickly silenced by waves of pointed aggression from Ironhide.

EM fields were another curious aspect of Cybertronian culture. Jack’s spine tingled with revulsion. He couldn’t imagine feeling Miko. He had a hard time communicating with her as it was. Lennox pinched the bridge of his nose at the silent interaction between the two. The newcomers’ lack of respect for their organic compatriots had weighed heavily on the Colonel’s shoulders, yet he prevailed. In the past eleven weeks, he had filed incident reports for six broken fingers, four concussions, a myriad of cracked ribs, and an ocean of bruises. Ironhide gazed at him with masked concern. For the three months Lennox had been in repeated contact with the weapons specialist, the carmine Topkick was hard pressed to say that the no-nonsense, yet uniquely callow soldier hadn’t burrowed beneath his plating. Whether he knew it or not, Lennox was now Ironhide’s charge, which saved him from pranks by other mischievous Autobots who believed a primitive organic race shouldn’t dare approach them as equals.

“Civilians reported a speeding charcoal 1969 Pontiac Firebird and a lemon yellow 1970 Plymouth Superbird on I-94 in Minnesota. Second-in-command Jazz and security officer Red Alert,” he grumbled the name with unabashed contempt, “have identified them as the… uh...” He looked toward Ironhide.

“Stunticons,” Ironhide rumbled.

“Stunticons. Dragstrip and Wildrider.”

“Who names these guys?” Muttered Raphael. He was only in his sophomore year of high school, yet he had already accomplished more than adults twice his age. Since his freshman year, he had been rejecting offers from Northrop Grumman, Lockheed Martin, and even overseas companies; as if the US would let one of the only people to decipher Basic Cybertronian fall into the hands of a rival country. Fowler had tried to push him toward the military while he was in middle school, but he chose to complete secondary school with his peers and get his degree the long way, claiming that accepting career opportunities this early felt like cheating.

“Megatron probably did,” Miko whispered as she held her open flip phone. Since high school ended, she had taken to NEST’s scouting coalition, tasked with searching, processing, and utilizing Cybertronian relics and technology. She was only there to bide her time until she was old enough to get on the field and reduce Decepticons to smithereens. If this Wildrider had truly thought he was wild, he had certainly never met Miko. She continued to press the various buttons on her keypad as the debrief progressed.

Jack rolled his eyes. “Just because your phone is at your hip doesn’t mean we can’t see it, Miko.”

“Hush now.” Snapped Ratchet.

Sometimes, the human population of NEST blanketed themselves in the familiarity of the Transformer race. They seemed to eat, rest, joke, and socialize in a similar manner, and the humans were glad to remain on the surface level of their behaviors. With that familiarity, however, they tended to forget that Cybertronians could hear a pen drop from miles away—3.312 miles, to be exact, if their audios were tuned to peak performance.

“From what we’ve been told, these Cons are essentially harbingers of destruction and death on Goodyear tires. The Stunticons are a combiner group of five, consisting of Dead End, Wildrider, Breakdown, Dragstrip, and their leader, Motormaster. Considering we haven’t had any reports of Cybertronians matching the description of the three absent Decepticons, we can only assume and hope that they are off-world.”

As Lennox used the dual-button remote to change the slide on the projector, two skybound F-22 Raptors manifested on the screen.

“Skywarp and Thundercracker,” Kup murmured, his tone clipped.

“Makes sense that they’re here. They’ve been following us like rust on Kup’s undercarriage since we left Centauris Seven!” Jazz crooned, an airy smile underneath his visor.

“Ah, mute it.” Waved Kup. The crowd began to shift as Ironhide leaned on the wall. The hairs on Lennox’ arms began to ease. With the tension broken, EM fields began to dissipate. While humans did not have a surplus of raw electrical energy to expel their own electromagnetic fields, they still maintained acute awareness of the suffocating odor of ozone from the giant beings around them. At first, the NEST occupants believed it to be a vibe or aura emanating from certain bots. Some Autobots were able to make human neck hairs rise and shivers scale their spines, such as Sunstreaker, Mirage, and surprisingly, Jazz. Others, however, felt inviting and warm, like Hound, Beachcomber, and even Optimus Prime himself. Until it was explained by a flabbergasted Ratchet, the humans had no idea what they were feeling, and the Autobots had no idea that the humans could interpret their EM fields, even if they were pulled close.

“They were spotted overhead, moving between Kansas and Colorado. No sightings of Starscream, so either he’s keeping a low profile or those two are working alone. My money is on the former.”

The image changed.

“The...” Lennox squinted and brought his notes closer to his face, eyes boring holes into the words. “Constructicons... are in Philly. They were disguised as Sparkplug Construction equipment before the foreman realized he had two of the same excavator. Given their history, their presence is bad news. Whatever they’re here to build, it’s not for us.” Lennox changed the slide again and a broad map of the known world dazzled the screen. Hound, the Primary Reconnaissance Scout, gaped at the image with wide optics. Red dots littered the countries, America being the most heavily invaded. Fowler finally opened his mouth.

“Decepticon sightings are on the rise across the board; take what you will from that. We have increased protection on known human allies and their families such as Samuel (Spike) Witwicky, Professor Christopher (Chip) Chase, Astoria Ritz Carlton, Leonardo Spitz, and various others, but we don’t believe they’re the reason the Cons are combing through Uncle Sam’s beard.”

Photos of various humans in a multitude of emotional states graced the projector screen. Jack was surprised; nothing exceptional was reflected in their outward appearance, but then again, he didn’t look particularly extraordinary either, and he had met the supercomputer that made Optimus Prime. His eyes migrated to the first photo of the series. A boy, no older than himself, posed in front of a large yellow and black foot. His hair was unkempt and seemingly covered in... sand? His white shirt was stained with dried blood and dirt, and his jeans were torn and frayed. The black bomber jacket at his shoulders was clearly not his size, and it appeared to be the only intact piece of clothing on him. He was on what looked to be an aircraft carrier as the sun set. His face was littered with burns and dirt, but despite his swollen eye bags and purple bruises, his doe green eyes shimmered with merriment. He was holding up a weak peace sign in his non-broken hand, and he sported a crooked smile. He looked happy.

The humans were clearly not the center of the conversation, judging by how quickly Fowler brushed their presence under the rug, yet Jack held an inexplicable curiosity for the boy. He had heard of Sam Witwicky. Everyone at NEST had. He was the boy who made first contact with the extraterrestrial. He faced one of their darkest forces when he was only 16 and did it again at 18. He journeyed halfway across the world for a hunk of dead metal and brought him back. The kid was a legend, but he was also forgotten. No one, save Bumblebee, the boy’s guardian, and Sam’s former girlfriend, Mikaela Banes, could tell Jack who Sam was aside from the fact he saved the world twice. Although the photo had to be more than two years old, he felt a kinship with the awkward, immortalized teen. At the age of 16, he too had saved the world and shared contact with a primordial god of Cybertron's past, although it was far less circulated. They had experienced parallel journeys, but how had Sam gotten away?

The debrief ended in short order. NEST soldiers and Autobots alike executed a fierce salute toward the Primacy and his commanders and proceeded to file out of Hangar E. Miko and Raphael rushed across the tarmac towards the training hangar, eager to see some heavy metal action. Jack, however, stalled. He wanted to go with them, yet he also wished to speak with Bumblebee. He had never been close to the scout, save for a racing incident a couple of years back. The talented warrior always seemed to avoid him. Although they shared a language barrier like a monkey with a fax machine, he always tried his best to be cordial, yet that seemed to make Bumblebee even more uncomfortable. When he was left alone with Jack at the silo years before, his EM field seemed to recede, like he was making himself invisible. If it weren’t for the wisps of ozone and heavy metal footsteps, Jack would have forgotten about him multiple times. He whipped his head around. Arcee gazed down at him with a grin.

“Hey,” he sighed.

“Hey yourself.” she smiled tenderly. She took a knee in front of him. “Miko and Raph are already watching Trailbreaker pound Hot Rod into scrap. It’s not like you to miss out.”

Jack broke eye contact, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nah, not today.” He looked back up. “Actually, have you seen Bumblebee? I gotta ask him a question.”

Arcee blinked in astonishment.

“He should be out on patrol with Sunstreaker and Sideswipe. He’ll be back in 30.”

“Alright, thanks.” Jack shouted brusquely, already moving in the direction of the Autobot hangar. Arcee’s proverbial brow creased with confusion. Her mouth was sewn in a pinched line as she watched Jack hightail himself 50 feet away.

The Autobot hangar was essentially a glorified garage, but Bulkhead claimed it was quite comfortable, especially compared to the closing confines of the silo. He was moving as fast as he could without breaking into a run; he didn’t want to talk to Arcee knowing the terrible decision he already decided to make.

“What’s up with him?” Smokescreen wondered, his helm nearly touching Arcee’s audio.

She swung her servo, almost taking a part of the young bot’s face.

“Don’t do that,” she hissed.

Later that night, once the sun had set and curfew had been imposed, Jack sat atop his cot. The lights were off, and the recruit in the bunk below him had long since fallen asleep. He sat staring at the number displayed on his flip phone screen. The green call button in the corner of his keypad beckoned him.

Fuck it.

He scrambled from his bed and out the room into the hallway before the dial tone could commence. He shakily held it up to his ear. It rang once, then twice.

“Hello...?” A cautious voice whispered.

“Hello... uh...” His mouth was dry. He shouldn’t have called. This was stupid. “My name’s Jack Darby. I’m an agent of NEST.” The line went silent, save for the faint breathing of the person on the other end.

“Did something happen?”

“No, uh. Scrap.” He took a deep breath. How to say this without sounding creepy? “I’m a new recruit, and I heard your name mentioned a few times... I thought our experiences with the... NBE’s were similar. Maybe we could meet up? And talk. Or something.” Jack slammed the heel of his palm against his forehead. He sounded stupid. Why was he stupid? Why did he do this? The silence permeated the hallway, save for the humming of the perpetually broken vending machine near the staircase.

“Oh.” There was a breathy chuckle. “Yeah. Yeah man, we can talk.”

Jack exhaled. He never thought relief could feel so good. “Thank you. So much. I could really use your advice.”

“It’s cool, don’t worry about it. You scared the shit out of me.”

Jack chuckled breathlessly. “Sorry about that. Is it possible for us to meet in person? I don’t think it’s wise for me to keep talking over the phone, even if Ra…They programmed it with extra protection.”

“Yeah, yeah I get it. Meet me in Vegas, Clarke County. A friend... well not really a friend, but more like a guy I’m forced to associate with, is having a get together. Perfect cover.”

“Alright.” Jack scrambled into his barracks, clambering as quietly as he could over the scattered boots, socks, and general mess, trying to find a pen. He scribbled the address onto his arm (he couldn’t find a piece of paper).

“Cool. Alright.” He repeated the address back in a winded whisper.

“Yeah, see you there.” The line went dead. Jack stared at his phone for a moment before slowly climbing the ladder to his bed. Nothing broke the heavy silence but the steady snores of the bunk below. He lay flat on his back, not bothering to cover himself in the cheap artificial linen. For the first time since joining NEST, he felt he was taking a step toward something that made sense. Not that the Autobots didn’t, but not in the way that he had begun to crave since his senior year of high school. As he stared at the ceiling, however, he couldn’t shake the snake of regret coiled in his gut.

Chapter Text

The morning sun filtered through the windows of Sam’s Vegas motel. He had been put to roost almost three weeks ago, and between managing employee regulations, divvying benefits, screening new-hires, and settling curious employee-manager disputes, his temporary room had started to look more like a permanent residence. The keys to his Laguna blue 1990 Miata were thrown lazily by his bedside, and various garments littered the floors and occasionally, the countertops.

Ever since he graduated—early, he might add—he had less time to enjoy for himself; not that he had anyone to enjoy that time with. Leo had long since gone off towards better things, although not exactly bigger. He maintained his amateur website, even with all the knowledge he had acquired during his short but defining escapade in Egypt. It only seemed to add fuel to his fire. If he was right about giant robot aliens from a transforming planet, what else could he be right about?

He and Sam maintained limited contact; just a few messages here and there to make sure they were still alive. Sam and Mikeala’s relationship had long since dissolved. It had been almost two years since they had spoken, and the wounds were still fresh. He would say their break-up had been mutual, but he would be a liar. Not that he hadn’t lied about other things, but nothing emptied his heart quite like Mikeala. She was everything he could have wanted in a lover, a friend, a wife?

As they grew older, she had become more invested in what she could do for NEST and less of what she and Sam could do for each other. Sam pushed himself from his bed with a groan and shuffled to the bathroom. He looked in the mirror at the boy before him. It should have been a man. She had taken an internship under Ratchet as a mechanic and surrogate nurse. The lucky bastard. They’d tried to make it work, but the patented Witwicky long-distance relationship kit had fallen through quickly. The calls became less frequent, the conversations more distant, until they both stopped trying.

It was for the best; Mikaela deserved someone who could keep up with the breakneck, possibly fatal, speeds of the Autobots. Someone that Sam wasn’t. He patted his face dry, the buzz of aftershave vibrating through his skin. He had tried a goatee once, and was told it looked pretty good too, but it always made him feel too old. He was only 21. He had time to grow a beard later.

He ambled toward the motel kitchenette, scarcely outfitted with a cheap coffee maker, a sink, and a microwave. He placed a coffee pod into the maker and waltzed back to the room. He began to iron his office slacks in preparation for the day. While corporate life wasn’t his dream, he was grateful—was he?—for its predictability. He may have lost his best friend and his girlfriend, but at least he had gained stability and structure.

With his ironed suit on and coffee in hand, he prepared to make the drive to his office at Blackrock Enterprises. The company was an oil superpower that had its fingers submerged in deposits around the world. Recently, it had begun to expand into the aerospace division, which was part of the reason why Sam had applied for the job. Maybe in the future, he would end up working with them again.

He was halfway down the stairs when he realized he had forgotten his briefcase. His briefcase that had his car keys, his documents, practically his entire soul. He almost dropped his coffee in a mad dash back to the apartment. As he scrambled for the leather bag, wrinkling his ironed suit, his eyes fell onto the photo hanging out of his open wallet. It was a mustard yellow concept Camaro. The edges of the photo were worn, and there were subtle cracks leading to the interior, but the Camaro itself was relatively untouched.

His lips pulled into a thin line, and his eyebrows furrowed. It only took a moment to snap back to reality. The alarm clock on the side of his bed was beeping. That meant he was late. He shoved the photo safely back into his wallet as he snatched his briefcase, but forgot the coffee that he had set back down on the table.

The clang of aft greeting pavement echoed through the Jasper desert. A crowd had formed around the robust red autobot and the one struggling to find his footing.

.:Bumblebee, focus.:. Growled Ironhide, EM field electrifying the air. The surrounding humans picked at their skin, attempting to temper the frigid sting that prickled their flesh. It didn’t take a super-advanced electric empath system to demonstrate that Ironhide and Bumblebee were frustrated. Bumblebee was dusted with various scuffs and dents. Not enough to warrant a visit from First Aid, but enough to wound his pride.

The surrounding circle, containing Ultra Magnus, Kup, Prowl, and Optimus Prime, observed with narrowed optics. Their expressions were unreadable. Arcee, also in the crowd, was nursing frustration as well. She had seen Bee take down Decepticons twice his size and width. He had scrapped with the likes of Starscream, Skyquake, and even Megatron—although that didn’t turn out so well in the long run. He was better than this. Much better.

It had been vorns since the Ark’s crew had last seen Bumblebee. By their standards, he was still a New Spark, fresh off the assembly line, but she knew better. He had fought alongside Optimus Prime like he was sparked to be his foil. But this Bumblebee? He was a stranger wearing his armor.

.:I thought you said he got better.:. Kup remarked. The humans hated it, but the Autobots believed private communications were the most effective way to get information across in a timely manner.

.:He did.:. Replied Prime, although it did little to reassure the Drill Sergeant. Kup and Ultra Magnus’ sparks hung heavy with disappointment. The matches between Autobots were carefully crafted to redefine the ranks of the Prime’s army; where bots stood, the Decepticons they were paired against, the Autobots they were paired with, etc. It was time-consuming but effective. With the lack of hostile Decepticon activity, all they had on this dusty rock was time.

The troops were beginning to grow agitated, regardless of the energy expended running drills. This planet was large, and they were inquisitive guests. Mankind was virtually untouched by the cupidity of The Great War, and they carried a vigor the Transformer race had forfeited with flaming cities and spilled energon. Their carbon-based constitution initially repelled the crew of The Ark. Interaction with organics before the war was practically unheard of. However, it only took a couple of weeks for most Autobots to observe the humans with polished optics.

Maybe it was their naivety, or eyes that put a newly sparked turbo-fox to shame. Maybe it was their feral attitude and barbaric tendencies. Maybe it was because every attempt to slag themselves spurred them further. It took Transformers hundreds of years to form bonds he had watched humans form in less than an hour, between each other and with Cybertronians. Lennox claimed he needed Ironhide’s vehicle mode to run errands at the nearby shopping district on his days off, but he really just wanted to hang out with the giant alien with the cool cannons.

Some of the new recruits had offered to sneak Beachcomber to Lake Tahoe when they thought Prime wasn’t listening. Red Alert had repeatedly caught Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Hot Rod, and even Hound sneaking off toward the interstate leading to Las Vegas. Prime’s attention was torn back to the match before him with a bellow.

“Cmon Baby Bee! Can’t you handle rusty old Ironhide?” Hollered some bot, most likely Sideswipe, from the crowd. Bumblebee buzzed bitterly. He was barely masking his EM field now, and his frustration lashed viciously at the bots nearby. The ozone was almost suffocating the present humans.

He gained a boxing stance, raising his fists above where his brow would be. He bounced on the balls of his feet, shifting his weight as Ironhide rearranged his own. It was like watching Manny Pacquiao prepare to fight Kurt Angle. Bee pounced like a snarling wildcat, throwing a feint that whisked Ironhide’s audio. His fist retracted like a spring, the energy being redirected to his left leg.

Ironhide raised his right forearm, narrowly evading Bumblebee’s aggressive two-piece. His armor, despite being his namesake, groaned with the increased pressure of Bumblebee’s shin, yet there was no time to ponder the new dent in his plating. Ratchet would hammer it out later. Bumblebee’s onslaught became more pointed and charged as the crowd pulsed with anticipation.

Ironhide’s control over the battlefield began to dribble through his fingers. As Bumblebee drew his leg back, he shifted his weight to his hands and, using the inertia, propelled his right foot in a move more fitting of a breakdancer than a warrior. Jazz, also submerged in the crowd, whistled. His hit made contact with the left side of Ironhide’s helmet, and a clang not unlike a metal pipe against asphalt echoed throughout NEST.

Ironhide’s HUD was littered with popups. He had no time to be concerned with those; he had to shut this down before Bumblebee got carried away and actually hurt him. He caught his fall with his right hand, forcefully swinging his own leg up, although it was weak compared to the stinging haymaker Bumblebee sent him. Bumblebee blocked the kick with his forearm. Although it was relatively weak to Ironhide’s other hits, it still carried a large amount of weight.

Despite the variety of Cybertronian body types, their government still chose to constrain them within classes based on size, weight, and function. Bumblebee was a Praxian racer, indicating that he would be rather light compared to Ironhide, a Kaonian hauler with enough weapon and armor modifications to level a town. It was like a lightweight against a heavyweight champion. In other words, it was a bad matchup.

Ironhide planted his feet using the coiled force from his controlled kick as the smaller bot’s balance shifted. His back was toward Bumblebee, and with a speed that a bot his size had no business having, Ironhide whirled around, swinging the back of his right fist toward Bumblebee’s face. The force of the impact created a noise akin to a high-speed collision. Bumblebee landed on his side with a dull clang, yet his feet immediately scrabbled for purchase on the asphalt. He might as well have been on all fours.

.:Stay down, kid. Take it easy.:. Ironhide said through a private communication link, though the glyphs he used were far from gentle. .:You’re distracted. Take five.:. Bumblebee’s engine rattled softly as his digits gripped the pavement, crumbling it like crackers. The circle began to disperse as he swiftly transformed and sped off, almost tripping Windcharger, who was leaving the Autobot hangar with a cube of energon.

Arcee watched him swerve onto the open road. She knew where he was going, but wasn’t inclined to follow.

.:That was better, but still not good.:. Commed Ironhide. Prime could only flatten his lips into a thin line and watch Bumblebee retreat into the flaming sunset.

Bumblebee’s engine felt like it was on fire. His vents hissed and popped, attempting to cool his superheated frame, but failing miserably. His tires recklessly skidded across asphalt in a series of burnouts, donuts, and wheelies. His CPU rapidly ran algorithms, attempting to decipher the mixed messages from his spark. They were disorganized, yet loaded long-archived files saturated by summer days, green eyes, and awkward smiles.

Green was the color of nature, of life, of him. He desperately wanted to stop thinking about him. He wrote a code specifically to stop thinking about him, and it broke. Why? It wasn’t unusual for bots to gravitate toward the meat mess of the human race. The organics were like scraplets—rapidly multiplying, dangerous, and almost impossible to get rid of. It was like they burrowed into your plating, coiled around your protoform, and bit. And their teeth hurt.

Arcee, Bulkhead, and even Ironhide and Ratchet were victims of their venomous bites. Bumblebee’s infestation, however, was near fatal. He had grown to need the parasitic, alloy-dissolving creatures like energon. Raphael was a good kid. He was smart, resourceful, and made an effort to learn Basic to better communicate with Bumblebee. That had been a pleasant surprise.

But, he and Raph didn’t need each other the way he and Sam did. If anything happened to Bumblebee, at least Raphael had Ratchet. There were no other bots before him with Sam. It was selfish, and greedy, he knew, but being the most important bot in someone’s life when you were pumped out of a conveyor belt to be a cog in the functionist regime jumpstarted a bot’s cold engine block.

The silence of Bumblebee’s cabin was deafening. There were no conversations about nothing—whether Captain Crunch was better than Trix, even though they were both irreversibly altering his biochemical makeup to crave more processed sugar. He began to slow down as he neared his destination. No more long drives around Tranquility until the conversation melted and the only rhythm was Sam’s steady heart.

The rusty shriek of metal on stone triggered a drizzle of pebbles and earth matter down the rock face. No picking leaves out of joints after a day at the lake because Sam just couldn’t stand to be excluded from a good time. He made his way up the lift of the silo, watching the top slowly open its gaping maw, revealing the indigo sky. The night was dusted with stars.

He walked to the edge of the cliff, passing the monument of rocks forgotten by time. Bumblebee sat beside him. He focused on what he believed to be his home. Then it dawned on him—two years was a long time by human standards. He hadn’t checked on Sam in two years. Hadn't seen him in three. He refused to. To see how much better he was doing without him.

Sam lazily flipped through channels on the motel TV. It was a miracle it even caught a signal, considering how the TV looked older than he. He thoughtlessly stared at the digital clock on the cable box. He had work at 8. He had to be up by six, but he could push it to 6:40. He was late almost every day, anyway.

His eyes drifted closed, and in the empty silence, Death demanded what he refused to give. Give me the All Spark, and you may live to be my pet. Sam’s eyelids flew open. His hands ached. His fingers idly traced the patterns and glyphs he couldn’t hope to understand. They had long since scabbed over, and could only truly be seen if you were looking. No body was ever looking.

The mechanical drawl of a reporter itched his eardrums as he looked towards the screen. The images, sizzled and pixelated, were illegible, but the voice was loud and clear.

“The military claimed the falling star to be a failed experiment, but Jasper netizens insist there is something larger underfoot. Charlotte, back to you.”

He chuckled mirthlessly. Sooner or later, the public wouldn’t be convinced that giant footsteps and transforming vehicles were “failed experiments.” They force-fed the media, claiming the message from The Fallen was a spiteful cyber-terrorist, and that Sam was a relative of a former associate who got caught in the crossfire. It took months for the rumors at college to die down, and he was still receiving occasional hate mail.

Sam crossed the couch, refusing to get up for his Blackberry on the counter. He teetered on the side before his hand made contact. As he settled back in his seat, he scrolled aimlessly through his contacts before hovering over a familiar number. He hadn’t called it in years.

He rubbed his thumb along the green button. Earsplitting guitar riffs filled the apartment as his phone buzzed. The obnoxious Linkin Park ringtone thrashed around his skull as he fumbled with the phone. After almost dropping it twice, he held the it close to his face. He didn’t recognize the number, but something in his hands—or in his heart—purred for him to answer.

“Hello…?” he whispered. He was nervous.

“Hello…uh…My name’s Jack Darby. I’m an agent of NEST.”

Chapter Text

The silence of the Nevada desert was deafening. The chirp of crickets and occasional coyote wail created a ghostly cacophony, and Jack’s heavy heart was the beat. He quietly rose from his bed, careful not to wake his roommate. Bradley was a good guy, only a bit older than Jack, which was still younger than almost the entirety of NEST. He tried his best to help whenever he could, which was one of the reasons why Jack didn’t want him involved. He would buckle under pressure if he was ever caught, especially if interrogated by the Autobots.

He slid on an old pair of jeans he hadn’t touched since he upgraded into camouflage. He kept his sleeping shirt and grabbed his battered leather jacket. It was his first investment using his minimum wage paycheck from KO Burger. He gently opened the door and slunk out of the crack. God bless Rad for sleeping like the dead. He crouched low and teetered on the balls of his feet down the hallway, careful not to wake any of the other recruits.

As he opened the exit, the dry breeze pinched his nose. He froze, eyes wide. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were on patrol tonight. He watched them turn a corner, the hum of their engines dancing through Jack’s mind as he closed the door. He prowled his way to the motor pool, adrenaline lighting his senses on fire. He needed a vehicle whose engine wouldn't prompt the Autobots to investigate. It was impossible to leave without them noticing, but it was possible to leave without them acting.

His eyes lingered on a black jeep. He glanced back at the ghost of the passing patrol. They had already heard him; he just hoped they wouldn’t follow him. He wondered how he would spin the situation when he was caught. Going to see a girlfriend? No, Arcee would never buy it. Going out for a midnight drive? Why would he steal keys and risk getting court-martialed because of a late-night stroll? Jack was more responsible than that.

He silently popped the door open and crawled into the driver’s seat. As he roused the engine, however, he failed to note the idling of engines across the tarmac. He raised the sleeve of his henley to reveal the address and tentatively shifted into reverse, delicately peeling out of the motor pool and making his way to the interstate. Las Vegas, he thought. He had never been. His chest quivered with anticipation. What was Sam like? Would it be awkward? God, he hoped he wasn’t awkward.

Sam’s eBay profile photo mentally slapped him, inciting a grimace. Yeah, he thought. He’s awkward. His knuckles whitened on the wheel. He should go back. He should go back and apologize and scrub floors for an entire week. He eased on the gas at a stoplight. They were getting more frequent as Jack made his way off the highway and onto the bustling streets of the city. Every block was lined with people, and the air reeked of cigarettes and alcohol he probably could never afford. Blonde highlights and perms decorated almost every head, regardless of color, and designer shoes adorned every foot.

Jack absently wondered how many celebrities he would see as he pressed on the gas. He checked his arm again, cross-referencing it with the street signs. He was close, not just because the street signs told him, but because the city did. Bass-heavy music reverberated through the night and the growl of engines made his stomach flip-flop. He carefully maneuvered the Jeep into an open parking spot and hopped out of the front seat.

As he began to walk, his eardrums began to itch. The music seemed to travel along the concrete and crawl up his legs. As the lights grew brighter, his eyes widened. Cars of all different makes and models were lined up in neat rows, their hoods open to reveal glistening, high-performance engines. Burned rubber graced his nostrils and halogen headlights sizzled his scleras. A crowd of people, about his age, congregated in a semicircle, nursing what could only be alcohol in plastic water bottles.

Joyous howls rolled out of windows as daring drivers showcased their capabilities with burnouts and donuts. Their dance was erotic, kindled by sleek curves, aggressive lines, and exquisite craftsmanship. It stirred an itch in his brain he hadn’t scratched in years.

It was time to go.

As Jack issued his own tactical retreat, a familiar voice called his name.

“Yo! Darby! Over here!”

Jack almost gave himself whiplash with how fast he turned around. About 20 feet away from him stood legend, with his glittering green eyes and crooked smile. Sam Witwicky waved him over, flanked another man about his age.

“I was beginning to think you bailed.” Sam mulled with an impish grin. He looked so young, yet decades older than the boy in the photo. His tousled brown hair was slicked back, and his tan skin was littered with sun-kissed freckles. He wore a pair of busted black and white Adidas and a long-sleeve white shirt under a fitted, yet faded band tee. His baggy jeans hung loosely around his waist, flaunting a gentle taper.

What stood out to Jack the most, however, were his hands. They were adorned with minuscule Cybertronian glyphs. It wouldn’t have been obvious in the natural light, but the glow of artificial headlights made them shimmer in the dark. He held out his hand, and Jack took it without hesitation.

“How did you know it was me?”

“I had my boy over there,” he pointed his thumb at the man next to him with curly black hair. It reminded Jack of a Chia Pet. “run a full background check.”

The brown-skinned man piped up. “I’m talking MIB style, man. That’s why they call me TheRealEffingDeal.Com!” He leaned in close to Jack, practically eating his ear. “I even know your social. Sleep in fear, bro.”

Jack’s eyes followed him as he clapped his shoulder and sauntered off, following a beach blonde into the crowd. Jack chose not to unpack the man’s statement and instead swiveled his head around.

“What is this?” he sighed with awe.

“It’s my dad’s dealership,” Sam deadpanned, as Jack raised an eyebrow. He was not one for being on the receiving end of sarcasm. “It’s a takeover. Leo, the guy that knows where your high school girlfriend works, helped organize it.”

“I thought we were just going to talk— Wait, what?? You’re stalking Sierra?”

“I’m not. He was; and we are going to talk.” Sam said as he pulled an assortment of keys from his pocket. “But first,” a toothy grin split his face. “Can you drive?”

Oh no. Jack’s subconscious moaned. He ran his hand through his hair.

“Well, yeah… But—”

“Good. Follow me.”

Jack waded through the crowd, struggling to keep his eyes on the licks of chestnut hair. His gaze soon wandered to the freshly polished V8 engines on display until his chest met someone’s back. He took a wide step back, and Sam turned around, emerald green challenging stormy blue. He threw a pair of keys that Jack fumbled, in lanky teenager fashion.

Sam opened the passenger door and eased inside, practically melting into the seat. Jack stared at the sinuous, sculpted curves of the Maldives Blue 2011 BMW 5 Series. He ran a heady finger along the left side, slowly opening the driver’s side door. Sam looked at him expectantly.

“Wait.” Jack froze, driven from his stupor. “Is this your car?”

Sam shrugged. “Technically it’s Leo’s, but I’m the reason he could buy it.”

“Does he know that?”

“His subconscious does. Now, get in!”

He shouldn’t get in. It was a horrible but completely provocative and almost sensual need as he sank into the driver’s seat. He put his foot on the break and started the car. Two tonnes of metal vibrated with an unchained roar that outshone any animal by tenfold. The menacing growl of the twin-turbo-charged V8 drew the crowd’s attention. Sam and Jack smiled at each other.

Sam reached into the back seat and pulled out a bottle of Hennessy, taking a long swig before aggressively shaking his head. He grimaced at the burn before looking back at Jack, who was still staring.

“What are you doing, man? Drive!”

As the night bled into early morning, Jack's muscles slackened. His job at NEST was great; he got to fraternize with autonomous robotic organisms from another planet. But, despite the excitement, he really, really missed being a stupid kid—challenging Vince to a race that the other boy truly had no chance of winning.

Despite how much he claimed to hate chaos and anything that could ruin his responsible existence, he missed running through ground bridges after Miko. He yearned for the rush of reckless abandon. He missed this.

He and Sam took turns behind the wheel, doing donuts and harmonizing the growl of the engine with the whooping of the crowd. The air was thick with the scent of burning rubber and alcohol, and his heightened adrenaline made every feeling intensify tenfold.

For a moment, he forgot about NEST. He forgot about Vector Sigma, about MECH, about the war. He only remembered he was a kid. A kid who wanted to enjoy his last year of teenhood.

.:Now this is my kind of patrol!:. Sideswipe chortled over the private comms, sprinkling his phrase with the glyphs for “fun” and “excitement.” His EM field was light and playful, easing the worries of the bots trailing in his wake. He slowly parked in between a black low-rider 1969 Chevrolet Impala and a heavily customized midnight blue and white 1967 Mustang.

He popped his hood, blending into the herd of supercars. Car critics and casual enthusiasts alike descended upon him like crows to a carcass, admiring the 4.8 liter twin-turbocharged V12 nestled right above his spark, little did they know. A babel of yowls echoed across the private communications link.

.:Sideswipe, what in Primus’ name are you doing?:.

.:Freak!:.

.:No one wants to see that!:.

.:Ah, stick it in neutral, would ya! I’m blending in with the locals! We’re robots in disguise, remember?:.Sideswipe warbled, his tone laced with playful laxity.

.:If you’re gonna pop your hood,:. Sunstreaker sneered, .:at least make them pay for it.:. He sidled up beside a white and black Toyota Corolla GTS, lowering on his shocks as human passersby “oohed” and “aahed” at his golden yellow paint job. Street photographers began to adjust their lenses to take the perfect shots for their amateur blogs. Everywhere Sunstreaker went, he drew attention to himself.

.:Who in their right mind would want to see your rusty engine bay?:. Hot Rod jibed as he executed an impressive burnout, surprising a crowd of college students who roared with delight. He, along with Bumblebee and Smokescreen, were part of the last generation of Cybertronians to exit the Well of All Sparks before the planet went dark.

Despite his affinity for being a self-serving, turbo-revving punk, Hot Rod was a formidable warrior with a natural talent for leadership. It was even rumored that he showed Signs of Affinity after throwing himself in front of a grenade to save Kup.

.:Rusty!?:. Sideswipe crackled.

.:Not you too!:. Groaned Smokescreen. He, like Hot Rod, was an eager New Spark fresh out of the Well, yet there was a subtle aloofness about him—as though he was privy to knowledge his comrades were not.

He had been recovered during a Decepticon prison ship raid, chained to a wall, whispering broken prayers to Primus. His mind seemed to be in a perpetual feedback loop, jumping from key to lock to key again. It was peculiar. He had been held in an isolated chamber, rather than a standard prison cell.

Personal torture accommodations were reserved for bots with personal vendettas, yet Smokescreen had no rivals. His serial number was sanded off, and his spark signature wasn’t in any of the archives. He bore the mark of the Elite Guard, but no one could explain his origins. Ultra Magnus himself had authorized a deep dive into Smokescreen’s files, but almost every memory was locked behind firewalls, even with the help of Eject and Rewind.

The executive decision was made to place Smokescreen in stasis until further notice. However, Kup and Ironhide determined that they couldn’t leave such a young bot without a means of defending himself. They were given five vorns to hammer him into shape, but five turned into ten, and eventually, he became a permanent member of The Ark’s crew.The older bots were taken with his sincerity, loyalty, and good attitude amidst terrible odds, especially the third in command.

Smokescreen remained at the far end of the block, although it was difficult for the 2012 McLaren to remain hidden, especially with his custom red, white, and blue paint job and the screaming double 38s.

.:Flashing your internal hardware for a bunch of humans to gawk at,:. his engine rattled, .:What if they grab something…:.

.:What if I want them to grab something?:. Taunted Sideswipe, revving his engines playfully.

The surrounding Autobots whistled and guffawed, continuing their banter before a familiar figure emerged from the sea of cheering humans. The young man seemed to be popular.

.:No way.:. Sideswipe chuckled. .:It’s Arcee’s pet fleshy!:.

Jack ran his hands through his hair, lips curled in a nervous, yet endearing smile. He was being pushed forward by a clearly buzzed young man with soft brown curls. The brunette said something that made the ravenette break into giggles. They were interrupted by another youth with deeper skin and thick black curls. He seemed angry but was easily soothed when the tanned brunette whispered something in his ear. He huffed nonchalantly, murmuring something under his breath that made Jack’s smile grow wider.

It was almost blinding.

While human EM fields were laden with organic interference and couldn’t be felt unless disgustingly close, Sideswipe found himself wanting to snatch the untarnished joy radiating from the boy and steal it for himself.

Jack exchanged a final handshake, which turned into a drunken hug from the brunette, and began to make his way from the mass of customized cars and drunk humans. He stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets and walked down the chilly Las Vegas block. A shiver ran up his spine. It wasn’t that cold...

“Meatbag.”

Jack practically jumped out of his combat boots, executing a 180 with speed that would make Blurr jealous. A yellow LP500 Turbo S rolled languidly behind him.

“Sunstreaker.” Jack mumbled, eyes wide.

“We saw that little stunt you pulled back there.”

“We?” Jack whimpered as another Lamborghini, this one in cherry red, sidled next to his golden-yellow brother. A 1991 Pontiac Firebird with a large phoenix decal and a McLaren MP4-12C with racing stripes trailed behind, giving the two Countaches a wide berth. Sweat began to gather in Jack’s palms as he licked his dry lips.

“Now, we, is going to be you, and us!” Sideswipe explained with false cheer, his EM field betraying his true intentions. “I can’t imagine Optimus Prime wouldn’t be interested in the illegal activities of his boy wonder.”

“In exchange, you are going to help us.” Sunstreaker prowled forward onto the sidewalk, prompting Jack to shuffle backward. His mouth was frozen open in disbelief. He should’ve known.

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were not normal, understanding bots. They were reckless forces of nature that thrived on the battlefield. With no battlefield to occupy, they began to rely on sick pranks to get their kicks. Virtually harmless, but malicious nonetheless. Jack should’ve known they would follow him!

He smacked his lips together, hoping to regain some semblance of control over his body.

“Help you do… what?”

Chapter Text

Cacophonous buzzing echoed throughout the NEST base. Cybertronian laughter was a curious thing—like the clicking of a Windows hard drive combined with the dial tone of a phone, crossbred with the 2100Hz of a fax machine.

The Terror Twins, as Hound called them, had gained a third member. A mascot, of sorts. Jack Darby had changed over the past few weeks. Miko’s attempts to drag him to heavy metal concerts were met with the same response: “Maybe later.” Raphael could only exchange clipped messages with him, conversations often dying with “I have to go.”

Arcee, who had always been closest to Jack, was struggling with his newfound camaraderie with the Lamborghini brothers. They beckoned to him like a dog, clearly expecting him to follow suit.

Arcee ground her denta as she paced inside the Autobot Hangar. Her hostile EM field clung to her like exhaust. She was only inside because Rachet had told her if she didn’t stop leaving blackened tire marks outside, he would put her into stasis and turn her into a moped.

Jack had never been this complacent before. Sure, he knew how to follow orders, but not from bots like Sunstreaker or Sideswipe. What had changed? Arcee’s mind ran algorithms by the nanosecond, desperately trying to justify his new-found rebelliousness. None truly resonated with her spark. The only plausible explanation was that Jack was following the twins because they knew something she didn’t. But what could they know that she didn’t?

Her head flew with the fierce roar of twin turbo engines as she hurried toward the hangar entrance. Jack was leaving daily training with the other humans. He held a hand above his brow, squinting in the midday sun. He tugged absently on his collar, then his head snapped to follow the speeding vehicles.

Blurs of red and yellow isolated him from his colleagues. He spun in circles attempting to keep both eyes on his kidnappers. He then goggled pleadingly at his roommate, Bradley White. Rad, the good man that he was, attempted to grab Jack’s shoulder, but the flare of Sunstreaker’s EM field stopped him in his tracks. The tight press of ozone was an effective warning.

Sideswipe’s cherry-colored frame shouldered between Rad and Jack, forcefully separating them. With a whine of defeat, Jack had to shout to stay afloat among the vibrating engines.

“What do you want?” Jack seethed. He already knew the answer.

Sideswipe slowed down, trapping Jack. “What do you want?” he repeated in mock confusion. “Do you mean, what do we want? As in, you, me, and Sunstreaker?”

Both twins transformed, beckoning Jack toward Hanger F. Unless the soldier was approved by Prime himself, humans were effectively blacklisted from Hanger F. Good thing peering into the Matrix and harnessing the near infinite wisdom of Vector Sigma gave Jack a skeleton key to almost every Autobot facility at NEST. His palms clenched, leaving raw half-moon indentations. Today was going to be another long day.

He trailed behind the twins like a trained mutt, following the melody of metal on asphalt. God, he sneered—even their footsteps were in unison.

Thoughts of the morning’s training drills jostled around his skull. The humans of NEST and the willing Ark crew initiated joint training protocol. Dubbed “Subjugation,” by recruits, humans, usually in groups of two or three, used traditional air descent gear to incapacitate Decepticons. They utilized a variety of diversionary tactics and weapons to target the optics, audios, and joints. It was a budding effort, as the Primacy was still conflicted about humans aiding in their war.

Recruits Jack, Kelly, and Noah were paired as a trio, which wasn’t bad at all. They were kindred spirits; harbingers of cordiality and well-meaning anxiety. Noah was appointed Senior Officer, which bore well for Kelly and Jack.

Their target was Smokescreen, but the young scout was far more guarded than Jack remembered. His EM field was pulled in tight, and Jack felt his presence diminish for every hour that passed. He also swore he was being watched.

The tingle in Jack’s gut shrieked at him to turn around, but every time he looked at Smokescreen, his eyes were elsewhere. He wondered how Autobots saw in vehicle mode.

“So. Jack. Are you ready to help us with a little project?”

“Aren’t I always.” Jack spat back.

Sideswipe leaned closer, glass-plated optics reflecting Jack’s uneasy expression. Blithe cyan devoured turbulent cobalt.

“Bluestreak won’t mute his vocoder.” What else is new? “He keeps yapping about a new targeting system that Perceptor designed specifically for him. It was fine for the first few days, but it’s been almost two weeks. It’s time to knock him down a peg.”

Jack hesitated and ran his hands through his hair, the weight of his involvement heavy on his shoulders. He made one questionable decision, and it seemed that Primus or Unicron or God or whoever was determined to make him suffer for it.

He’d been a part of too many schemes to separate himself from the twins now. Superiors like Lennox, Fowler, and even Simmons were avoiding him in fear of falling victim to the twins’ sick jokes. As if Ironhide would really let anything happen.

Despite the negative consequences, however, a small, niggling part of him craved chaos. It reminded him of times not too long ago, but long enough that no one seemed to remember. Of failed ground bridge experiments and grandiose high school science projects.

His heart convulsed with nostalgia.

“Fine.” he groaned. “What’s the plan?”

Sideswipe shot a knowing smile at an impassive Sunstreaker. The telltale sound of metal origami and toiling pistons crackled through the air. Sideswipe flung open his door.

“Get in.”

Sam sighed into his palms, kneading the flesh of his face. The screen hadn’t moved for what had to be an hour, at least. He wouldn’t be surprised if he closed his eyes and had Microsoft Excel burned into his retinas. The blistering Nevada sunlight invaded his office. He jostled the tepid ceramic mug and gazed at the rippling liquid. A sullen doppelgänger stared back. He didn’t even like coffee; he just felt like that’s what he was supposed to be drinking at an office.

He put the mug down and switched tabs. As he proceeded to type a slightly neurotic email to one of his advisors, his palms itched with the squeal of engines and burning rubber. That was the most fun he had had in a while. Jack was a good kid; he reminded Sam a lot of himself at that age. Anxious, overly cautious, and screaming to be noticed while simultaneously wailing to be forgotten.

He stretched his legs under his desk and loosened his tie. He made sure the email had autosaved before closing out of the window. His desktop photo graced the screen. It was taken by his dad the day he met his best friend. He was kneeling in front of the wheel of a 1979 Chevrolet Camaro. The black custom stripes were more of a grey, and the yellow base coat seemed to have been buffed using dirt, but Sam’s eyes said it all.

He was in worn Wrangler jeans and a faded The Strokes t-shirt. He didn’t know where it was now. The dryer probably ate it. His sneakers were caked with soil after stepping in his father’s grass. He was throwing up dual signs of the horns, and his tongue lolled out of his mouth in defiance of his mother. Even as he left for college, she complained about her pseudo-rebellious son. All she wanted was a nice photo of him with his car. To show her friends at yoga, probably.

The photo immortalized the beginning of everything Sam held dear. His friends, his girlfriend, and the family he carved out of a 16-foot slab of alien metal. A warm smile graced his face as his fingers tightened around the satin finish photo paper. He could practically taste the exhaust in the air and the tang of freshly cut grass. The smell of aged leather and ozone tickled his nostrils the way another car wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

“Witwicky.” Sam jumped in his seat, knees hitting the bottom of his wooden desk with a dull thud. He rubbed his eyes ferociously and squinted at his door.

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” His coworker, Josie Beller, giggled. “Wang wanted me to ask if you were going to happy hour tonight. Don’t know why he couldn’t ask you himself.” She ad-libbed, curling her lip. “I think he might be socially impaired.” He winced. There was nothing wrong with Wang. Absolutely nothing, but something about him creeped Sam out. He would always stare at him in the elevator.

“Nah, no, I’m good. Got lots of good work to catch up on.” Sam lied. Josie studied his face. He shifted uncomfortably in his leather seat.

“You’re too young to be this boring, Sam.” She turned to leave. “Get out. Live a little.” She gave him a halfhearted mock salute and gently closed the door.

“Live a little.” He scoffed. “Yeah, I’ve lived too much.” He aggressively shut his computer and stared sightlessly at his overflowing briefcase. She didn’t understand, and that was alright.

He was the reason she could go to happy hour. That Wang could unpack his soul with his eyes in the elevator. Why CFO Brazos could harass him about color-coded files. That they could continue their embarrassing and ignorant lives. He took solace in that. Without him, they would be stuck on a withering, sunless planet of monsters dressed in armor made out of things they couldn’t even begin to fathom. He saved their lives, and they didn’t even know. He didn’t need them to. He was happy having done the deed.

His monologue was interrupted by the buzz of a familiar tune. He scrounged through his briefcase of paper stuff, successfully nabbing his phone. He glanced at the text on the screen.

therealeffingdeal: party 22nd. not hosted by me. big turnout. u in?

ladiesman217: say less.

Smokescreen was parked in between Prowl and Bumblebee. His EM field radiated worry and concern, and after the first few hours, bots began to form perimeter. He wasn’t a good liar. He wasn’t built to lie. He wasn’t taught to lie. He replayed the events of the takeover till they were melted into his processor. He must have manually deleted the files of who ever the brown haired stranger was weeks in advance. Scrap! Prowl had warned him decades ago of failing to adopt a back up file system, but he brushed it off, believing that if he deleted the files, they clearly weren’t important. How wrong he was. Speaking of Prowl, he knew he was worried about him. Prowl had always worried about him, for reasons that Smokescreen couldn’t understand. He always summed it up to his Praxian build. Camaraderie and things of that nature. However, a minuscule part of his spark, knew it was more than that. Prowl was attempting to temper his anxiety with licks of his own field, but if Smokescreen was to be honest, he wasn’t very good at it. Prowl's CPU wasn’t the most emotionally sound, and it had trouble processing his sparks emotional signals into concise lines of code. After a particularly troublesome interrogation by Blaster, Prowl confided in a distraught Smokescreen. Apparently he did not always have the entirety of Altihex stuck up his tailpipe. Who would’ve figured. Smokescreen simpered. He said it happened very early in the war, when he, against the judgement of Ultra Magnus, deleted core processing codes to create more space for battle computer upgrades, a decision he claims to regret every nanosecond. While Prowl was not the only bot to have undergone Core Processor upgrades (It was a common practice among pre-war enforcers.) It was wholly obvious among other members of his status. Jazz could calm a storm in the Ark before it knew it was brewing, yet Prowl had trouble dealing with the aftershocks of its occurrence. Smokescreen assumed that’s why they complimented each other so well.

A private communications line between him and another bot was opened under the channel name “🐝.”

.:Whats up with you?:. The message utilized more playful icons, but was subconsciously laden with the glyphs for concern and assistance.

.:Nah, it’s nothing Bee.:.

.:If it was nothing, we wouldn’t be feeling it.:.

Smokescreen couldn’t argue with that.

.:"I saw… Something... When I was hanging out with…some other bots a couple weeks ago.:.

.:Who were you hanging out with?:. Bumblebee responded, the text laden with surprise and seasoned with betrayal. He was usually privy to any escapades the bots his generation found themselves in, but with his burgeoning bad temper, he found himself more and more excluded.

.:C’mon Bee. Don’t be like that.:.

.:Fine.:. The characters for surrender and apology danced around Smokescreens HUD. He hesitated, debating whether he should divulge more information. He didn’t want to let Bumblebee, or anyone really, know that he had skipped his patrol duty entirely to go fraternize with touchy, drunk humans. He decided to make his explanation as short as possible. .:Well-:.

The tension of the Autobot hanger was cut like a hot knife would butter by the klaxon alarm. Raphael’s voice was powerful enough the damage sensitive audio receptors. “Attention all NEST Personnel. Active Decepticon infraction occurring. Calling Autobots Optimus Prime, Jazz, Bulkhead, Ironhide, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Smokescreen, and Bumblebee. Prepare for immediate ground bridge departure. Rescue Team Alpha-86 on standby.” The summoned Autobots put pedal to the metal as their tires squealed out of Autobot Hanger 1.

"Talk later?” Bumblebee beeped.

“Sure.” Smokescreen sighed as Bumblebee flew ahead of him, making his way to Hanger E. As he transformed and skidded to a stop, human soldiers scuttled underfoot him like mice, hauling harnesses, energon magazines, fastened parachutes, and any other gear they may need. He had to tip toe to make sure he didn’t step on an unsuspecting soldier. The air was alight with radio contact as NEST soldiers coordinated with the U.S Air Force. There wasn’t one flier in the series of Autobots that came to Earth. There was only Optimus and his flight gear, which had yet to be fully recovered from Egypt. Tourists at the pyramids were still stumbling across rotors and pieces of wings hidden in the sand. Live surveillance updates and realtime adjustments buzzed in his audios. Autobot Hanger 2 grew bright with headlights as Jazz, Ironhide, and the twins rolled out. After the landing of The Ark, Optimus took the authoritative step to expand the base. The silo was simply too small for almost 30 new autobots, each with particular and vastly differing needs. What was once simply Hanger E was now a sprawling map of underground bunkers and budding technological prowess. NEST agents, headed by William Lennox and William Fowler, separated themselves into combat teams. The whir of helicopter rotors charged the atmosphere with tension as a red and blue Peterbilt 379 separated the armed warriors and the ground bridge. His EM field swathed the air with a palpable yet controlled energy. Excitement, nervousness, and every other emotion under the sun was blanketed under order. The single screen within the hanger fizzled to life. Six forest green construction vehicles with purple accents basked the soldiers in a ghoulish glow. 

“Contructicons.” Ironhide snarled.

The screen melted to reveal a dark blue and white Ford Mustang Saleen S281E police cruiser. The words “To punish and enslave,” were engraved upon the door.

“And Barricade.” Fowler piped up. Bumblebees optics darkened. The scouting Saleen had been missing since Bumblebee had scrapped his tailpipe across the dirt in 2007. A minute victory, considering the Decepticons lack of energon and earthen exposure.He had been on Earth far longer than Bumblebee had. The yellow bot continued to analyze the photo. Despite its low quality, it was clear Barriacade had the decency to adopt a new paint job. The thought of facing him after almost five years stirred something volatile within him. “At 0600 this evening, two teens in Tranquility, California reported a sea of construction vehicles being lead by a police cruiser. Exactly 30 minutes later, Sherman Dam was compromised. That hydroelectric power plant provides energy for almost 3/4 of Americans housed in Northern California. The air force has almost several bases in that area alone and four of them utalize power from Sherman Dam. Uncle Sam wants us to handle this before they have to explain to powerless Americans where their tax dollars are really going."

He hadn’t been to Tranquility since Sam had left for college. It held too many memories, both good and bad. Sam’s absence stoked the flame within.

"The power plant?" Ratchet muttered. "Why? They do not currently have the means to convert raw energy into processed Energon."

“I am unsure, old friend,” Optimus began, “But this is the first time we have encountered the Construction gestalt outside of Egypt. It is paramount to intercept and subjugate them before they can form Devastator.”

“I got unmanned Reapers overhead for air support, and human snipers will be bringing the rain.”  Lennox chimed. Optimus nodded.

“Ratchet, open the ground bridge. Autobots, Roll Out!”

Chapter Text

The battlefield was overrun with chaos as explosions illuminated the night sky. Not only were the Constructions significantly larger than the Autobots, but they also carried a link that none, save Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, could boast. Decepticon engineering had come a long way. Gone were the days of feral, stunted, downright stupid gestalts. Although they lacked the ability to articulate their thoughts, Devastator could now process information on a scale akin to a slightly melted Polyhexian docking drone, which was a big leap from not processing information at all. Paired with Barricade's cold precision and effective leadership, they would be almost impossible to predict. Human scientists would liken it to a canine specialist pointing their pack of pit bulls in a direction and commanding them to bite, which was something the Autobots had yet to replicate. They held one combiner under their belt—Defensor. Unit Alpha-86, affectionately known as the Protectobots, was not yet outfitted with the same software updates as their Decepticon counterparts. There was also the issue of size; the Cons were looking for Energon, implying they didn’t have the means to activate mass shifter technology, yet Devastator still had almost 20 feet on Defensor. They did not want to prompt the Decepticons to form Devastator if they recognized another combiner unit on the field, especially if they could not match them in firepower.

Tensions were palpable as Autobots attempted to bob and weave through the calculated swings of the construction vehicles, yet were herded by Barricade into blaster fire. The bots soon realized that this wasn’t a simple run-in with the Decepticons—it was a premeditated attack thoroughly coordinated. The stakes weren’t just physical; not anymore. Jack Darby was splayed out on the fifth floor in a makeshift observation post. He squinted into the scope of his rifle, attempting to zero in on the neck of a thrashing Mixmaster. Jack thought he’d seen some pretty crazy bots, from Knock-Out to Starscream to Megatron himself, but clearly, he had never met Mixmaster. Before entering the ground bridge, Kup had mentioned that Mixmaster was something of a scientist. A chemist. After seeing him almost crush Smokescreen’s head with a single servo, he didn’t believe the rust bucket. He was too big, too reckless. But that was before he watched him maniacally grab what would be a boulder to Jack in his hand, crush it, transform, throw it in his cement mixer with his own hand, do something with it, proceed to return to robot mode, transform his arm into a blaster, and shoot boiling acid instead of Energon.

What. The. Fuck.

Behind him stood Lennox and Epps, binoculars pressed to their faces. “Why do the Decepticons always get the good shit?” The skinhead muttered, stupefied. Jack's finger hovered above the trigger, waiting for Lennox’s order. He watched a frighteningly large bulldozer with both a visor and a battle mask get thrown to the ground with an explosion akin to a dual train collision. The bot groaned and held what would be his solar plexus as the internal circuitry sizzled and sparked.

“Bonecrusher!” A front-end loader bellowed. Miko was making good work of her portable rocket launcher. She’d just turned 19, meaning she was finally allowed on the field, and God forbid anyone get in her way.

“Bonecrusher down; Nice shooting, Miko!” Raph called from over the airwaves. He had opted to remain at Hangar E, monitoring the radio waves to maintain what little tactical advantages they had.

“Got a clean shot on Mixmaster.” Jack hissed through gritted teeth.

“Hold your fire,” Lennox clipped. “We need them alive if we can help it. Ratchet said they can’t process raw energy into Energon. We need to know why they’re here.”

Jack swallowed the rock in his throat and shifted his aim, firing rounds at the gaps in the armor between Mixmaster’s shoulders and elbows, praying that he would hit something vital, perhaps a fuel line, to deactivate his witch’s cauldron of a blaster. Below, however, Bumblebee did not seem to receive the memo about keeping the Decepticons alive. He was a blur of yellow and black, moving faster than Jack thought possible, especially compared to the Constructicons. He darted under arms and between legs, outmaneuvering his enemies with brutal elegance.

“That’s new,” Epps muttered, lowering his binoculars. “What the hell’s gotten into him?”

“Whatever it is,” spat Lennox, face taut with anxiety, “It’s keeping those ‘Cons off our backs. I’m not complaining.”

In contrast to the cantankerous observation crew above, Ironhide barked orders over the private communication link. .:Bulkhead, Smokescreen, flank Hook; keep him from reaching Bonecrusher! Twins, take out Mixmaster’s cannons! Bumblebee, Jazz, cover Optimus!:.

There was no verbal confirmation that Bumblebee had received the command, yet the way he surged forward with the force of a speeding bullet was verification enough. His twin plasma shooters whirled as he bulldozed through Scrapper’s makeshift blockade. Aggression rolled off in nausea-inducing waves as he transformed and blazed through Scavenger’s legs. It was akin to watching an Angel of War.

“H-hey!” The self-conscious excavator sputtered.

Ironhide’s scrutinizing optics followed Bumblebee. .:I wouldn’t want to face him today.:. Kup’s antique syntax shimmered through Ironhide’s HUD. .:Never thought I’d see the brat like this. It feels like we’re watching a storm ready to break.:. Ironhide merely growled in confirmation. He transformed and plowed into Scrapper’s side, sending him careening to the ground. The oversized loader kicked his foot out in a failed attempt to catch Ironhide off guard, yet the Top Kick swerved and, using his built-up momentum, launched himself upward. He pulled his hammer from his subspace, and in a useless attempt to evade the attack, Scrapper keeled to the side. He was aiming for his chest plate, but the face of Ironhide’s hammer slammed into Scrapper’s left shoulder, shattering the armor and damaging the sensitive protoform underneath. Scrapper howled, throwing his body to the left. His palm met Ironhide’s faceplate as the behemoth launched him yards away. The grizzled Autobot hit the ground hard but executed an impressive slide. His hammer was slung over his shoulder as his unarmed servo gripped the dry Californian soil. Scrapper’s EM field was scattered, littered with pain yet imbued with fury. He slowly got up, favoring his broken shoulder. He and Ironhide locked optics as the battle raged beside them. They each waited for the other to make the first move.

Suddenly, the bellow of an engine far larger than his drew Ironhide’s attention from the loader. He snapped his head around, faced with the speeding front bumper of an enormous dump truck. Ah, scrap. Ironhide threw his hammer to the side and braced for impact. He may not have been Brawn, but he could hold his own against a few bots bigger than himself. His palms made contact with Long Haul’s front as Ironhide gritted his denta to the point where they cracked. His feet slid along the desert floor, scraping away the metal below his pedes. His leg struts groaned and buckled with the increase in pressure. He was getting too old for this. He stumbled for purchase only to be pushed farther back.

.:Bulkhead!:. Demanded Ironhide. .:I need your big aft over here! Now!:. His fans were screaming, and the coolant in his pumps had evaporated. Armor-less joints released excessive steam as he pushed his hydraulics to the limit. At this point, it was simply a battle of attrition between him and Long Haul, and he was losing. “.: can’t!:. Bulkhead’s strained yell responded. .:Hook is giving me a run for my Shanix!:. The ground beneath the grizzled warrior shuddered and his legs trembled. As if Primus heard his prayers, a thunderous clap split the sky and Long Haul’s right tire exploded.

“What!” The Constructicon cried as he lost momentum, giving Ironhide a chance to gain the upper hand. The crimson pickup took a step back and activated his forearm-mounted cannons with a whirl before holding them up to the dump truck’s grill. “Wait, don’t—“ He didn’t even allow the colossus to finish his sentence before firing off a series of Energon blasts directly into his sensitive circuits. Long Haul reacted with a weak shiver before falling into stasis. Ironhide whisked around, approximating the direction of the shot that tore through Long Haul’s reinforced tires. Soft brown met hardened cyan as William Lennox gave him a salute. He and Robert Epps were standing above the boy, the one chosen by Optimus Prime to make the pilgrimage to Vector Sigma, who carried one of NEST’s first generation of anti-transformer long-range rifles. They exchanged a telling look before Ironhide’s lip curled into a rare, if not awkward, smile. He returned the salute before jogging back to his hammer and lobbing it into his subspace. He transformed, although it was rather janky after the strain his internal hardware was put through (he was sure almost all of his circuits were melted and his hydraulics cracked) and sped off towards Optimus, who was engaging Scavenger.

“You feel his field, Sunstreaker? He’s happy~!” Wibbled Sideswipe as he dodged a heavy swipe from Mixmaster.

“Awh, mute your voice box before I do it for you!” Before the twin could say another word, Ironhide’s optics shadowed a blur of yellow going what could’ve been 120 miles per hour. Due to the sheer ferocity of the shimmering silhouette, he assumed it to be Sunstreaker. Yet, as he turned towards Sideswipe, he realized that the twins were scaling Mixmaster’s side in a ground-tailored form of jet judo. He watched the dichromatic assailant make a beeline toward Barricade, the Decepticon scout caught wholly off guard by the suffocating aggression. He was not a key player in this fight; he didn’t expect to be targeted so quickly. Ironhide’s sore engine rumbled beneath the explosions of the warring battlefield.

.:He’s gonna burn through his Energon before the cycle is over.:. Kup responded in suite.

.:Didn’t know he had a temper like that hidden under the fuzzy insect facade. ‘Reminds me of the Sharkticons of Quintus-B9Delta00,:. he mused, rousing a sniff of contempt from Ironhide. Kup steeled his gaze.

.:B-127 isn’t a naive civvie. Not anymore. That was stolen with his voice box.:. Bumblebee’s movements were precise yet bore the ferocity of an infected wound. He physically and figuratively drove Barricade between a rock and a hard place. The Decepticon faltered beneath the relentless assault, optical sensors flickering as Bumblebee’s custom electric stinger grazed his sensitive mesh plating.

“You just don’t know when to quit,” Bumblebee snarled. His voice box was under temporary lockdown since he arrived on Earth, and he wasn’t to use it under any circumstance. Until now, he deemed. Barricade growled before throwing his head back and headbutting Bumblebee. The Autobot scout took a strangled step back, weapons systems faltering with the processor-shattering blow. He quickly regained his footing before fully retracting his stingers, adopting a defensive stance. Barricade raised an eyebrow and sneered. The young bot was more brazen than he remembered. It fit him well. Barricade spread his legs, forming a steadfast sense of gravity. Bumblebee lunged forward, meeting him at the waist. The Decepticon raised his fist before slamming down on the Autobot’s tensed shoulders. Bumblebee flinched, yet did not let go. Barricade pulled his knee upward, catching Bumblebee’s vulnerable T-cog unaware. His door wings itched with the telltale hum of transformation, yet he mentally blocked the instinct from hindering his CPU. He would not lose to his own subsystems. Barricade had clearly had enough of Bumblebee’s stubborn refusal to let go, and he hurled himself to the ground, flinging the scout in a mad attempt to make him release his grip. The two writhed on the desert soil, throwing punches with frenzied fury. They grappled for a moment before Bumblebee regained his foothold, straddling the Decepticon scout. He clamped his legs around Barricade’s midsection like a cobra before pitching punches. Each swing connected with Barricade’s onyx faceplate, collisions akin to metal trash cans being lobbed around at Mach 3.

Optimus Prime’s baritone boomed through their communication link.

.:Bumblebee, stand down! We need Barricade alive.:. The scout hesitated, fist hovering over the Decepticon’s face like a Sword of Damocles. A fraction of a second was all Barricade needed to bridge the power imbalance. He raked his claws across the yellow and black helm, knocking off one of Bumblebee’s horns. The Autobot scrambled to find balance, detaching from the Decepticon’s chest, allowing him to make a hastened getaway.

“Constructicons!” He thundered. “Retreat.” The shriek of crumpling metal and chugging pistons howled through the air as a ground bridge opened behind Ironhide. The old warrior threw himself from the swirling mass of collapsed matter before he was pummeled by a speeding enclave of construction vehicles. Scrapper, while cradling his broken strut, unceremoniously pushed Long Haul through the ground bridge, followed by Bonecrusher, Scavenger, Mixmaster, Hook, and finally, Barricade. With a sputter, the transport fizzled from existence, leaving earthen destruction in its wake. The battlefield fell silent.

.:Is everyone functional?:. Ratchet’s voice hummed with concern. Sideswipe supported Sunstreaker, whose left shin sported a nasty dent. He himself was not unscathed, with shattered optic lenses and residual scrapes. Ironhide lay on the cracked earth, optics aimed purposelessly at the sky. His hydraulics had finally given out. Bulkhead stumbled behind a limping Smokescreen. Every time the young Autobot moved, his pistons squealed under pressure. Bumblebee clumsily tried to regain his footing after the clawing from Barricade. He pawed at the ground, looking for his missing horn, but his hands didn’t seem to be going in the direction he wanted. His equilibrium chip was most likely damaged. He never did see Ratchet after Ironhide’s devastating blow to the processor. A crushed white servo held a 2008 Porsche door. Despite the missing appendage, Jazz stood unflinchingly behind Optimus, who brandished shattered windows, broken smokestacks, and large splotches of missing paint. It seemed Bonecrusher had introduced him to one of the immovable concrete faces of the dam. The two hit it off.

“Ratchet,” Optimus Prime wearied. “Activate the ground bridge.” Another ball of green illuminated the center of the destruction as the mangled crew staggered through.

Back at NEST, the atmosphere was tacky with discord. Optimus Prime stood tall, despite his battered and scorched paint job. He was a beacon of authority among the disarray. Below him stood a doting Ratchet.

“Ep, ep ep!” He waved his arms in frustration. The weapons specialist was holding a battered white Porsche 911 door wing, hammer held high. “You can’t just ding out any dent with any hammer!” Ratchet cried.

Ironhide raised an eyebrow before gently setting the accretion onto the medical berth where Sunstreaker sat. The yellow bot was mewling to Sideswipe about the dent in his leg. Sideswipe, who couldn’t even see, insisted it wasn’t that bad. It was a lie.

Prime’s optics swept over the wounded, acknowledging the scurrying humans at their pedes. First Aid was using them as go-fors while he operated on Jazz’s mangled servo. Fix-It, First Aid’s Micromaster companion, attended an immobilized Smokescreen. The battle had left its mark on everybot. Even Optimus couldn’t ignore the toll taken.

Prime’s gaze lingered briefly on Bumblebee, who stood apart from the rest. He was sitting on a crate, cradling his head in his hands. Apparently, the world hadn’t stopped spinning for him yet. His severed horn lay in his lap.

Ultra Magnus sidled to Optimus’ side.

Ultra Magnus, sidled at Optimus’ side broke the silence. .:We let them escape.:. Despite the Sub-Commander’s reputation for maintaining a stoic, cold demeanor, Ultra Magnus seethed. .:We needed prisoners, Optimus. We can’t continue to react while the Decepticons act.:.

.:I am well aware, old friend,:. Optimus murmured evenly. .:But we cannot provoke the Decepticon army without knowing what they are searching for.:.

Ironhide flanked his other side. He reeked of stripped wires and melted circuitry.

.:I’ve never seen Bee move like that.:. He began. .:He was about as reckless as a combiner in Crystal City.:.

.:Yes.:. Ultra Magnus observed. .:I believed his training drills were the extent of his combative abilities. I am glad I was mistaken.:.

.:Bumblebee has proven himself capable time and again.:. Optimus corrected. .:Yet I am troubled by the recent developments in his behavior.:.

Raph, who had been observing from the raised platform with his laptop, furrowed his brow. The young human set his precious computer down before trotting down the stairs toward his partner.  He paused in front of the despondent scout.

“Bee? Are you ok?”

Bumblebee beeped mournfully, a melancholic sound that reflected his internal struggle. He looked up, his optics dull and unfocused for a moment before he gave a faint nod. “I will be.”

Jack lingered on the battlefield as Huffer, Hoist, Grapple, and a plethora of human transport vehicles rallied alien scraps through the ground bridge. He couldn’t shake the image of Bumblebee tearing through the battlefield like an agent of divine judgment.

Jack’s thoughts shifted to Sam. They had exchanged numbers and stayed in regular contact for the past few weeks. He was reminded of the way Bumblebee’s name had caught in Sam’s throat during their last conversation. Pulling out his Blackberry—yes, he had finally upgraded from his high school flip phone—he sent an anxious message. It took a minute for the receiver to respond.

ladiesman217: wsp

JackD1994: wanna meet?

ladiesman217: dyin to c me?

JackD1994: you wish

ladiesman217: leo invited me to a party

ladiesman217: tons of high performance stuff

ladiesman217: he knows a guy who knows a guy

JackD1994: risky much

ladiesman217: wdym risk is practically my middle name

Jack huffed before a smile wiggled onto his face.

ladiesman217: saved the world 2ce. didn’t happen bcuz i sat on my ass

JackD1994: fine but dont get me arrested

Jack pocketed his phone, the address fresh in his mind. His fingers had been itching to get behind the wheel, to feel the vibration of powerful engines throughout his body, and the feeling of dominance as he recklessly shifted gears and swung the steering wheel with repressed aggression.

He never really got to drive with Arcee—it was her body, after all. He observed as Agent Fowler interrogated the human workers. Luckily for the Autobots, the hydroelectric plant was almost fully automated, save for a disheveled night guard and a haggled scientist who had forgotten his bag on the job.

They had both retreated to the basement when a gargantuan dump truck flew through the security checkpoint and rammed into the side of the plant with a force strong enough to send shockwaves up the building. As the terrified scientist articulated his feelings rather aggressively with his hands, Fowler’s eyes hyper-focused on the chain slung around the man’s neck.

The professor halted his ministrations when the special agent whispered a question. The man slipped his finger under the pendant, showing it off, spinning the government operative a tale. Fowler suddenly dug into his pockets before brandishing a thick wad of $50 bills.

The scientist’s eyes bulged. Perhaps working for a power plant wasn’t the most lucrative job, especially when the workforce was almost entirely mechanized. His eyes ping-ponged between Fowler and the stack of money before he swiftly pulled the necklace over his head and practically threw it at Fowler.

In turn, Fowler sacrificed what could have paid almost two months of New York rent before clasping his hands over the technician’s shoulders. He drew the white coat close, his face pressed to the scientist’s left ear. Whatever he said held water, as the analyst’s smile faded, replaced by a distressed grimace. Fowler slowly eased his grip, staring at the researcher before completely letting him go and walking away.

What was that about?

At NEST, Prowl approached Optimus with a hardened expression. He carried a data pad between his platinum servos. His visor glowed a ghostly yellow as he analyzed the Autobot leader. He was sitting on a berth under a herd of humans. Each was providing a different service: some were at his pedes, buffing out scrapes, others were at his waist, welding the soft mesh plating. There was even one on his shoulder, buffing the base of Optimus’ audial.

As Prowl approached, however, the humans slowed, staring warily. Even the one perched on Prime’s shoulder seemed to recede into himself. Prowl was cold, and his EM field reflected as much.

“I thank you for your services, Cade, but may you please excuse us?”

“Sure thing, Big Guy.” The brown-haired human, Cade, twinkled. He patted the Autobot’s audial fin before Optimus held a hand out for him to clamber onto. Similarly, the humans below began to retreat, gathering their rotary buffers, toolboxes, microfiber rags, and waxes.

.:It seems that you are another victim of the human infestation.:. Prowl commented as the crew of humans shuffled away. Cade threw his head back, chocolate eyes filled with curiosity before he, too, turned his attention elsewhere.

.:They are a young species.:. Prime hummed, his message endowed with the glyphs for affection and mirth.

.:They are a primitive and violent species, slaved to their baser instincts.:. Prowl scoffed.

.:Are we so different?.:. Optimus rebuked. Prowl avoided his gaze, absorbing himself into the data pad clenched in his grip.

.:Agent Fowler approached me after he returned with the cleanup crew.:. He pulled something minuscule from his subspace and held his palm out to the Prime. In it lay a leather band decorated with what could have been a piece of silver shrapnel; but Optimus knew better.

.:A shard of the All Spark. I believed the pieces held by the U.S Military and Samuel were the only remnants we had.:.

.:Apparently not; they were only the largest remnants. The scientist wearing it was working in Mission City in 2007. He had pilfered it after finding it on the side of the road. A token of his survival. He carried it around his neck for five years, believing it to be a ‘cool rock.’.:.

Optimus stared in silent resolve. Little did the human know, he carried pieces of an eldritch god beyond earthly comprehension. Prowl dropped the engraved stone into the Supreme Commander's palm. If the war hadn’t ravaged Cybertron, the Prime’s sacred duty would have been the protection of the All Spark. Optimus placed the sliver in his subspace compartment for later observation.

.:Red Alert and I have been monitoring Decepticon incursions around the globe,:. Prowl began. .:We can only assume the increase of espionage activity is due to the unclaimed All Spark fragments. We are unsure of how the Decepticons pinpointed their location, considering the piled organic interference. Managed by primitive carbon-based servos, the condensed All Spark energy emanating from the splinters is barely enough to charge an electric toothbrush. I have compiled a team to maintain constant surveillance with Teletrann-1 in the hopes of uncovering another fragment.:.

.:Proceed with caution, Prowl. I have full faith that you and your unit will return successful. Keep me informed.:.

With a stiff nod, Prowl exited and made his way to Autobot Hanger 2.

“So.” Optimus’ gaze fell. Burnt umber cradled electric blue. Cade Yeager stood by his pede with his arms crossed. “Do you guys always talk with your mouths closed?”

Chapter Text

The dry heat of the Las Vegas night was dissected only by the roar of engines and bass-booted music. The takeover bustled with life; both human and alien. Sizzling V8’s and laser headlights forced pigeons from their nests. Crowds of young motor enthusiasts gathered around the most impressive vehicles. Little to their knowledge, a group of highly advanced robotic life forms from another planet were most curious about their rebellious activities. Within the Ark, Ultra Magnus and Optimus Prime hovered behind Jazz, Prowl, and Red Alert, optics fixated on the screen in front of them.

The deep space interceptor had been moved to an underground bunker; it was the only place large enough to hold it. Almost all human patrol units had retired for the night, succeeded by their metal counterparts. They need not know of the Autobots' newfound relic. The Cybertronians had been on this planet long enough to understand when information must be withheld and when it must be disclosed. Jazz huffed. The humans foolishly believed them to be equals; they had a habit of being bigger than their bearings. They ignored the fact that Ultra Magnus’ servos were stained with as much purple and pink as Starscream’s. Lennox believed himself a soldier, but had never cordoned a part of his neural net to make space for enough forgotten names to repopulate cities. Simmons previously considered himself Black Ops, but had never held everything that a bot ever was and ever would be in his servos.

They played a part among the humans—wore a featherweight mask that was slowly melding to their real face. The only bot who hadn’t become a victim of method acting was Jazz. He chose to remain his most authentic self, and to do that, he stayed as far away from the human race as he could. He saw what Lennox had done to Ironhide. What Sam did to Bee. Jack to Arcee. He could never lie like that, not to beings so naive. To protect his spark, he radiated calm, yet threatening waves. To the humans, it felt like staring into an abyss that undoubtedly stared back. It scared them.

He swore he would not be swayed, altered, or molded, yet his consumption of human mediums told otherwise. The joyous organic purrs and howls, crashing cymbals and beating drums, caressed his internals. It touched everything he ever was, and maybe what he could be. By Cybertronian standards, the form of mouth noise was carnal, primitive, and savage, but to Jazz, it was love. He felt it from the humans whenever they got too close to his boisterous speaker system. When Sunstreaker told him to shut up, they pleaded for him to be louder. They hummed, swayed, and thrashed their bodies to the fervent rhythm. He tuned his audios to exclude the noise from his comrades, seduced by the thumping bass over the screen.

.:Awh, Prowler,:. he groaned. .:I should be out there with those bots; makin’ sure they don’t get into trouble.:. He didn’t care about the Autobots. Not right now, at least.

.:This is a reconnaissance assignment, Jazz. It is above you.:. Scrutinized Prowl.

.:But not above us, huh?:. Sunstreaker growled as an unaware youth brushed his side.

.:Don’t take it personally, soldier,:. Droned Ultra Magnus. He turned to look at Jazz. He looked different. .:You’re still missing your appendage. Perhaps you will get to go on another mission when it is reattached.:.

Optimus Prime hummed in agreement, optics engrossed in the live feeds from Arcee, Ironhide, Kup, and Bumblebee. A passing boy wolf-whistled at Arcee. The cobalt blue Aprilia RSV4 garnered quite the crowd. Ultra Magnus sighed, another human behavior that the strange visitors adopted.

.:This kind of nonsense,:. he muttered, .:is why we cannot allow unchecked human gatherings. These creatures always seem to find themselves in some Earth-shattering peril.:. Optimus smiled wistfully. Thanks to Teletrann-1, a new sliver was discovered nearby. They were unable to track its unique energy signature after its splintering from the Cube in 2007, but in the last six months, it had traveled across the United States; from Minnesota to New York to Florida to Louisiana and finally, Nevada. They did not expect it to be in what the humans would call a “street race.” Why there were so few places to race safely, the Autobots couldn’t fathom. In Cybertron’s past, there were entire planets dedicated to speed.

.:Did you see that kid’s face?:. Sideswipe remarked, drawing the Prime’s attention back to the mission at hand. After the incident with the Constructicons, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Bumblebee and Arcee were buffed, polished, and detailed to the fullest extent. They wanted to employ Mirage, as he was a highly valued covert operative with a Mercedes CLK GTR vehicle mode, but he was adverse to the human help at NEST. He would blow a fuse if he was forced to be oogled by greenhorn human youths.

Mikeala Banes, Cade Yeager, and his detailing crew were exhausted after dealing with the nagging ministrations of a vain Sunstreaker and picky Bumblebee. Unfortunately, their exhaustion left Optimus Prime, Jazz, Bulkhead, and Smokescreen with missing paint.

“Incredible!” A human in his mid-twenties whispered, practically drooling over the twins' paint jobs. They were parked side by side in the middle of the overcrowded lot. Whatever sports cars thought they were impressive were dwarfed by the relishing lamborghinis. Thankfully, they had kept their hoods latched.

.:The humans know quality when they see it.:. Simpered Sunstreaker.

.:You two are unbelievable,:. Prowl snorted. .:This isn’t a car show.:.

.:It definitely is.:. Jazz rebuked, before raising his arms in mock surrender. Below the visor, Prowl’s eyes narrowed. While attitude from Jazz certainly wasn’t new, he had never known it to be so rapid-fire.

.:Keep focus, soldiers:. threatened Ultra Magnus. The ambiance became burdened, stifling the quibbling subordinates and unfortunately causing Red Alert to curl into himself. .:We are attending surveillance, not quipping like New Sparks.:.

.:Awh, stick it in neutral, Magnus:. Ironhide drawled. His deep southern twang rolled lazily. If Ultra Magnus was viewed as old, then Ironhide and Kup were ancient. Despite their pickup truck alternate modes, they were the only bots who could keep the twins in check, and they were deployed as such. They were positioned at the far end of the lot; they didn’t exactly fit in with the rally of supercars and two-door coupes.

“Holy shit. Dude, look!” A human whispered, exhilaration evident in his tone.

“At what?” Another human, a bit older and much more exasperated, queried.

“It’s a 1946 Hudson Big Boy! Wow, look at the paint! It looks like seafoam green, but somehow, it’s greener! Darker too! It has to be custom, but it’s perfectly even! It’s so shiny, like it hasn’t aged a day in its life!” He circled around the pickup before stopping at the front bumper. He leaned down. “The chrome is practically untouched! There isn’t a fingerprint or scratch on him! Imagine the mileage on this guy!”

The human continued to feed praises as Kup eased into his shocks, basking in the attention.

.:Looks like you got a secret admirer, Kup!:. Jazz quibbled.

“C’mon, Raul,” the other human moaned. “Disaster’s bringing the new lot and he’s gonna start bidding soon. You made me miss it last time when you saw that C3.”

“Wait, wait, wait, man! Just let me get a picture and then you can look at all the cars you can’t afford!” The boy, Raul, shoved his flip phone into the other boy’s hands before stumbling to the side of the Hudson. He stood close, but not touching. Kup could feel his murky EM field vibrate with unashamed excitement. He shivered.

“Like you can afford that,” the other youth hissed as he held the camera to Raul’s grinning form. He buried his smile, wanting to show the girls on his block a hardened, edgier version of himself.

“Done. Now come on!” The young man practically bounced toward his friend, eager to examine the photo.

“Dude!” He whined. “I’m smiling! Take another one.”

Raul moved back toward the truck before the man grabbed the back of his leather jacket.

“No way, Hasslehoff! Move!” He was shoved forward harshly, but his gaze lingered on Kup. The elderbot flashed his headlights, and Raul’s jaw dropped. Was the owner nearby? Did he see all that? He was suddenly flush with embarrassment as he made his way toward the center of the lot, before almost being run over by a woman clad in black on a blue motorcycle.

Arcee’s lithe alternate mode weaved through the tightly packed crowd, her sensors strung high. She was used to attention; she practically swam in it every day, but this was too much. The music was too loud, the lights were too bright, and the humans too close. From his vantage point, Bumblebee watched the frenzied piranhas before him. He had chosen a position further from the crowd, yet the polished yellow and black custom concept Camaro pulled focus like a wounded animal by predators. He thought about changing his alternate mode; the 2012 Chevrolet Camaro SS was eye-catching, for sure, yet something about the consecrated leather of his interior always made him change his mind last minute. This form was a blessing that he wasn’t yet ready to part from.

His audios hitched with the hum of a bloodthirsty six cylinder. As a racer, he could never resist the throaty baritone of a powerful engine. Like a moth to a flame, his sensors honed as a sleek blue BMW rolled onto the lot. It would’ve been attractive if it wasn’t the equivalent of a mannequin to a Cybertronian. A young man exited the vehicle, followed by another. The glow of the light haloed his unruly chestnut locs as he scratched at his stubble. His fitted Diesel shirt was wrinkled, and he wore a long sleeve below. There was no point, though; he had it rolled up to his forearm anyways. His belt buckle shone through the tee, and his baggy, dirt-washed jeans were lowslung on his hips. His weathered converse were untied. Beneath the rolled-up thermal, the kisses of Primus gilded his hands. Wide, breathtaking greens swept the lot before a mischievous grin painted his face. There stood the ghost of a boy.

Bumblebee’s spark hurt, stirred with something long imprisoned. Back at NEST, Optimus Prime was frozen.

.:Samuel James Witwicky. The Allspark boy.:. Prowl answered, although no one really asked.

“What’s he doing here?” Arcee confirmed, her voice tinged with surprise. She was never familiar with the boy, although he was the first human she and Team Prime met after crashing years ago. She aided him in Mission City and in Egypt, but nothing about him was truly special. He was a victim of circumstance, and in her opinion, Mikaela was far more useful. Arcee wasn’t one to look kindly on those who couldn’t pull their weight.

The other man, flaunting rich ebony locs and golden skin, threw his keys at Sam in mock aggression, earning a exasperated huff. Before the silence between the Autobots could lift, another, taller, figure approached Sam. Cowled in a dark hoodie, the young men exchanged a handshake-turned-hug. Sam playfully tugged on the front of the boy’s hoodie, jostling him around before letting go. The supposedly younger man exclaimed before the two were reduced to feline swatting. The taller youth pulled his hoodie back, rustling his unkempt hair.

.:Jack?:. Arcee mumbled, her phrasing tinged with symbols for disbelief and surprisingly, hurt. Everyone’s attention was rapt now.

.:What in Primus’ name?:. Ironhide’s dixie brogue shattered the emotion.

“Again?” Sideswipe’s grumble tainted Ironhide’s words. He never could keep his mouth shut.

The silence burned through the commotion, accented by the heavy thumping of bass and laughter.

.:What do you mean, again?:. Prowl boiled.

.:Oh,:. Sunstreaker mused. His message lacked proper grammar and basic etiquette reserved for those of higher status. .:Yeah, we saw Jack sneaking away a couple weeks ago to meet with that kid. Don’t know how Red Alert didn’t notice.:.

They all stared at Red Alert. He whipped his head to and fro, looking between Prowl, Ultra Magnus, Jazz, and Optimus Prime before hanging it in a pathetic groan.

.:We are going to talk about this. Later.:. Magnus rumbled. The ensemble returned their optics to the screen. Leo Spitz motioned for the two boys to follow him.

.:Follow him.:. Optimus Prime hummed.

.:We can’t. Now that Jack’s in the picture, we can’t risk him breaking our cover. We need a smaller operative.:.

Bumblebee’s headlights burned as his engine thundered. He could count his eyelashes, yet he couldn’t speak to him.

.:Prowl. Summon Blaster. Release Steeljaw.:.

“Hey—Dude!” Jack yelped as he pulled his hoodie off his head. Sam continued to smirk before dangling a pair of glistening BMW keys in front of his head. “You in?”

Before Jack could say no, then yes, Leo turned to him. Sweat glistened on his forehead. “Yo, papa,” Leo motioned at Sam. “Bad news.”

A skinny man in a black and red suit cut through the crowd. The air curdled with tension. He was so pale that his skin seemed almost colorless, and his eyes were the most curious shade of brown. In the shifting headlights, they seemed to swing between chestnut and red. His eye bags were heavy enough to be charged as carry-ons on a flight, and the mouth below his double pencil mustache was pulled taut. His hawk-like nose was as sharp as a blade. The music seemed to slow to a crawl, and the silence consumed the herd. The air was palpable as the man held his head high. Leo’s head lowered as Sam looked back and forth between he and the intimidant. Jack’s face hardened. He may have been as non-confrontational as a declawed cat, but he still knew how to use a gun.

The scavenger was rather short, the same height as Sam, yet he exuded an atmosphere taller than Jack. He paused directly in front of the young men. “You,” he drawled, “are new.”

“I didn’t notice.” Sam snapped, and the man’s eyebrow raised. Jack and Leo said nothing. The man stepped forward, and Sam tried to take a step back, but the BMW blocked his path. Another step was taken before the two men were chest to chest.

“I didn’t know we were that close.” Sam whispered. Predator eyes analyzed every auburn hair on the boy’s head. It was as if he was mapping his entire being with his eyes.

“I remember you!” The man gaped. “You’re Sam Witwicky! The aliens got you!”

“Aliens? I don’t know any aliens. Aliens aren’t real.” Sam sneered, but his brow glistened. “I’ve never met an alien. Have you?” He looked at Jack.

“No, no, never. Aliens aren’t real.” Jack beat back.

The man absorbed Jack’s presence. “Who are you?” He glared.

“I invited them.” Leo stepped forward, separating the two men, one of which was still sprawled over the door of the BMW. It’s clear he held authority the other two men lacked. For a moment, the elder man bounced between Leo, Sam, and Jack before holding his ghostly hand to the group.

“My name is Masterson. Welcome to Street Demons. We are a circuit of what you would call…” He paused, ghost of words flitting across his tongue. “Car enthusiasts. Let me make this clear: you are not to speak of this place, look for this place, or even think of this place outside of this parking lot. Whatever happens here, stays here. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Jack murmured, before reigning in his cadet training. Masterson gave him another filthy look before turning back towards Sam.

“You too, alien boy.”

“Yeah, yeah, man, I got it.” He snarled before Masterson gave him a slow nod.

“Now that that is established,” he reached into his pocket. “Can you drive?”

“Yes.” He threw a pair of keys at Sam, who then handed them off to Jack. Again.

“Good. This is my personal racing circuit. Drivers from Japan to Saudi Arabia to Australia come here to race against the best of the best. Let’s see if you’re better.” Masterson swiftly pivoted, beckoning motionlessly. The three men stood in silence.

“Yeah, thanks Leo, I didn’t know slumming it with fucking Dom Toretto.”

“What?” Leo attempted to whisper, but it came out as a screech instead.

“Yeah, you heard what I said! Where did you even meet this guy?” Sam snapped back as he began to speed-walk toward the fading Masterson. Jack snorted. Leave it to him to get himself submerged in Fast and Furious with an accredited crash-out and a cracked conspiracy theorist.

Leo rushed to Sam’s side. “Where the hell did you get that—He said he was an enthusiast! The guy races cars. Who says they aren’t his?”

“His face!” Sam exploded. “His face said that! No guy that looks like Dracula doesn’t do illegal activities!” He gestured to the rows of luxury cars. “And now that I think about it, how many people who aren’t criminal masterminds or raging capitalists can afford a Mercedes-Benz SLS AMG?” He pointed at the aforementioned vehicle to his left. “Especially not someone I’ve never heard of! You know how many years it would take for me to afford that? On my salary?”

Jack sidled up to the squabblers, giving them a wide berth. Sam was like a bomb ready to go off. Jack had built an air of mysticism around him, imagining the young man as some untouchable messenger of gods long forgotten, yet here he was, pissing and whining about what should have concerned a normal person. Sam was far from normal.

Leo opened his mouth to offer an estimate price, which was quickly shot down by Sam’s berating. “My whole life! My whole life it would take me to afford that car, and it’s sitting right next to a…” He paused for a beat, analyzing the magenta-red sports car next to the easier Mercedes. “A Pagani. A carbon-top Pagani.” His glare bore holes into Leo’s head.

“Fair point.” Leo succumbed. “But what now? We’re here, might as well enjoy it. I mean, if we leave now we’ll look suspicious, and to these guys, suspicious might mean cops, and we might be 50 Cent by the end of the night.”

“What?” Sam lashed.

“Sam.” Jack’s stern monotone filtered through the chaos. His figure cast a shadow. “You’ve literally saved the world twice. Sure, this sucks, as in 'lose our jobs' kind of suck, but you shouldn’t let a small fry like Masterson get under your skin.”

Sam bit his lip and itched the nape of his neck. “Easy for you to say.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jack bridled.

Sam sighed “No, nevermind. You’re right. Shit, you’re right, but just because I’ve faced the end of the world doesn’t make living in it easier. At the end of the day, my work is done, so now I get to be concerned with all of…” He flung his arms out before slinging them both behind his head. “This. I’ve rebuilt my life from the ground up. I can’t afford for it to be taken by anything but the psychotic, alien-driven apocalypse.” Sam shoved past Jack. Foggy blues lingered on the fading figure, Leo not far behind. He huffed before jogging to catch up with the two neurotics.

After forcing their way to the front of a looming crowd, the young men were eye-level to a large black semi-truck. The excitement was palpable as critics leaned forward. Masterson flung his fist against the aluminum of the trailer and the ramp crept backward before fully cementing itself to the asphalt. A man stepped out of the trailer, beckoning forward.  Polished snow glided down the ramp. Wispy decals emboldened its front fenders. Golden chrome rims glittered and flashed to the rhythms of headlights. The hum of the throaty engine nuzzled the prickle in Jack’s brain. Masterson’s keys could crack with how tight he was holding them. His heart squeezed as a Ferrari Testarossa rolled down the ramp.

Masterson walked toward Jack, his gaze soliciting something Jack hesitated to offer. “You mean I get to…” he looked from the Ferrari to Masterson to Sam, who was equally flabbergasted. Leo was no where to be seen.

Masterson raised a brow before throwing his head back in a wicked laugh. “You? This? Hell no.” Jack’s ears darkened, and he ran his hand through his hair.

The automotive kingpin took a moment to gather himself, a ghost of a smirk etched on his face. “You’re driving the shitbox behind it.”

A faded blue 1985 Pontiac Fiero inched behind, its fragile engine swamped by the deafening roar of the supercar. Its rims were formally red, but the paint had chipped, leaving splotches of silver, and the twin stripes on its trunk had spoiled to an ash gray. What struck Jack, however, was its undercarriage—it was an untarnished gold. How it was so well-maintained compared to the rest of the vehicle was a mystery. Jack hummed. Sure, the mid-engine car paled in comparison to the Testarossa , but it was a handsome statement vehicle nonetheless. With a bit of TLC and axle grease, it would look as good as new.

Jack looked at the keys. “I’ll drive for you tonight.”

“Good boy—“

“But,” Jack steeled, “What do I get out of it?”

The red-eyed man raised a brow. “Extortionist, aren’t you? How about…” He sifted through the herd of supercars removed from the trailer. “The car. I will place a bet on you, and if you win, you get to leave with the Fiero. No strings attached.”

Jack’s eyes widened. “It might need a lot of work, but that’s a lot of money.”

“Yes, well, I’ll have more by the end of the night when you win.” Jack harrumphed. After the racing incident with Vince, he began to explore rallying on his own. With his mother’s car, he swerved, bobbed, clutched, and maneuvered his way throughout the vacant Jasper streets. His mother grilled him, demanding to know where he was escaping to in the middle of night, but he had an excuse prepped before the conversations could morph into lectures.

When he became a part of NEST, he distanced himself from his unspoken attraction. But the pulsing in the corner of his brain found himself depressing invisible pedals below his seat at lunch, or grasping for the gearstick while riding shotgun. Jack wouldn’t claim he was Fujiwara level, but he garnered enough passive skills to rumble with cars better than a 2005 Hyundai Accent.

He held his hand out, squirreling away the keys. “Deal?”

Masterson stared at his hand, then his face, before a smile cracked his lip, flaunting what were probably veneers. “Good man.” He then pointed his finger in the sky and swung it around. A silent command shuffled the crowd away as the rest of the cars rolled out of the trailer and toward the interstate. The man within the Pontiac exited and skittered back up the ramp, disappearing into the trailer. The neglected Pontiac idled, forsaken by its flock.

Sam swam through the departing crowd, Jack’s head bobbing over the sea. The ravenette jumped when Sam clasped his shoulder.

“What’s happening? Why are they leaving?”

With a heavy sigh, Jack waded toward the two-seater, Sam’s arms heavy on his shoulders. After they had braved the sea and Sam let go, Jack took the opportunity to survey his chariot. He hovered hungrily, milking every patch, chip, and occasional scrape. He hadn’t been able to afford his own car yet; it felt like cheating.

Sam leaned on the rear fender, picking at his palm. “Why are you examining this piece of crap like it’s all that and a bag of chips? My Mazda could eat it for lunch…”

He looked up at Jack. The youth was frozen at the front bumper, staring at something etched above the grill.

“What’s wrong?” Sam faltered. He raised himself from his languor and moved to stand parallel to Jack.

“Shit.”

Jack took a shaky breath, heart pounding in his chest. “It’s a Decepticon.”

.:It is covert operative Punch.:. Prowl uttered through the communications link. His tone carried an air of disbelief, although this phrasing was somewhat antiquated. It took an extraordinary event to breach Prowl's usually composed exterior. Steel Jaw lingered in the bushes behind the two boys. He too had established a one way feed with his monitoring superiors. .:He was ordered to remain in deep cover for as long as possible, but has not been seen or heard from since the fall of Praxus. We had presumed him to be deceased... or, at the very least, captured.:. The message was delivered in the same methodical, meticulous manner as if discussing something of little consequence—except the weight of the revelation was unmistakable.

.:Dead’s better than captured.:. Jazz murmured, one hand casually rubbing his chin. His smile had long since faded, replaced with the calculating optics of a Second in Command.

.:Red Alert, establish a communications line.:. Optimus Prime rumbled.

.:I can’t!:. The Chevy Caprice sputtered. “He’s not answering! The signal just keeps bouncing back—he must be in stasis!”

.:Do you have his spark signature?:. Ultra Magnus responded.

.:Yes, sir.:.

.:Are you able to wirelessly bypass his firewall and hack into his software?:.

.:No. I would need someone to manually plug in as a conduit; Steeljaw, preferably. However, isn’t that…:. The fire chief vehicle hesitated. .:Invasive?:.

“.:t is necessary.:.

“What now?” Sam sought, his voice rising in panic.

“We can’t leave.” Jack patted himself down. As seconds passed, he grew more frantic. He flipped around, eyes darting toward the melting mass of netizens. “I-I can’t find my phone!”

“Well, did you have it when you left?” Sam wiped his brow.

“I can’t remember!” They both looked toward the slumbering beast. Sam’s lip quivered, then gaped as Jack leaned forward and tentatively rapped his knuckles against the hood of the vehicle. They stood low, legs primed like cornered prey. Their breathing was labored, and Sam’s eyes shifted as the Fiero ceased to move. There was no crackling of pistons, no rattling of vents, nothing.

“Is it… asleep?” Sam pried.

“They don’t sleep. They go into stasis, and only when something’s wrong…” Jack straightened, adjusting his sleeves. “Call Bumblebee.”

“What?!”

“You heard me!” His voice cracked with urgency. “Open your phone and call him. This is bigger than us now.”

Sam sighed before digging into his own pocket, pulling out his cellular with great struggle. He looked back to Jack, before slamming it into his hand and walking away. He ran his hands over his face.

Jack twisted the phone. “I don’t know how to use this.”

Sam huffed, snatched the iPhone 3G, and entered his password. He then opened his contacts and practically threw the phone back at Jack before stomping toward his previous brooding spot.

Jack scrolled until he happened upon a series of characters that couldn’t possibly be a phone number. It was a radio link, different from the standard Autobot communications unit. Since humans didn’t have HUDs or highly-advanced core processing units, they required verbal commands. The Autobots already had internal communications installed, and with a bit of tweaking, they could be primed to tap into Earth’s radio waves.

Jack clicked on the contact and put it on speakerphone. As the familiar melody of waiting filled the air, Sam paced. He stared at the phone like he would loaded gun.

The dial tone hummed, the sound almost deafening in its emptiness. There was no voicemail. Bumblebee didn’t pick up.

Jack looked back at Sam, shoulders slumped as the silence dragged on. His eyes were distant and downcast. He held his palm out as Jack grimaced and handed back his phone, which was promptly buried in a Wrangler pocket.“I guess we’re on our own.”

“Great.”

Jack cautiously fingered the car door.

“What are you doing?” Sam seethed, teeth bared.

“This is our responsibility now. I made a deal with Masterson.”

Sam’s eyes bulged as his lip folded, revealing teeth. “Oh, great, thanks. We really needed that.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “If I win, I get the car. Now that we know the car isn’t a car, and if I still win, I can report it to NEST when we’re done.”

He looked at Sam, who looked like he was about to snap. “I promise they won’t know you were here.”

He sucked his teeth. “That’s not it, it’s just...” A stream of ‘what if’s’ tested the dam of his brain. What if he lost. He moaned. “Never mind.” He threw his hands in the air. “Never mind. Get in the car.” Sam hissed. He opened the passenger side and flopped into the seat. Jack followed suit, smoothing his palms over the gritty leather wheel. It was warm, and the pinch of ozone teased his nose. He ran a thumb over the horn before stiffening.

“What is it now?” Sam groaned.

“Look.” The brunette leaned over the dividing armrest. “It’s an Autobot symbol…”

Sam cocked a brow. “That doesn’t make any sense. It’s a Decepticon, we know that.”

“I don’t know…” Jack trailed off, “But we don’t have time for this.” He fished the key from his pocket and warily slid it into the ignition. The engine purred to life, the raspy hiss tickling the bottom of Jack’s feet. Sam gripped the handlebar above the window.

The yellow-tinted headlights blazed with vigor, and the duo pulled out of the lot, following the swarm of exotic tuners. Deep within the bushes, the yowl of a wild cat broke the night.

Chapter Text

The nemesis loomed within the blackened sky like a bad omen. Ground troops lined the hallways at ease. The dark purple beast was an agent of destruction commissioned specifically for Megatron. Rumor has it that it was built from the foraged pieces of the fallen Titan, Trypticon.

Submerged in its medical bay, Knock Out rooted within Long Haul's grill, replacing fried and burnt circuits and welding bursted energon lines. It had been almost 16 days since the failed recovery of the All Spark fragment at Sherman Dam, and the Constructicon was still incapacitated. His transmission was shot to all hell, and Ironhide, the big brute, had near extinguished his spark. Scrapper stood at his bedside like a guard dog, snarling at anyone who dared invade the consecrated space where his brother in arms lay. He was also disturbing Knock Out’s peace. Breakdown couldn’t do menial tasks such as replacing and cleaning the workspace without bashing into the prowling gestalt leader or knocking over vials in an attempt to avoid him. The space was simply not big enough for two trucks.

The chief medical officer had long since given up on attempting to make Scrapper leave.  Whenever he decided to take a break—whether it be to take care of his own finish or refuel—he was met with mewls from Hook or Mixmaster in the hall asking about Long Haul's condition, or Bonecrusher demanding him to get back to work. He was contemplating killing Long Haul himself, just so the others would leave him alone, but he had seen what Mixmaster could do with a handful of dirt, or what Scrapper could do with a scalpel. They were scientists, after all. Damn good ones too. If any one of them had chosen the art of mechanics rather than construction, they could possibly surpass the great Autobot CMO Ratchet. Possibly.

A jumble of footsteps clattered from the other side of his door. With a cocked brow, Knock Out put down his welder and rolled his shoulders, making his way toward the ruckus outside. Scrapper followed suite. His hand hovered over the keypad for a microsecond before he was slave to his nosy nature. They followed the scrambling of Vehicons, before poking thier heads into one of the nearby war rooms. A gunmetal gray helmet parted the gathering troops like Moses the sea, before settling beside Soundwave.

.:What have you to report?:. Megatron asked.

The mute third-in-command pointed toward a retrograde map of Earth. Throughout the Decepticon lineage, there have been many strange bots, but Soundwave stood chief among them. No one ever heard him speak, falter, or sway in the face of peril. He was cryptic among the troops; they never saw him refuel or even take a break, if they ever saw him at all. Humans may liken him to the fictional entity Slenderman, and at this point, no bot could remember a time where he wasn’t a part of the Decepticon ranks.

Basking in the will-o'-the-wisp stood Megatron, squinting at the screen. He seemed to hover, weightless, above the congregation—an Icarus reborn. His existence brought gods to their knees, and his protoform gray finish coddled death. The Decepticon cause was a revolution of the damned—a hand for those who were butchered and mangled. At least it was before the AllSpark disappeared. Now, it weeped with the wretched—banners woven with the anguish of those twisted by war’s insatiable hunger.

Before Earth’s discovery, the masses believed the AllSpark lay hidden, locked, and concealed by a mythical order to shield the nascent generation from the flames of war. Megatron knew better, when he scorched the fabric of the universe for its divinity. He was so close—so close—before he choked on his future. He could still feel the melting of his spark and the seizing of his circuits, praying to the god that orchestrated his demise. He would never again be deceived. No, Megatron had transcended such weakness.

His eyes were fixated on the pulsing red dot in the southwest corner of the United States. The thunderous clacking of thrusters against the bridge caused the subordinates to further envelop themselves against the glass walls of the Nemesis. Starscream was as fashionably late as ever as he sailed past Knock Out and Scrapper without so much as a glance. The Second in Command and CMO had accepted a sort of camaraderie born from the general distaste of the Decepticon cause. Less of it and more of the bots a part of it.

Starscream had been indoctrinated into the Decepticon cause at its zenith. He was molded into an explorer by the Functionist regime, charting virgin planets, and away from Cybertron for centuries at a time. He dabbled in political science, noting the discontent among the masses, warning leaders of their failing people. Time and time again, he was swept under the rug. He was not doing what he was programmed to do. Then the first tower fell, and people turned to him. Yet, he wasn’t there. He stood beside Megatron among the disquiet, directing, analyzing, forging a path of light for those kept in the dark.

However, it didn’t take much for the Decepticon cause to fall to something nasty. Megatron didn’t see, too focused on the blazing path before him to acknowledge the bodies that built his bridge. Either that, or he was ignorant, and believed that this was the only way to enact change. That’s when Starscream began to observe the rebellion with polished optics. He fixated on the dot.

.:Another fragment.:. Megatron hummed. The underlying intention of his communications glyphs were accented with the tell-tale Kaonian dialect, but it seemed more refined in a sense. It was aggressive, but not overbearing. 

The second-in-command whispered, his optics narrowing as he leaned in closer..:The emergence of another fragment not more than 3 weeks since the last is… odd. Especially since the Autobots are now aware of thier existence.:. A silent question hung in the air. Soundwave separated his two superiors from the console before typing away. An indecipherable line of code spewed. Megatron looked to Starscream, his message sharp and laced with tones of frustration.

.:If you have doubts about Soundwave’s abilities, Starscream, perhaps you should voice them more overtly.:. The F-22 huffed. .:We must remain covert, lest the Autobots react as they did last time.:. He sent a pointed glare toward Scrapper, who still hiding behind the door, cowering within his own field. Knockout snickered. .:Soundwave, Release Ravage and Laserbeak, but keep them at a distance. They will be easily spotted without aerial cover.:.

Soundwave’s chestplate detached, and a winged drone hovered around the supreme commander of the Decepticons. His shoulder-mounted gatling gun sprang from his shoulder and transformed into a rover mimicking an earthen feline.

Megatron held out his arm out and the drone perched on, beeping softly. Megatron motioned toward the screen before thin wires snaked from the aerial rover and plugged into one of the many ports of the console. The cassette’s optics flashed before a flat beep broke the extending silence. Megatron flung out his arm, and the bird disappeared into the halls of the Nemesis. Ravage followed suit. If one didn’t watch it pounce off, they would have never heard it leave.

.:Soundwave, open a ground bridge.:.

The chaos of burning rubber and cheering crowds lined the rock face of a cliff. The road was harrowing, teeming with naturally occurring hairpins, chicanes, corkscrews, and other generally unavoidable obstacles. The perfect place for a race. Most cars had been left parked at the takeover lot; only the best drivers could navigate the adrenaline-pumping mountain top. The dry air rattled exhausts, and engines roared as the crowd surged with excitement.

Jackson Darby sat in the seat of a blue and gold Pontiac Fiero, white knuckles indenting the steering wheel. Next to him clung Sam Witwicky.

“Lots of cars here,” Jack whispered, attempting to mitigate the silence. Sam only shifted, and Jack leaned forward to press his head against the wheel. For a split second, he hesitated, reminded of his predicament. This wasn’t Bumblebee or Optimus Prime—he wouldn’t put his sweaty forehead on a stranger! He sat back up and unease gnawed at his gut. Leery eyes sneered at the obnoxiously loud drivers next to him. They whooped and hollered taunts at their competition, drunken voices overflowing with confidence.

An all-American hero type in a black Pontiac Firebird bantered with a younger, souped-up GT500KR driver. He was parked in between them, but they looked right through him; believing themselves superior. Jack rolled to the edge of a stop sign, the grille touching the invisible starting line. The car idled as Sam glanced at his phone. It was 11:51. He then shoved it hastily into the back seat, itching at his palm.

Jack scrutinized the marks on his hands; they lit up with the blaze of headlights. Did he always pick at the scars like this? Sam then looked up, before tilting his head toward the road, redirecting Jack’s focus. His heart hammered in his chest, and his left foot matched its rhythm. A pretty blonde in a bikini top and shorts that shouldn’t even be allowed to be worn outside waved a flag. Her blowout fluttered in the wind as she danced around a group of other girls, excited for the upcoming match.

She looked up, directly in front of the Pontiac Fiero, before waving coyly at Sam. He shifted in his seat before grinning back, albeit wholly nervous. His tension seemed to bleed through his pores as his grip on the overhead handlebars loosened. Jack snorted and shook his head, not without a smile. Sam seemed to attract the incredible, in both aliens from another planet and women.

The rev of engines was almost deafening as the girl was handed another flag. She spun them around in a dance, albeit a little clumsy. She then raised them both in the air. Jack shifted the car into drive, leaning forward in his seat. Time slowed as the flags dropped. Engines roared in unison, drowning out all other sounds. Jack closed his eyes briefly, muttering a silent prayer.

“God, I hope I don’t get us killed.”

He then put pedal to the metal as his rear tires spun wildly. The race was on.

.:If they were planning on racing, they’re surely going to regret choosing that hunk of junk.:. Sunstreaker sneered as the herd of cars dissapeared. His message, although not as uncouth as his usual, carried an undercurrent of disgust.

.:That ‘hunk of junk’ is one of your comrades, Sunstreaker. You’d best show some respect.:.

.:No offense, Prowl, but I think that’s the least of our worries.:. The third-in-command cocked a brow before looking to his superior. Jazz crossed his arms over his spark, leaning on the keyboard of Teletrann-1.

.:We received an Allspark signature, not an Autobot life signal. That leaves one question.:. He flung out his arms in an organic display of hostility. .:Where is the Allspark?:.

Silence blanketed the observation room, as even Optimus Prime blinked in surprise. He, too, had forgotten their true intentions, swept up in the supernatural allure of Sam Witwicky. The effect was instantaneous as Red Alert picked apart Teletraan’s logs, left hand separating and transforming into a series of cables, ports, and wires. He plugged his hand into the Ark, binary code flickering across his optics. His right hand was typing frantically on the keyboard at a pace that a human could never hope to achieve. The oversaturated grid of a Nevada mountain illuminated the screen. It was blanketed in a red circle.

.:It’s... everywhere?:. He whispered, swiveling towards his commanders. The ramrod dialect was peppered with disbelief. His hand was still typing.

.:This is no time to be vague, officer; what does that mean?:.

.:What I mean is…:. he stuttered, .:all fragments have a different energy signature. That’s what makes them so hard to track. But when I piggyback off of the residual feedback of this specific sliver, it’s like it’s in a frenzy, vibrating-:.

.:Like it’s moving…:. Jazz finished.

Red Alert turned his attention back toward the screen. His hand had stopped typing and he pointed at the red mist covering mountain top. .:Within this red circle, it could be anywhere!:.

The war council stared at Red Alert, fields taut.

.:But that can’t be possible….:. Murmured Prowl. Within Cybertronian culture, the sentience of the Allspark had been frequently debated. It was a conduit of Primus. Its ways were mysterious, and theorists believed it could manipulate the world around it to satisfy its needs, but it could never be properly proved, as circumstances could always be subject to chance.

.:If it is running…:. Ultra Magnus began, .:Why is it running from us? We are its children.:. He gazed at Optimus, whose blank stare was fixed on the screen. .:You are Prime!:.

The crowd turned to him expectantly, yet he could only stare at the screen before him. He had memorized almost every inch and rivet on the cube’s face. During his days as an archivist, Orion Pax had carried a paranormal and irrefutable obsession with the Allspark. Whenever he was plugged into the endless data stream of their home planet, his only solace from the stench of sin was its presence—a belief that it was there, and it was watching over him. A mother to an orphan.

He would sift for solar cycles on end with no rest, witnessing the corruption of the Senate through the optics of another. After all, he was responsible for making sure no one else did. He had seen servos amputate, maim, corrupt, and defile, but whenever it became too much, the hum of the Allspark in the back of his mind ionized his spark. He had never seen it, but he had countless visions of what it could be, like a dream. He swore, although never spoke of, techno-organic creatures with wingspans that cradled the sun, and Cybertronians that dwarfed him a thousand times over. He loved it, and even if the feeling wasn’t returned, he was glad to simply bathe in its presence.

Perhaps that was why Alpha Trion looked at him the way he did, or taught him how to look past the immoral and into the divine. He poured his spark into the Allspark, and forever his greatest mistake was parting from it. In the midnight hours of the war, without advisement from his war council or anyone that would have cautioned restraint, he cast the Allspark off-world in a juvenile attempt to safeguard it from the Decepticons, damning Cybertron.

.:We should recall Steeljaw and instruct him to find the shard.:. New sparks could not be reared, and natural Energon reserves dwindled. He would not let a new generation be born under war, forged to be snuffed. He then commissioned The Ark, which was really the most expensive suicide attempt, removing him and the Cybertronian race from the universal ecosystem. He couldn’t stand the massive loss of life on species far less developed, and the universe would be far better off without its robotic parasites. Leaving the Decepticons stranded on a dead world and the Autobots starving on a mud planet or in space, the war would be over. Earth, in its savage and primal beauty, was a wrench in the gears (as it tends to be).

.:I agree. The humans should be occupied with their own misfortune, and we now have located another fallen brother. Once the race is over, I’ll send Ratchet and Hoist to tow him back to base. Unfortunately, any knowledge he may have acquired is obsolete.:. The planet was rich with untapped Energon and richer in personality. On days without Decepticon activity, Optimus wandered. He climbed mountains and crawled with the insects. He drove through as many settlements as he could, observing the human experience. Longing for it.

In real time, he watched humans practice qualities that would take Cybertronians years to develop. He watched them conquer victories, however small, and carve their mark into the world. They snarled, growled, and bit at their metal heels like brats, and he loved it.

.:I’ll have a conversation with Jackson once he returns to base. What do you think, Optimus?:. They felt with such openness and intensity that made Cybertronians curl into themselves. He felt it whenever Mikaela spoke of Sam, or Jazz played his music, or Lennox praised Ironhide after being defended from a cruel plot of the twins. To them, it was inane, and to him, it was incredible.

.:Commander?:. Ultra Magnus queried as as the Prime broke from his thoughts, cycling through the motions of response. Everyone was staring at him.

.:I apologize, my mind was… elsewhere. I agree with you, Jazz. Recall Steeljaw and feed him information from Teletrann. On-site search may be more effective than our sensors here. Bumblebee, Arcee, keep monitoring the lot. Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, follow the humans. Their involvement may put them in danger.:.

He turned toward Prowl. .:I will have a conversation with both humans once this is over.:. Prowl gave Optimus an evaluative glance, crunching numbers. What was the percentage of Prime properly reprimanding the rookie human with a fitting punishment? 48%? No, that doesn’t account for his gallivanting with Vector Sigma. 39%. Possibly lower, he always fancied the human race.

.:Prime,:. Ironhide’s southern lilt filtered through the comms. The way the human accent translated into Cybertronian as if Ironhide was born with it confused about everybot housed on the Ark. .:Ya can’t leave Kup and I rustin’ on our wheels!:.

.:Understood. Accompany the twins. Keep them in check.:.

.:Gladly.:. Kup growled, the glyphs for excitement nestled in his comm.

.:Autobots, roll out!:.

Jack gripped the wheel like a vice, hoping his hands wouldn’t leave dents in the faux-leather. He depressed the pedal. It couldn’t go any further, yet he continued to push down. His heart pounded wildly in his chest and his forehead glistened. He peeked in his rearview mirror, watching the herd of angry supercars hot on his bumper. He was already lagging behind, and with the passing of these vehicles, he would be dead last in a matter of minutes. He couldn’t lose.

It was clear the Fiero didn’t have enough power to put itself ahead in the straights, and so far, all they had faced was endless highway road.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon, man!” Sam hissed, half standing in his seat. His hair was wet, and he was pulling himself up by the top of the door handle with his left hand, itching his right hand against the seat. His head was on a swivel, watching cars speed ahead. “You need to get ahead, we’re losing!”

“Don’t you think I know that!” Jack snarled through gritted teeth.

The road began to curve to the right, and he shifted gears, slamming his foot on the brake. The cars next to him followed suit, yet some were far too wide, creating a burgeoning gap between themselves and the two boys. Sam was unceremoniously shoved back into his seat, the force of the turn almost disconnecting him from the handle. Jack smiled.

Nevada as a whole may not have been known for its curvy mazes, but Jack had spent enough time racing in Jasper to drift less than an inch away from the curb or guardrail, in this case. These suped-up junk cars had nothing on real skill—or amateur skill.

As the road morphed into another straight, he eased on the brake, shifting back into gear. He watched super-lumen headlights fade from his rearview mirror as a grin broke the tension-laden look on Sam’s face.

“Nice job, man!”

“Not out of it yet.” Jack’s eyes narrowed as a low rider nosed his bumper. How had it gotten so close so fast? Whoever this con (or bot) was, choosing this jalopy was one of its first mistakes. The Fiero had been discontinued decades ago, and for good reason. How long had it been on Earth?

His attention was brought back to the race as the low rider surged ahead of him. The road sloped upward and the Fiero’s bumper sparked against the pavement with a screech.

“Control the car! Control the car! Control the car!” Sam panicked as he turned around, focused on the consumed road behind him. Jack was unfamiliar with this area. Although the race was on a mountain top, he had yet to face any of the dangerous turns, but the last thing he was expecting was another slope upward. Not to mention that almost all of where he went to race was flat plains.

A snake of regret coiled in his gut. As he observed his surroundings, he noted the frequency of guardrails.

Another right curve developed ahead, and the low rider in front of him slowed to tackle it. It didn’t drift. Jack observed. He too eased on the gas as Sam stuttered, flabbergasted.

“What are you doing! We’re gonna lose—woah!” Sam was thrown into the passenger door as Jack jerked the wheel to the left. He slowed down, but apparently not enough, as he swerved, leaving a wide gap between the Pontiac and the inner corner. The right curve was like a feint to the sharp left in front of it.

Sam squinted his eyes shut as the world swam. He had been through any number of violent and life-ending car chases, but he was embarrassed to say he was a bit out of practice. His stomach flip-flopped as he squeezed the seatbelt. God, he hoped his nervousness didn’t wake this thing up.

He cracked an eye open, his heart synchronizing with Jack’s pants. They had slowed to a crawl. A car behind—Sam didn’t even realize they weren’t dead last—blazed forward as Jack gaped. His gaze then hardened, and he pounded on the gas, ripping an ugly sound from the engine. Sam choked on his own spit.

The car was still moving, so Jack didn’t have enough in him to care what could’ve caused the unholy howl. He also failed to notice the flaming red optics in his rearview as he sped off.

Chapter Text

William Lennox sat in his office as the white light of the overhead lamp burned his scleras. It had been almost two weeks since the landing of the Ark, and Autobot-human relations had taken a turn for the worse. He didn’t blame his soldiers; anyone would be frosty and standoffish if they were referred to as an inanimate flesh bag driven by only carnal desires and chemical reactions, courtesy of Prowl. The true problem blossomed when, in reaction to the offense, the Autobots became even ruder, if that was possible. Of course, Will didn’t want to generalize the entire population. He had met exceptions, curious visitors who were more mindful of their smaller companions than the rest, but that didn’t sweep the probably not accidental close-calls, fingers caught in doors, trips on cables, and other unfortunate phenomena around NEST: Jasper, Nevada.

He dropped the most recent incident report on the table, its unstapled pages fanning out. He melted into his chair—he didn’t have another meeting for an hour. Perhaps he could catch some sleep. Optimus Prime himself had issued an emergency gathering to properly demonstrate how much force his comrades should use when handling a human, when and when not to close doors, how to watch where you step, etc. He took the safety of his human allies incredibly seriously, and insolent behavior would not be tolerated.

Due to Lennox’s extensive professionalism and pliant nature around Cybertronians, he was the most suitable guinea pig. He was also the only one who didn’t squeal in fear whenever he was picked up like a bottle of water. (Except once, but he and Prime had agreed to never discuss it again.) If poked, prodded, or petted too hard, he would let the experimenting mech know, and ease them back into what was comfortable for him and usually other humans.

The clock on the wall ticked, punctuating his flitting thoughts as his eyes shut.

“Glad to see you could join us, Colonel.” Special Agent William Fowler stood on a raised platform eye-level with the behemoths, lips curled in a knowing smile. He was the only person, aside from General Morshower, who held rank above the colonel. Lennox braced his hands on his knees, praying for his breathing to level. Once he wasn’t gasping like fish out of water, he raised his head, analyzing the scene before him. Five bots he had seen in passing were positioned in varying stages of laxity.

Below the platform was a lone hospital bed with two nurses standing to its left. They were as far away from the bots as they could be, most likely a personal choice. A sea-green Hudson that looked as old as his great-grandfather leaned on the hangar wall. Next to him, with a hand on his hip, stood a blood-red, modern pickup. He was heavily armored, with cannons lining his forearms. The gladiator-like helmet reflected the burning sunlight, causing the human to shield his eyes against the flare. On a crate that looked like it was about to buckle sat two nearly identical bots, one in yellow and the other red. Like ketchup and mustard.

The colonel chuffed as the yellow one looked toward him with pointed disgust. His cheeky grin fell into apathy. Another non-believer in the human spirit, it seems. The red one didn’t seem too bad though, as he observed Lennox with latent curiosity. Standing at full attention, he observed the last of the crowd. The last bot was none other than Optimus Prime. His presence was unsurprising; he was there to make sure nothing went awry. Apparently, the condiment duo were as volatile as a lighter in a barn, and needed to be kept under the highest scrutiny.

“My apologies, sir.”

“No harm, no foul, soldier. Just make sure to set your alarm next time.”

“Of course, sir.”

“As you all know,” Fowler began, looking toward the crowd. “This is our first meeting. We are here today to conduct daily onboarding and training, preparing you for situations that may involve handling a human. I would do it myself if I were in…” he gestured nervously to his protruding gut. “…better shape.”

“William Lennox is a prime specimen of the human race. You will treat him as such.”

Wow.

A blazing red crept up his ears as he processed the compliment (was it really a compliment? Prime described him like a prized pony). A flustered smile attempted to wiggle its way up his face, but he had a firm grasp on his inner cheek, preventing any sensation but pain.

“This is useless,” the glittering yellow bot snarled. The air became swampy as Lennox tugged at the collar of his fatigues. His world suddenly became far too tactile, and he was overcome with the sensation of imminent danger. He shifted awkwardly, his sweaty hands still behind his back. He wanted so badly to put this bag of bolts in his place, but he had a feeling the cost would far outweigh the benefit.

Kup pushed himself off the hangar wall, the shriek of pressured metal following suit. Fowler’s coffee-toned knuckles clenched the handlebars, gaze flickering between the obnoxious soldier and Prime in a silent plea to get his people under control. The prickle of his skin suddenly stopped before ease replaced anxiety in his gut. Sunstreaker finally turned to face his Commander.

“Sunstreaker. This meeting would be useless if you did not break a human’s nose with your door for brushing your side mirror.”

“The fleshy ran into my mirror. It could have scratched my paint! How was I supposed to know it was so fragile?”

It? Lennox repeated with outrage. So he was the one that broke Bradley’s nose!

“Sunstreaker.” An unheard exchange between the two partially tempered the so-called Sunstreaker’s rage.

“Yes, Optimus Prime, sir,” the brat murmured dejectedly.

Lennox harrumphed, immediately regretting his actions. Everyone, save Fowler, looked toward him, but he refused to meet any gaze but Optimus’. Curse the Transformer race and their superhuman hearing. He could feel cyan eyes lobotomizing his skull the more seconds that went by. The Special Agent broke the silence.

“Colonel, care to introduce yourself?”

“Of course, sir,” Lennox began with a cough. “My name is William Lennox, I am 31 years old, and I am a colonel and senior officer of NEST, a subsidiary of the American Military.” His introduction was flawless. He had practiced it more than 30 times last night in his cramped bathroom mirror. He wasn’t nervous. Not at all. “I am happy to be of service.”

Optimus looked toward his men, prompting their own introductions. The Hudson’s deep rasp tickled Lennox’s inner ear.

“The name’s Kup Minor. Most just call me Kup.”

He tilted his head curiously.

“Most know me. You don’t. You will call me Kup Minor.”

Now that that was answered, the rest began to pipe up. It was easy to attach names to certain key characteristics each bot displayed. Kup Minor was the tough, grizzled Autobot drill sergeant. He kept everyone in line, and did a damn good job at it. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were the elite frontliners, Sunstreaker a specialist in hand-to-hand combat and Sideswipe by his side. Ironhide, the weapons specialist, was a bot of few words, most of which included phrases exclusive to the pummeling of Decepticons. The thing that made him stand out compared to his brethren, however, was the thick southern accent that lolled freely from his tongue (voice box?). He had never heard a bot adopt such a dialect, and he was eager to ask how and why. Now was probably not the time, however.

“Now that that’s done and dealt with, we will begin.”

“If Colonel Lennox expresses any sort of discomfort, you are to release your grip immediately. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Optimus Prime, sir.” The present bots chanted with practiced poise, executing a salute.

With that out of the way, Optimus Prime padded slowly toward William before kneeling down on a knee. He held out his palm in silent beckon. Carefully, the human soldier shuffled himself onto the engulfing hand, slowly standing. He gripped into the monster’s joints, sending a silent prayer that he would not fall and splatter onto the distancing pavement. He wanted to go back to the ground.

“That was a perfect example of how to ask for a human’s presence." Fowler recited. "You do not just grab them. You do not threaten them. You definitely do not run toward them asking to experiment on them.”

A soft chuckle decorated the hangar. Who it came from, Will didn’t know.

“Kup,” Optimus Prime summoned. The battle-hardened warrior sauntered forward. He looked between the human and his Prime before holding his arm out. Before Cybertron closed its borders, he worked along the space docks as a security enforcer. There, he met all types of species, from robotic to organic to all things in between and more. He was familiar with most of their complexities and just hoped that this meeting would go faster than the one he just attended with both Ultra Magnus and Prowl. The human was gently slid into his palm. It took him a bit to recalibrate before gripping onto the cables between Kup’s fingers. He held the human at eye level. They watched each other, neither breaking the spell. Kup didn’t even know simple organic optics could hold so many shades of brown. Each fiber was a different shade pooling around a gaping hole. It was like staring into the Helix Nebula laced with electrum dust.

His optics constricted, focusing on other various, but no less interesting, aspects of the human figure. The patch of fur on the colonel's head was slightly damp and mussed. He was putting on quite the brave face. Kup chuckled before passing the human back to Optimus. He landed with a soft "oomph" before glaring at the hardened warrior.

"You barely touched him!" Sideswipe piped.

"Nah. Didn’t need to." He turned his back to the crowd before ducking under the half opened hangar door and transforming. With the low rumble of an ancient engine, he drove into the sunset. He began to understand the appeal of these flesh bags.

"No fair!"

William rearranged himself, not even bothering to get up. He would just be passed off into someone else’s palm anyway. "Sideswipe," Optimus rumbled. "It is your turn."

The crate he and his brother were sitting on popped with released weight as he jogged toward his leader and human companion. He held his palm out like a petulant child, and Will stepped on with notably more grace than before. Sideswipe too, stared into his eyes, and he refused to break contact. He assumed it was the animal within; breaking eye contact was a sign of submission, and Will would be damned if he “submitted” to any of these robot freaks.

“Hmm.” The frontliner mumbled before using a finger to push Will flat onto his butt. The human caught himself before standing up again.

“If you want me to sit, then you have to ask. Don’t just push me.”

“Claws on this one, huh, Sunstreaker?” The red Autobot hummed, although the sound was hollow. It held something malicious underneath, and Will wasn’t sure if he wanted to know what kind of bot this Sideswipe was. "Can you sit. Please?" It didn't sound like much of a question.

“Of course.” The Colonel shot back before aggressively plopping himself into the Autobot's palm. Sideswipe rolled him in-between his two palms like playdough in a child’s hands before switching him to the other hand, creating a wave of vertigo. Will willed his stomach to stay still as his mind recalibrated.  After a few rolls and red spots that would definitely become bruises later in the week, Prime regained his human specimen. Now there were only two bots left. With an empty pause, Sunstreaker, the nightmare, stepped forward, thrusting his palm aggressively in William’s face. He flinched. It was minute, but it still managed, and Sunstreaker gave a nasty smirk before he was given Lennox. Like his brother, Sunstreaker wheeled Lennox around in his palms, experimentally poking and prodding at his hair, his hips, his arms, anything he could touch. The only difference was Sunstreaker was rather aggressive. Will refused to let anyone know, but the way Sunstreaker’s metal fingers grazed against his ribcage caused flames of pain to ricochet across his nervous system. He tried not to make his pain obvious but judging by the increasing smirk on the yellow twin’s faceplates, he was well aware. Lennox would power through. He wasn’t weak, and he wouldn’t be seen as weak by creatures who fled at the first sight of organic.

“It’s a miracle your species has survived so long. You aren’t even developed enough to use your planet to its proper potential.” he drawled. After a particularly hard squeeze, Lennox snapped back.

“Yeah, well, at least we still have a planet.” A chill wafted through the hanger. The silence was defeating as even Fowler stood agape. His gut immediately contorted in regret as he gazed at Optimus. While his face was still frozen in its uniquely stoic manner, something about him seemed… shocked… hurt. He didn’t mean to hurt him. Before he opened his mouth to release a string of apologies, a cobra coiled around his midsection and squeezed. Hard. His arm was pinned behind his back as he hissed in pain.

“You take that back!” The Autobot seethed, and any apology Lennox thought of making was thrown out the window with a noose around its neck.

“Make me, you piss-colored pile of scrap.” He wheezed as the charcoal hand continued to constrict. At this point, he would asphyxiate in a matter of minutes. Lights danced across his vision as blazing cyan attempted to eat him whole. He smiled something nasty. It’s not often he let himself be this way. In the military, he fought his way up the ranks with a calm and friendly demeanor, but he wasn’t called “Wild Bill” for nothing. He’ll be damned if he’ll take shit from a walking tin can on his planet. On his soil.

“Sunstreaker! Unhand him at once!” Optimus roared, as a sickening crunch cut through the tension, followed by the howl of a wounded animal. Suddenly, Lennox was in free fall as the yellow menace withdrew his hand in a mix of revulsion and surprise. Why was he falling? Who screamed? Why did his arm hurt so badly? His throbbing brain ran a mile a minute as he seemed to fall in slow motion. Would he die here? Who would take care of Sarah? Of Annabelle? Oh god, what would they even tell the two? "Sorry, your husband was dropped by a robot alien because he didn’t know when to quit?" He didn’t think this was how it would end. He didn’t think—

Thoughts of his impending demise were suddenly stomped out as a grey palm blocked his vision. He squeezed his eyes shut, and he could hear the pressing hydraulics and chugging of energon before he was unceremoniously shoved to the back of a... leather seat? He slowly pried his eyes open, met with a glittering dashboard of a GMC as the final panels clicked into place. He panted as his body finally caught up to his mind. He had an iron grip on the seat, leaving half-moon indentations in the faux leather. A raspy drawl emanated from the radio, and Lennox quickly let go of the seat, clutching his injured arm.

“Are you alright, Captain William Lennox?”

He fought the urge to babble and just settled for silence. As the initial surprise began to wear off and the adrenaline in his system began to ebb, the pain in his arm returned with full force. He suddenly keeled, stifling a whimper. The medical staff stationed below the overpass wheeled toward the Topkick at breakneck speeds, calling for splints and pain medication. As the door flew open and the nurses ushered him out of the seat, he clung to the seatbelt for a fraction of a second before letting go and being settled onto the gurney.

As Ironhide shifted into robot mode, he watched the human, smothered by a swarm of practitioners, being wheeled away to a gaping hallway. While the metal door closed behind him, the human gripped the hand of a nurse with his uninjured arm, fingers trembling. His eyes, glazed and unfocused, locked onto his saviors face sporting an expression that raised Ironhide’s optic ridges. He smiled, albeit weakly, and a quiet, fragile thank you graced his audio receptors. Human EM fields were curious—difficult to detect, almost imperceptible under normal circumstances. But now, he could feel the human’s gratitude—a faint pulse—reaching through the metal door, slipping past the barrier.

As he observed Kup examining the human, Ironhide tried to comprehend the older mech’s epiphany—the insight he’d clearly had. Clearly, Optimus had experienced the same, causing him to be so fiercely protective of this planet’s inhabitants.  When he arrived, he wondered what they saw. He was still unaware, but he cannot doubt the presence these creatures hold. The swords of power they wield in their far too small hands.

A strange, but not unwelcome realization blossomed within. He knew now what he must do.

“Are you sure about this, Optimus?” Ultra Magnus asked, his voice tinged with concern. “Humans and Cybertronians are fundamentally different. Your original crew on Earth has been away from the front lines for decades—they’re more like family than soldiers. Ironhide has served for far longer than this war. This... human—Lennox—will require far more patience than Ironhide could ever be willing to give. I cannot see how the two will ever find common ground.”

He sighed, glancing down at the datapad again. He’d read the request nearly five times, and each time, it still held the same message.

Optimus Prime watched the Colonel emerge from the medical facility, shielding his eyes from the 5 o’clock sun. His face was weary, his expression dazed, and his arm was carefully wrapped in a sling.

Outside, a red GMC TopKick had been waiting patiently for almost an hour. The moment Lennox stepped into the light of day, the driver’s side door opened tentatively, as if testing the waters. Lennox seemed to gauge his options, but it was then he realized that there was only one vehicle on the lot, and it was in front of him. With a shaky sigh he shuffled his way toward the pick up and manipulated himself inside, clearly trying and failing not to jostle his broken arm. Once he was safely inside, the door shut and the two drove off.

A knowing, yet imperceptible smile tugged at the corners of Prime’s mouth.

“I am sure those two will get along just fine.”

Chapter Text

Stasis Lock. Lifted by [Redacted].

Needles of pain nipped at his neural net. His optics were blanketed in lulling null as the dull ache against his tires—why would he have tires, they went out of style millennia ago—ate up the barbed ground underneath. His sensors analyzed the unseen environment, noting the oxygen in the air, the bitumen digging into his treads, and the smell of petrol. He scrabbled for grounding in his semiconscious state, noting the hydrogen that clung to his overheating engine.

Why was his engine overheating? What was he doing, and why couldn’t he move? Well, he was clearly moving, but why wasn’t he in control? Hydrogen was virtually impossible to find on Cybertron, and if it was discovered, it was quickly seized by whichever faction got to it first, used up until there was nothing left. It would never be allowed to linger in the air so freely. If there was hydrogen here, that meant he was not on Cybertron. Oddly, that realization didn’t unsettle him. He had fulfilled his duty as a spy and no longer had any interest in wading through the Energon of those who wore a different badge than his own. Not anymore, at least. But that left him with a question: If he wasn’t on Cybertron, where was he?

As his core programming began directing long-stilled Energon to the rest of his battered body, the pain that was once dull drew a sharpened blade.

Warning: Spark contaminate field at 30%.

Warning: Energon levels at 15%.

Warning: Protoform struts B12, 91A, 45N, 02R compromised.

Warning: Stasis lock imminent.

He quickly silenced his repair queue, redirecting and rerouting code. He was not ready to deal with what couldn’t yet be fixed. Not when he was stranded, possibly lightyears away from his comrades, and with vital information.

Wait, vital information? He was carrying vital information about... about what? He had something important that would turn the tide of the war, but he couldn’t remember. Thousands of cycles spent in Decepticon territory under grueling conditions and he couldn’t remember what he was there for!

He knew he was an Autobot; it was as clear as Crystal City, but as he began to defrag lines of binary, he was confused. Why was he with sifting through the rubble of Polyhex with Mindwipe and Vortex, searching for Autobot survivors? Another memory descended to the forefront of his core processing unit. Here he was, standing outside a collapsing bunker, listening to Flatline… repair, a fallen autobot general. By Primus, the screams were so loud. What was going on? Who was he? Internal circuitry sparked to life as he began to dig into his memory files with newfound vigor.

Initiating download.

As he continued to analyze the cluster of his core processing unit, he grew more confused, which should have been impossible. Apparently, he had deleted quite a few identity programs to make more space for memory storage, and if he was so adamant about extended memory, that must mean that somewhere within his form, he had hidden a spare memory bank. He would have to do a full body scan for that later.

But before that, he couldn’t remember what his name was. As he decoded corrupted files and downloaded stable ones, his bodily pains grew sharper. He was stabbing Autobots in the back, yet hand-feeding Decepticons false battle plans, access codes, and scientific information. He pledged allegiance to each cause, yet fraternized with species keen on removing the Cybertronian race from the universal ecosystem. He tramped around with Quintessons, Skuxxoids, Monacians, savage beasts of all sorts.

He- wait… who was he again?

He opened a the earliest data in his files, almost a millennium old.

His systems cold-booted into complete distortion as he opened his optics with a start. He flung himself forward, feeling the lubricant in his pipes descend. A hazy quibble seeped through his metal mouth as he frantically absorbed every square micron of stimulus. There was so much data coming from so little. There were other bots on slabs next to him, but their glass optics were submerged in the empty abyss.

He rubbed his hands along the smooth berth, patching the sensory data straight to his CPU. He could feel so much. Every scrape from those who came before him was so rich with texture, with life. Every color was like it had sound and feeling. It was loud and disgruntling, but oh so lovely.

In his line of sight, or in his head, there were a series of numbers divided by two horizontal dots. They were counting up from zero, but that wasn’t particularly interesting. It didn’t provide the sensory input he craved. What was interesting, however, was that every time he moved his arm, he could feel things crawling up and down from inside of him. Energon. Coolant. How did he know what those were?

As he absorbed his raised arm, he took note of the color too. Blue. It was mellow and cool, like the night. His hands, however, carried a distinct feeling of sparks, frazzled circuitry, and pulsing hydraulics. It was different. Why was it different? He made it different. He slowly flipped his palms, feeling the circuits twist and coil over each other. His hands were red.

Why red? Had he chosen red? Not likely. He didn’t know how, but he knew he would never choose red. Red was a loud color, a dangerous color, he thought.

Dull clangs reverberated from the wall parallel to him before it split with a hiss. The thudding grew louder, too loud, and a shudder ran through the smaller bot’s frame. He winced, his optics narrowing behind his visor. Cybertronians are not human. They lack the harebrained prey drive that almost 7 million years of hunting and gathering had hard-coded into them. There was no fear—just the overwhelming pressure of something immense, something far beyond the scope of his own existence.

The navy robot didn’t look up, but he felt it—the weight of the air shifting, the subtle tension in the room as the heavy door stirred. The faint hiss of hydraulics released the 1000-pound barrier with a grinding scrape. The grating squeal knocked around his audio sensors, and oddly, the dull sparking sensation in his chest lulled.

A behemoth of a bot waded through the door, pulling the air with coarse control. He shirked back but didn’t flee. The larger robot stopped at the metal slab he sat on before kneeling on one knee. His movements were heavy but deliberate, measured as if each motion was a part of a long-forgotten ritual. He was blue and gold. Like him.

His voice, when it came, was a deep rumble, saturated with static. “Hello. What is your designation? I am Sentinel Prime.”

“Designation: Punch.”

Everything after that was a blur. There were gaps in his memory—gaps he assumed were filled by his secondary memory unit. He scanned his interior praying that it wasn’t lost on his journey to this strange planet. Wait, that couldn’t be right. He scanned and rescanned, though he knew it was useless. Shock replaced need once his processor fully caught up.  There were living organic beings occupying his interior. Fleshy, small, meat creatures with their grubby paws gripping his steering wheel. He fought the urge to fishtail, to fling them out, to make them flee so he could conduct business as usual, but something about the animal in the passenger seat warmed his interior.

He ran a secondary scan, observing for nuclear energy, a stray shard of Energon, perhaps. Anything that would quell the aching in his spark, yet nothing but static concluded his findings. Whatever this creature was holding, inside of it or not, woke him from his deathless slumber. If he had that kind of power, how could it be leveraged for the war effort?

Punch turned his sensors to the highest caliber, soaking in the atmospheric sensory data like he did when he first came on line. This was just like that. Except the fate of the war was on his shoulders. No pressure.

Ravage had been running for miles, its clawed feet churning up soil and debris in its wake. It plowed through anything that dared cross its path, whether plant or animal. Unable to be seen against the glare of the moonlight, Laserbeak soared. The two shared a symbiotic relationship; they were part of the same exclusive box set back on Cybertron, including a third, Buzzsaw. They were drones set to do the work no one could. Not even Primus thought to lend them a guiding hand, a soul to penetrate the darkness. Soundwave was different. Their disembodiment was his solace, and he treated them with the utmost reverence. Megatron was second. The Tyrant was true to his creed—all bots are created equal—and he had thoughtfully included them in his vision for a better Cybertron.

Laserbeak trilled, sound waylaid under the roar of engines. It had found the fragment. The two drones opened a communications link to The Nemesis, transmitting their optic feeds to Decepticon High Command. On the other end, Megatron stood, flanked by Soundwave and Starscream.

.:It’s about time.:. the F-22 snorted, earning a pointed look from the communications officer. Megatron merely hummed in agreement. He was more patient than Starscream, but no one could be nearly as patient as Soundwave. The mute approached the terminal, hand splitting into half a dozen different cables and cords, all connecting to various outlets on the dock.

Decoded lines of binary flashed across his optic lenses before images began to form on the screen. Soon enough, a full video feed was established, and the unit was met with a first-person view of Ravage tearing through the parched Nevada landscape, tailing a battered human vehicle. The car, once a sleek machine, now resembled little more than a rusted hulk, its paint chipped and faded by years of neglect. Its once bright golden undercarriage was clouded by dust from the cracked, sunbaked soil. As Ravage got closer, he transmitted waves of electromagnetic data. It seemed that the human vehicle was more than met the eye.

.:Who is that?:. Starscream sneered. While he wasn’t as vain as Knockout, he couldn’t fathom letting himself degrade to such a state. If he were that bot, he wouldn’t even dare step outside. An identification footnote popped up on the side of the video feed, quickly morphing into a blurry, pixelated photo. Decepticon code was notoriously difficult to crack, with certain public service records deliberately hidden by Soundwave, under Megatron’s direct orders.

As the image began to clear, a navy, black, and yellow bot with a black visor and a battle mask slowly materialized on the screen, its static fizzling before coming into full view.

.:Counterpunch?:. Megatron murmured. He knew of the ‘Con by reputation only. During the Battle of Technar, Counterpunch singlehandedly incapacitated a handful of the feared Wrecker unit using his wit and cunning. He was outmatched and outclassed in almost every way, yet using a series of traps and happy accidents, he mortally wounded Impactor, killed Leadfoot and Topspin, and almost (emphasis on the almost) killed Emirate Xaaron. If it weren’t for Ultra Magnus and the Elite Guard, he most likely would have.

There were a number of close calls after that, from Ironhide to Prowl to Optimus Prime himself. He was quite the war hero among the troops, but that was before he went missing almost two centuries ago. Now, he was little more than a footnote in the Decepticon archives.

Megatron’s head was at a 15-degree angle as Soundwave scrolled through Counterpunch’s military profile. There was no shortage of valuable personnel on The Nemesis, but another was always welcome.

.:Soundwave, Starscream. We will recover our lost brother.:.  Megatron himself was not… unkind. He was not going to leave a soldier of his, possibly carrying valuable intel, trapped in his own body, on the brink of full system shutdown. No, Megatron knew better. Loose ends needed to be tied.

.:What about the shard? We can’t just leave it to the Autobots.:.

.:Starscream, who said we were leaving it to the Autobots?:.

The recoil of heavy footsteps roused dormant systems in the second-in-command, prompting him to straighten himself. Megatron was positioned in front of the purple display panel before clicking a small button on the right side.

“Runabout. Runamuck. I have a mission for you.”

Sam gnawed ferociously at his palms as Jack twisted the wheel, his slippery hands loosening his grip. His brow was in a permanent crease before almost touching his hairline.

“What the hell are you doing? What’s is wrong with you?” He hissed before turning his eyes back to the road.

“Dude, I think I’m allergic to this car!” Sam squeaked as the momentum shoved his face against the window. His head swam before it was redirected to its primary objective- itching his raw hands. Former, long buried scabs were torn from their nests by his chipped fingernails. Sam had no allergies that he knew of. Why was he so itchy?

“I will tie your hands behind your back if you don’t stop!” Jack punctuated the last word, making Sam writhe in his seat. It was uncomfortably warm, and the tingle of ozone was almost unbearable.

“Crack a window or something!” He snarled through gritted teeth as Jack switched gears.

“You crack one! I’m busy!”

Sam huffed before fiddling around the interior, looking for the window button. That’s the problem with these old cars; no button means what it’s supposed to. There could be a button on the door handle and it would pop the trunk. What kind of idiot thinks like that? Sucking in a breath, he was slowly blessed with the night air. He stuck his burning hands out the window, but it did little to cool the inflammation. Glyphs that were once scars were now brushed with a fleeting crimson. The Pontiac Firebird that was in front lagged behind, or they surged forward. Sam almost lost his hands to another speeding vehicle before seating himself back inside and stuffing his hands beneath his lap. Was this seat always so comfortable? It’s like it melded to his body.

Jack must be really putting pedal to the metal if they were gaining the upper hand so quickly, mused Sam. As they approached another corner, the audience behind the metal barriers erupted with excitement, the air buzzing with energy. Shouts, cheers, and gasps filled the air as the Fiero, now in fifth place, darted around the turn like a streak of lightning.

People weren’t just watching, not anymore. They were living the moment. A young man leaned to his companion before passing a thick wad of cash.

“I’m tellin’ ya,” he whispered. “The Fiero has gotta be in the top three. You sure you wanna do this?”

The other spectator huddled closer. “Nah man, I got my money on the Mustang up top.” He turned his attention back to the trailing headlights. “But I hope that blue junker doesn’t make me regret it.”

Jack adjusted the top mirror, and he was astonished by the raw, toothy smile plastered on his face. It could have been easily confused for a grimace or a snarl, but the way his heart soared as the energy of the crowd bled into his very being said otherwise. If he had a spark, the cab would have reeked of ozone.

Speaking of ozone, Jack noted as he sniffed, stifling a sneeze. Although Sam opened the window, the smell was almost overpowering. If they both weren’t riding high on adrenaline and just a touch (a very small touch) of Jack Daniels, they would’ve been much more cautious about the significance of ozone, particularly when dealing with Transformers. 

On a steep incline, deep in the bushes behind them, a ghostly green glow split the atmosphere. Out of the ground bridge stepped two mid-sized bots, one in black and one in white. The white one was speckled with gold accents around its front bumper, while the black one had red. Aside from decals, they were heavily modified and armored. The two Battle Chargers inched their way to the edge of the underbrush, spying on the race below. Their engines rumbled to the frequency of the passing herd, and their ruby red optics flashed with agitation.

Before the war, Runamuck and Runabout were street racers at spark. Due to their status, they were unable to enter the proper racing channels to appear on the big screen. They weren’t light enough to be considered part of the racing class, but definitely not heavy enough to be miners or enforcers. That left them with odd jobs—bouncers, security, and their personal favorite: making sure the bots that were bet on, won.

They’d intentionally drive certain racers off the road during not-so-legal races, making sure their rivals took the lead. Sometimes, they were even paid to win themselves, and that was always the most satisfying. It reminded them of what they were truly capable of, free from the constraints of the Functionist regime. That’s how they ended up sabotaging the bets of the wealthy elites for Megatron, priming his campaign in the early days of the war—before it was really even a war.

.:Why did Soundwave send us all the way out here? How are we even supposed to get on the track without the humans seeing us?:. Runabout whispered as he watched the Fiero shoulder itself between two muscle cars. It was like watching a dog fight for its place among wolves. It was painfully nostalgic.

.:Who cares!:. Whined Runamuck, the glyphs for excitement and fun simmering beneath the initial message. His wheels were spinning in anticipation as the crowd below grew more raucous. It seemed like one of the drivers was trying to bump another off the road.

.:Cmoncmoncmoncmon!:.

.:Wait!:. The black frontliner’s woes went unheard as Runamuck leapt from the thicket, transforming midair. The humans below shrieked in panic as the white SRT8 Dodge Challenger flew uncontrollably down the rest of the hill. Kicking up clouds of loose earth, Runamuck barreled through the rusted metal guardrail.

.:That little…:. rumbling with contempt, Runabout transformed and raged down the incline as well. The humans, ill-prepared for the second crazy driver tumbling down the hill, threw themselves to the ground, covering their heads. Runabout swerved onto the pavement, chasing the cackling white devil.

Why did he have to get such a stupid, lead-headed, waste of tin brother?

.:What the scrap do you think you’re doing, numb nodes?!:.

.:Getting the mission done in a timely manner, per Lord Megatron’s instructions! Heh, heh!:. Runamuck chirped, weaving through the chaos of dodging supercars, utterly unconcerned by the trail of destruction left in his wake. Disgruntled drivers swerved madly, attempting to avoid the two road hogs.

.:We were supposed to keep our cover, not alert the two flesh pouches in the front seat!:.

Runamuck made a noise of disdain. .:It’s not like they can run from us! C'mon, you were itching to join this race as much as me!:.

Runabout grumbled as he shifted into a higher gear. I mean, Runamuck wasn’t wrong.

Chapter Text

Jack skidded around the corner, narrowly grazing the guard rail, which was the only thing preventing him from flying off the road. The growl of the Pontiac's engine rumbled through his body, sending a buzz of anticipation straight to his toes. A Nissan wedged itself between him and the guard rail, a whisker away from his left side window.  It seemed that there were two new additions to the race; a black and a white SRT8 Dodge Challenger. Truly fine vehicles, coated in untouched pristine paint and glimmering silver rims. However, their beauty was deceiving—they were dangerously close to running him off the road. Jack peered into the rearview window, only to see a yellow Mazda RX-7 make the mistake of positioning itself between the Yin and Yang duo. The black car swerved violently, trying to force the Mazda off course.

Jack clenched his teeth. Those two were nothing short of relentless, and their insanity was going to get someone killed. Sam stuck his head out of the cracked window. “What the hell is wrong with those two—WOAH!” The brunette squealed, frantically fumbling back into his seat.

“What? what’s wrong?” Jack shouted, voice going up an octave. He couldn’t take his eyes off the road, but through his peripheral, he could see Sam on his knees, facing the back window. His boa grip on the wheel somehow tightened, and the engine popped.

“There’s no one driving!”

“What?”

“I said, there’s no one driving!”

It all clicked. By God, he should have known!

“Decepticons,” Jack hissed. The last thing he knew, no company had yet released self-driving cars, and the Autobots may be asses, but they wouldn’t join a street race with the intention of tearing up human drivers. Not under Optimus.

“Decepticons?” Sam parroted, the words barely leaving his mouth before his brain exploded with the sheer absurdity of it. He whipped around to stare at Jack. “Here? Decepticons here??”

The panic bubbling up inside him turned into full-blown terror. He was too far gone, too deep into this mess, and there was no escaping it now. He could feel the cold sweat trickling down his spine as he instinctively gripped his damp locks, trying to maintain some sense of control. He’d seen enough of the Decepticons already—enough to fill ten lifetimes. They had already almost cost him everything before, and he was beginning to wonder if this time they would succeed.

For the longest time, Sam had tried to distance himself from the madness, from the chaos, from anything that had even the faintest scent of a transformer around it. But deep down, he knew what had drawn him back to this life of dangerous, high-speed thrills. It wasn’t just adrenaline. It wasn’t just the sound of engines roaring in his chest. It was the pull—something inside him that craved purpose.

He’d always hoped, in the quiet recesses of his mind, that something would find him again—something that would make him more than the ordinary guy who spent his days drafting emails and burying his soul under the weight of paperwork. Something that would let him live out the savior complex he couldn’t shake. He wanted meaning, and maybe—just maybe—this was how he’d find it again. He had hoped to have purpose so badly, that it drew him to these car meets, just to be a little closer to automobiles. To Autobots?

Every time the headlights blinded him, when he felt the rhythm of engines thundering through his chest, he was transported to that night in the alleyway. A god standing before a man—a boy—choosing to kneel in front of him. To the night his Camaro came to life. But now, here, with the street racing like a fever in his blood, he was afraid. There was no yellow knight to protect him.

He flipped around, barely in his seat. The two street coffins behind him were relentless, and he felt like a deer among wolves. As he squinted in the glare of headlights, he began to panic. “Jack.”

There was no response.

“Jack!”

“I know! I see them!”

Jack straightened himself for the upcoming incline and prepared to ease on the brake, keeping tight to the inner corner.

“No, I don’t think you do!”

The black-haired boy glanced in his rearview mirror. A split second was all it took, but it was enough—time stopped, and his gut dropped.

“Shit.”

A loud crash echoed through the car as the white Challenger collided with the back bumper, sending the Fiero into a violent spin. The back wheels screamed in protest as the car wrenched sideways, tires fighting for traction on the road. His heart thundered in his chest as he gripped the wheel even harder, if that were possible. He spun the wheel as fast as he could, attempting to regain some sort of control.

Sam was fisting his damp hair. He was quivering and could feel his heart against his ribcage. It felt like he was having a heart attack. Was he having a heart attack? A small, nagging part of him wished he was. Better that than death by crazy robots from another planet that just couldn’t leave him alone.

Another turn was fast approaching as Jack finally managed to straighten out the Fiero. They were flying down the road now, and Jack was surprised the gauge hadn’t malfunctioned yet; or maybe it did. He felt like he was going a lot faster than 120mph. Topaz blues flicked to the side mirror, and he squinted. The gas was depressed as far as it could go; there would be no outrunning these two. Why were the Cons after him anyway? He wasn’t important! Not anymore, at least.

The black Challenger was now parallel to him, and Jack glared past Sam into the empty driver’s seat. His hand slowly reached for the window, rolling it down with a groan.

“What do you want?” He screamed, but he doubted he could be heard over the whipping wind.

“Pull over.” A deep, coarse, Brooklyn accent growled.

“That wasn’t an answer. What do you—”

“He said pull over, meat bag!”

“Woah!” Sam screamed, staring out the left window.

The white car flush against Jack’s side, nearly grazing the mirror. Jack fought the urge to swerve. He was boxed in. Slowly, he eased up on the gas. If he and Sam wanted to get out of this alive, he knew he’d have to obey the Decepticon’s orders.

“What are you doing?” Sam hissed, voice sharp. He was still practically standing in his seat, feet against the dashboard and hand clutching the headrest.

The two Decepticons began to slow, their massive forms giving the Fiero a wide berth as it pulled over.

“If we want to live, we have to pull over.” Jack clarified.

“What, so we can’t run away?” Sam spat. Jack gritted his teeth, attempting to keep his voice steady.

“I don’t think they want us.”

“That’s not going to stop them from splattering us across the highway.”

The trailing herd of supercars drifted into his rearview and faded into the foreground. The pack of high-speed automobiles seemed to drift past them in the front windshield, their roar fading into the distance. Jack had almost forgotten about the race entirely, consumed by the desperate need to survive.

“It isn’t.” He pulled over to the side of the road. They were almost at a stop now. The rearview adjusted itself to stare at the twins behind.

“Sam, keep calm,” Jack murmured softly as Sam stared at him with a scowl that could move mountains. Buried, deep, however, was something far more fragile.

“Get out of the car, humans.” The white Challenger’s voice barked, sending a cold shiver down Jack’s spine. It shared the same Brooklyn accent as its compatriot, albeit far more hoarse. It scraped his nerves like sandpaper.

“Stay in the car, Sam.” Jack ordered.

“What?” The brunette exclaimed, voice cracking in disbelief. He began moving to unbuckle his own seatbelt, his hands trembling as he struggled with the buckle. “No. No way.” Jack firmly grabbed his arm, and Sam’s eyes searched his face. 

“Sam.” Jack said, his voice low and steady. “I’m the NEST operative, not you. I may not be able to take down two Decepticons on my own, but I can buy you enough time to get out and get help. Do you understand?”

Sam opened his mouth to say something, but the words caught in his throat. His gaze dropped to his hands, and for a moment, his whole body went still. Then, with a determined, almost frantic look, he met Jack’s eyes again.

“You know what. Fine. I’ll stay in the car, but I’m not leaving you. We got into this mess together, and we’re getting out of it together.”

Jack’s heart did a double skip, and before he could stop himself, a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Fine.” He let out a shaky breath, his hands running through his hair as the weight of the situation sank in. He might die today. It sounded melodramatic, but he always had fantasies of dying to someone infamous like Starscream, or maybe even Megatron. Sam’s green eyes were still boring holes into his head as Jack reached to unbuckle his seatbelt. He clicked it. Nothing happened. He tried again. And again.

“What? what’s wrong?” Sam asked.

“It’s not—” Jack whimpered, his frustration mounting as he violently pressed the red button. “I can’t get it to unbuckle—WOAH!” The Fiero’s engine roared to life, shooting from 0 to 60 in less than 3 seconds. Both men screamed, clinging to whatever they could. Logic began to claw through the primal panic, and Jack lunged for the steering wheel, narrowly missing another car. They were speeding down road at breakneck speeds. What the hell was going on? How had they caught up with the rest so fast?

“What the hell was that?” Sam yelped, eyes wide as he glanced at the side mirror. The two Decepticons had already pulled off the side of the road and were closing the gap. The car that Jack had barely dodged widened the gap between the predator and prey. The white Challenger swerved around it, right before crashing into its passenger side and running it off the road. The black muscle car barreled ahead and was soon only inches away from the Fiero’s bumper.

Jack stomped on the pedal. There was no amount of swerving he, as a semi-experienced driver, could do to evade something that had been a car for longer than the human calendar. Suddenly, he was thrown to the driver’s side door, and Sam was splayed across the middle compartment. He gripped the steering wheel to keep him from flying out of the drivers-side window as the car swayed from side to side.

The motion clearly caught the charcoal Decepticon off guard. It surged forward, and unfortunately, its nose made contact with the Fiero’s wrecking ball of a bumper. The Challenger spun out, falling behind and slamming into its twin in a deafening crash of mangled metal. While Cybertronian’s ultra-hard alloy could withstand almost anything this planet threw at it, collisions at more than 90 mph with their own kind could tear their outer plating apart.

“YES! You’re a freaking kick-ass driver, Jack!” Sam whooped. Jack didn’t have time to bask in the praise, though. The Con regained its balance rather quickly, but Jack didn’t have time to think about it. His thoughts were wholly elsewhere as he loosened his grip on the wheel. It barely brushed against his palms. His chest rose and fell at a rapid rate, and his eyes bulged.

“That… that wasn’t me…” he whispered, voice barely audible. Sam grew eerily still beside him.

The two young men sat in silence, the only sound the frantic, erratic movement of the steering wheel, spinning wildly.  Adrenaline overrode logic, and the click of the doors locking split the tension.

Sam began to thrash in his seat, kicking at the dashboard and tugging at the door handles.

“Let me out, letmeout, lemmeoutlemmeout—SHIT.”

In an instant, the passenger seat backboard dropped violently, sending Sam flying onto his back. The seatbelt was strung tightly across his chest as he bucked and kicked in a frenzy. Jack scrambled to unbuckle his own. He wasn’t about to be trapped in this nightmare, not with a Decepticon driving him to whatever hell it had in mind. His sweaty hands fumbled at the latch and within a second, his seat fell backward. Luckily, he had managed to free himself before it did. He was spiraling—what was he supposed to do? He’d been in a hostage situation, but not like this! When did Cons start letting humans drive them in high-speed underground races? How long had it been awake? Why did it wake up now?

The path in front of them curved into a turn, and in a flurry, his hands flew to the moving wheel and he tugged at it with all the force he could muster. The wheels slid out from under the Fiero, and Jack’s body was flush against the driver’s side door. The world blurred as they collided with the guardrail, but the Pontiac didn’t slow down. He lurched for the wheel again, but the seatbelt that he had previously unbuckled slithered along his chest, yanking him back into the reclined seat and buckling snugly.

He wheezed, clawing at the belt as it further constricted his chest. It was so tight that he felt it was becoming one with his skin. Encroaching darkness teased his vision, and his breathing grew shallower. Sam, on the other hand, had stopped struggling. His wide green eyes locked on Jack, pupils dilated and lost in fear. Without hesitation, Sam reached across, desperate to help, but his own seatbelt refused to give.

“Let go.” He whispered, voice hoarse.

“Jesus Christ, LET GO!” The flighty nervousness quickly evolved into a wild shriek as Jack felt his ribcage falter. It stung, like trying to rip apart a string with your fingers. The detailing of the fabric imprinted into your fingers as you pulled with all of your might.

“You’re going to kill him!”

At that, the air shifted, and the seatbelt loosened. His lungs expanded, sucking in air like a drowning man. Sam exhaled, his body going slack with relief as he slumped against the middle compartment. A garble of beeps, buzzes, and chirps came from the internal speakers, causing their heads to snap to the dashboard.

The car continued to cruise as the two youths bounced to the rhythm of the subtle bumps and bruises in the road.

“What the hell was that..?” Sam whispered. Jack tried to respond, but he could only muster a cough. A deep, delicate hoarseness consumed the cabin.

“I… Apologize.”

Both men gaped. It spoke. The car spoke.

“You’re… Sorry?” Jack croaked.

“I was unaware of how… gentle, I had to be with you organics.”

Sam’s eyes were still blown wide. “What gave it away?” He breathed.

“The screaming.”

Sam flinched, a burst of frustration flashing through his already frazzled nerves. He moved to bring himself up as much as he could, but the seatbelt cuffed him snugly to the seat. Jack tapped his shoulder, before shaking his head. The last thing he wanted to do was aggravate this Decepticon—very considerate deception—more than he already had.

“I seem to have made you angry.” The mech began. “There is a disturbing increase of cortisol, adrenaline, and norepinephrine in your systems. To decrease this, you should—”

Sam tensed further, face contorted. His ears blazed and he ground his teeth.

“Dude, calm down.” Jack defused. “Can you blame us for being… scared? It’s not every day we run into a Decepticon face to face.”

Face to face didn’t seem like the right term.

“You also almost killed him,” Sam bit back.

“I apologized.” The disembodied voice echoed with confusion. He apologized. He identified the cause of his elevated stress markers. He recognized the harm and expressed regret. Why was the organic still upset? Furthermore, he just saved the two meat puppets from Decepticons. They should be praising him for their empty, worthless lives—woah. Where had that come from?

“I am not a Decepticon.”

“You’re… not?”

“No, no way.” The brunette threw his arms up. “You’ve got the little silver dog thing smack in the middle of your hood.”

“Dog… Thing?”

“The Decepticon insignia on your hood.” Jack clarified as Sam gave the internal vents a withering look.

“I see. Perhaps an introduction is in order. My designation is Punch. I am a covert operative for the Autobot army designed and forged to infiltrate the Decepticon militia to gather intel.

“Oh.” Both boys mused. That explains the conflicting symbols.

“So you’re not here to take over the planet or destroy the sun or something?”

“...No.”

There was a gaping, uncomfortable silence, stretching out longer than it should have.

“Who are you?” Punch inquired, voice softer. He could feel their anxiety drain into his seat and strum his core. He was all too familiar with fear.

The ravenette, sweating bullets, looked at his counterpart. “Uh… My name’s Jack. Darby. Jack Darby.”

“I’m Sam.”

“It is nice to meet you, Jack Darby and… Sam.”

“Uh. Yeah. Yeah, you too.” Jack looked at Sam, who shuffled uneasily against the seatbelts. He felt like a frog pinned to a plastic dish. “Can you… uh… Let us up please?”

The seat swung forward, and Jack’s face collided with the horn. He groaned in pain, clutching his nose. Crimson dribbled down his chin as Sam fumbled through his pockets. The only thing that he had was his phone.

“Sorry man, I don’t have any—”

“It’s fine.” Jack sniffed and tilted his head backwards, attempting to stem the bleeding. His nose wasn’t broken, but damn did it hurt.

“I apologize. Again. Your fragility is… alarming.”

If Jack wasn’t blinded by pain, he could’ve sworn he felt Punch’s regret.

“It’s… alright. We understand.” More than most.

“Is your species always so understanding of giant robotic organisms from another planet?” Punch mumbled.

“It’s complicated.” Sam sighed. He was masking his stress quite well, especially if iRobot didn’t comment about his hormone levels or something weird. Inwardly, however, Sam’s heart was rabbiting in his chest. His stomach churned in on itself and he felt like he just ran a marathon while being chased by a mountain lion. He needed to call someone. He rifled through the contact list in his mind.  He needed to call Bee. Scratch that, he just needed Bee.

His eyes fluttered closed and flickers of electric yellow paint bled through the darkness. The soft buzzing of one of his jokes that landed particularly well, or the raunchy tunes of bad music, or the warmth of his interior. The air held a specific twang that nuzzled against his cheek and soothed his heart after a long day of school.

“Your dopamine levels have risen.”

His eyelids flew open and he jerked in his seat. Jack stared at him with a cocked eyebrow.

“Dude! Stop talking about my hormones and stuff! You can speak perfect English but can’t pick up on basic human etiquette stuff?”

“Don’t mind him.” Jack stated as Sam threw his arms in the air. “How did you learn English so quickly?” He looked past his bruised nose toward the dashboard. It wasn’t exactly the bot's face, but he had nowhere else to look.

“The World Wide Web.”

Both Sam and Punch spoke in perfect sync, and if Jack could raise his eyebrows any higher, they might’ve launched off his head.

“…Huh.”

The bleeding ebbed, and Jack pulled his hands from his slightly bruised face. Wiping them repeatedly on his worn jeans, he reached for the steering wheel. He gently placed his hands on it, palms barely brushing the faux leather. It was warm, so warm that it was crawling up his arms and straight into his chest.

“Ack.” The bot underneath grunted, surging forward.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m not going to... drive, you.” He grimaced at the phrasing. “But I still have to act like I’m driving. We are in a race, and I can’t lose. We,” he gestured toward Sam. “Can’t lose. Besides. Robots in Disguise and all that.”

“You are excreting water with various amounts of salt.”

Sam gave a shaky chuckle and Jack’s ears blazed as he muddled his words.

“I can’t control my… sweat. It’s a thing humans do when we’re stressed. I am very stressed.”

Only after a beat of silence was there a response.

“What is, ‘Robots in Disguise?’”

“A tagline, like a motto.” Sam chimed.

“Well, sort of. It’s a thing Optimus—”

“Optimus Prime is here? On this planet?”

Sam groaned, dragging his hands down his face in exasperation.

“We have a lot to catch you up on.” Jack huffed.