Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Barricade couldn’t believe his luck. Only utter desperation had driven him here, to the outskirts of one of the new Autobot bases, built, so he'd picked up from the news feeds, to help the humans cope with the strange tectonic activity in what had until recently been one of the more stable land areas of the planet. He'd had only a half-formatted plan of stealing energon, sneaking in past the detectors and searching for medical supplies, with wild, irrational thoughts of taking the Autobot medic hostage and forcing him to perform repairs chasing through the back of his processor. Even were he in perfect functioning condition, however, Ratchet would have been a formidable opponent. In his present state…he’d be lucky if all his limbs remained attached when he tried to transform. He looked almost as bad as Megatron had, in those final days, and the constant ache and deterioration of his frame was near to driving him mad. 

The mech he was watching from his hiding place was obviously a medic, undoubtedly a new arrival, with both human and Cybertronian medical insignias marking his chassis, but he was anything but formidable. As far as Barricade could tell he carried no weapons, and his attention was entirely focused on the small group of humans and their pathetic, squirming offspring. A sitting target. The Autobots had grown soft and careless, apparently, in the two years he’d been in hiding. All the better for him.

The medic inspected the vaguely repulsive larval creature in his hand, and then jiggled it a few times causing it to make loud shrieking sounds and flail its small appendages. Barricade straightened in surprise, suddenly not quite so certain of his initial assessment of the mech, but the larger, parental units laughed in approval, at which point Barricade realized the sounds indicated enjoyment of the procedure rather than abject terror. The medic returned the flesh creature to the arms of its parents and spent a few more moments in laughing conversation, most of which seemed to involve convincing ‘Cee Cee’ to ‘wave bye bye to nice Mr. First Aid.’ Barricade felt his tank shift and churn uncomfortably, though whether from repulsion at the sickening display or from the several gallons of biodiesel he’d consumed earlier that morning he wasn’t sure.

The medic, First Aid (Barricade’s mouth twitched in a sneer. Such a typical goody goody Autobot designation), rose when humans had departed, and wandered towards Barricade’s position, smiling skyward at something, sun, trees, or some such sentimental slag, or perhaps a distant helicopter. No witnesses, practically walking into his arms, almost as if the Autobot was handing himself over on an energon cake platter. Barricade gathered himself, wincing at the creaking sounds from his corroded joints, and then sprang out of the alley, yanking the medic by one arm before he could react, sweeping his legs out from under him and smashing his helm against the pavement several times until he went limp. It was over in mere kliks; his victim hadn't had time to offer even token resistance. He dragged the offline medic deeper into the alley for cover, and quickly clamped one of Soundwave’s signal disrupters on his back armor, blocking communications and shielding the medic’s energy signature from any that might notice his absence and come searching for him.

He then settled back and waited for the medic to online and to let his own systems recover; even that small exertion had his engine straining and making worrisome sputtering sounds. One side of the medic's visor was cracked from the impact with the pavement, flickering slightly although the optics behind it were dark. Just as he was beginning to wonder if he’d been a little too enthusiastic in taking him down (and damn, that had felt good, to act as a real Decepticon again instead of a lurking coward, but for his purposes the mech would need to stay at least mostly operational), the medic let out a small, staticky groan and his optics glimmered with an unsteady blue light.

“On your feet, Autobot scum.” He prodded the medic roughly in the side with his foot spikes to make his point, and then signaled the disrupter. The medic yelped and twisted, grabbing futilely at his back at the jolt, and then scrambled to his knees as Barricade prodded him again.

“You will not speak. You will do exactly as I say, or be deactivated, do you understand?”

The medic gingerly touched the side of his helm as his optics focused on the mech looming over him, and then, inexplicably, a hint of a smile lifted his mouthplates.

“Barricade. We’ve been looking for you.” Barricade growled in warning and lifted his hand to strike, and the medic blinked up at him, his expression briefly perplexed and then lifted his hands in apologetic understanding. “Oh dear, of course, I’m so sorry. No talking. I’m at your service, then, by all means. What would you like me to do?” From behind the cracked visor his optics scanned over Barricade’s frame and his mouthplates pursed together, one hand going to a panel on his side as if to open it. Barricade growled another warning and the medic carefully returned his hand to its former position and offered no further insolence, keeping his optics focused on Barricade’s face like a cadet waiting instructions. 

“Transform. Maintain a distance of one quarter span in front of me and follow my directions exactly. Any deviation or attempt to signal for help, and it will be not just you who meets deactivation, but all others in your vicinity.” 

“I see. Very well.” 

Barricade frowned, but the other folded himself slowly but compliantly enough into alt mode and rolled the designated distance in front of him, waiting patiently. Barricade tried not be jealous of the smoothness of the transformation as he painfully forced himself into alt mode as well. 

“Turn left. Straight through town until we reach State Road 38.” The sky was already darkening. No one would look twice at an ambulance being followed by a battered police cruiser along the thinly populated country roads of central Indiana. Barricade was puzzled by the sound of a helicopter (it had a familiar cadence, but Blackout was gone, like they were all gone, everyone but him...) but the sound soon faded, and his prisoner followed his directions obediently (and silently). 

The medic pulled to a stop in front of the abandoned barn and transformed at Barricade’s order, looking around him with interest and making a friendly chirring sound at one of the feral cats brave enough to investigate the new arrival. He gave Barricade a questioning look, seemingly unconcerned about his probable fate, for all the world as if Barricade had invited him over to hang out with a few cubes of high grade and where would he like him to park the coolant barrels…? Either the blow to the helm had rattled his circuits or he was naturally this dim-witted. Barricade pulled open the barn door and shoved the medic inside, illuminating the dark interior with his headlamps. The inhabitants responded with a chorus of ecstatic meeping sounds and a few of them, those still able to move, began trying to crawl weakly towards him.

“Fix them,” he said harshly. “Or you die.”

Chapter Text

"Oh..." First Aid's voice had gone very soft, his optics bright as they scanned over the hatchlings. "Oh my goodness." 

The hatchlings paused uncertainly at the sight of the unfamiliar mech, a few emitting nervous query calls to Barricade, falling silent when he did not respond. The ones that had been crawling towards him increased their speed with panicked determination, digging talons into his leg armor when they reached him and clinging tightly, trying to pull themselves up as far as they could. The rest squirmed back into a heap, burrowing into their nest of straw and empty cans and bits of rusted farm equipment until only peering red optics were visible. Barricade looked down at the hatchlings attempting to scale his leg with a sigh as they squeaked in distress. Pitiful bits of chirping metal. Not exactly stunning examples of the future of the Decepticon army, but that was Megatron’s fault, for yet another crazy grand failed scheme, and Starscream's, for getting himself deactivated and leaving him in charge of the whole fraggin’ next generation.

The medic hadn’t attempted to go any closer, standing in place with his hands clasped tightly in front of him, his scanners visible as they knifed through the dusty atmosphere inside the barn, blue, blue-green, and then pale yellow, alternating between Barricade’s legs and the huddled pile.

“Fourteen. All fourteen of them,” First Aid murmured. “We found the remains of seventy-one pods on the Nemesis, and fifty-seven dead hatchling frames. We’ve been searching Namibia for two years; Starscream must have moved them. Oh,Barricade. I have misjudged you utterly and completely.” He turned luminous optics in Barricade’s direction, and something about the slight movement of his arms and the lean of his frame made Barricade tense as if he were about to be attacked, prevented from backing away by the clinging hatchlings. The sudden surge of dread through his circuits surprised him; what did he think the blasted medic was going to do? Hug him for Primus’ sake? He dismissed the idea as ridiculous, but then was not so sure as First Aid swayed a little towards him and then back again, his pedes settling into place with an audible thump. The hatchlings in the huddle pile began to buzz and whimper in real fear. First Aid blinked a few times, the movements of his optic shutters just visible behind the visor, and then folded his arms carefully together with a sigh of his vents and turned his gaze back to the hatchlings, much to Barricade’s relief.

“It’s ok, bitlets, little ones. It’s ok,” the medic said softly, crouching down until his knees rested against the dirt floor of the barn. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Bweeoop?” One of the hatchlings from the pile made a high-pitched query call, echoed in quick succession by the ones clinging to Barricade.

First Aid laughed, a low burbling sound of gentle delight (Barricade wondered again what was missing in this mech’s processors, to laugh like that, as if he were a hatchling or new-spark himself) and buzzed back at them softly. 

“It would be best if you held them, while I take a closer look,” First Aid directed. “They obviously trust you, and I don’t want to frighten them further.” Small talons tapped nervously against Barricade’s leg armor, and he looked down at five bright pairs of optics as they alternated from staring up at him to peeking around his legs at the white-armored interloper. Hold them. Slag. He hadn’t really thought about how this was actually going to work, though he was pretty sure his hostage giving the orders hadn’t ever been part of the plan.

“OOOoo?” One of the hatchlings, one of the stronger ones, had managed to clamber up to dig his talons painfully into the back of his left knee articulation. Barricade leaned his torso slightly to meet that questioning gaze.

“No,” he answered the hatchling with a snort. “He’s not a cow.” The hatchlings in the nest pile chirred softly in relief at the sound of his voice, a few poking their heads back out of the straw.

“Cow?” First Aid’s voice held a note of startled amusement.

“They…like to go see the cows.” Barricade scowled and crossed his arms defensively, daring the medic to make anything of it. Slag. Digging himself deeper and deeper. At least the kittens were staying out of sight, for now.

“Ah. Well then. If it will make them more comfortable, I suppose I can be a cow.” The smile that quirked First Aid’s mouthplates was directed towards the hatchlings, not Barricade, which was the only thing, Barricade told himself, saving him from a thorough slagging or some zaps from Soundwave’s little gadget. The medic lowered his front half to the floor of the barn, and, confirming himself forever in Barricade’s processor as abso-fraggin-lutely out of his processor, mooed several times in a fairly credible imitation of an organic bovine.

~~~

In the end, as the hatchlings on his legs refused to let go, Barricade shuffled over to the nest and sat next to it, his joints pinging and scraping painfully. He’d learned the inadvisability of forcibly detaching hatchlings the hard way. He still felt a guilty cringe for the hatchling with the two slightly bent talons, although they seemed to cause it no difficulties and it didn’t seem to hold him any grudges. 

He scooped out the rest of them, one at a time, shaking off as much straw and debris as he could while First Aid scooted cautiously closer. Three of them, now, were curled into tight, miserable balls, plating hot to the touch, optics dim and non-responsive. He handed the smallest to First Aid. The one that had struggled to thrive from the very beginning, always weaker than the rest, and yet always stubbornly clinging to life. Until two orns ago when all of them had suddenly begun to fail, regurgitating their fuel and overheating and huddling together in misery instead of driving him to distraction with their bleating and curious explorations, and of course the smallest had failed the fastest. Barricade should have let him die. Instead he had cursed the pitiful, nearly lifeless little frame as he tried force even a drop of energon into the tightly clenched mouthparts and then thrown himself into alt mode and driven away, away from the dying hatchlings, away from his failure. To an Autobot base with an insane medic. 

“Oooo?”

“Mooo.” First Aid obliged, answering the hatchling on Barricade’s knee as he cradled his motionless sibling in one hand. A little daft in the processor he might be, but medical guild insignias, even at the apprentice level, were not awarded to just any ‘bot with a welder. An Autobot medic. Barricade hadn’t forgotten, not even for a nanoklik. No matter how sickenly soft-sparked this mech appeared on the surface, that was no guarantee he might not suddenly decide to crush the Decepticon threat, so fragile in his hands. 

Barricade watched closely as First Aid examined the dim-opticed little ball of dull bronze metal, ready to trigger Soundwave’s device at the slightest untoward move. The bits of straw and mud sticking to the delicate plating of the hatchling stood out in mute accusation in the light of the medic’s scanners.

“The symptoms started about a month ago?” He half-expected an angry rant over his inexpert and substandard care, but First Aid’s voice was non-committal as he continued to scan and run gentle fingers over the stiff little frame. Too late. Barricade felt his spark sink in its chamber. Too late for this one; he’d waited too long, but maybe the others could be saved.

Barricade nodded, schooling his faceplates to what he hoped was a threatening glower. “They were doing fine. Up until then,” he said, unable to keep the defensive note out of his voice. “And then…this. They act like…like they’re in pain.”

“I’m sure they are, poor babies,” First Aid murmured, delicately rolling the hatchling over onto its other side. “They would be, let’s see here, roughly six Earth years old, correct? That would put them at around the right age….” 

“The right age for what?”

“Ecdysis. Molting,” First Aid explained further, at Barricade’s blank look. “These are first instar hatchlings. Based on what we know of hatchling development, which admittedly is from an extremely small sample size, at roughly fifteen decaorns hatchlings enter their first transformation phase after which they will emerge as second instar. My brothers and I went through seven instars before arriving at our adult frames.” 

Barricade cycled his optics and First Aid gave him a little half smile as realization dawned, watching him intently for a moment before returning his attention to the hatchling. “We were spawned and hatched shortly after the launch of the Allspark. Optimus risked much; there were no guidelines, very little information to go by, only an old legend and a few offhand words from…from Sentinel”—First Aid’s voice faltered for a moment and then continued—“that gave them hope it could be done. We were tended and kept alive by an entire science division, a team of nearly twenty of the best scientists and medics and engineering specialists Cybertron had to offer. Something which you, Barricade, have managed to accomplish in an area which I am fairly certain was not a part of your original programming, by yourself, in a barn on an organic planet with no resources to speak of.” 

First Aid was smiling at him again with a sort of fond pride in his expression, and Barricade shifted uneasily. Not having a good response to that, Barricade opted to ignore it for the moment, as well as the revelation about the Autobots and their activities after the launch of the Allspark, and focus on the most important part. “So you’re saying this molting thing, this is…normal? What they’re doing? They’re not sick?” Not dying, he hadn’t fragged them up completely…hope sent a sharp ache through his spark.

“It’s a very good sign.” First Aid nodded emphatically. “I know it doesn’t look fun, and trust me, it’s not, but this is all a normal part of the process. It means they’ve received enough nourishment to begin to develop out, and don’t think I don’t know how you’ve been feeding them.” First Aid gave Barricade a severe look that seemed to promise some sort of reckoning, later. “There are a few deficiencies that worry me - but still, on the whole, they’re in remarkable shape. However, even though I’ve been a hatchling, I’ve never treated one. I’d feel a lot better if you’d let me call in Ratchet—“

“No.” Barricade’s voice was flat.

“But…” 

“I am not turning them over to Autobots,” he spat, putting all the venom, the scorn he could into the word, remembering battle brothers ruthlessly hunted down and deactivated, remembering that brief glimpse of Cybertron, destroyed forever for the sake of this inferior, organic-infested planet. “You think I don’t know what their fate would be?”

“Barricade…” the medic’s voice was unsteady; he had the satisfaction of seeing that exasperating composure rattled at last. “I understand why you might think that, but…things have changed.” 

“My original terms still stand. You fix them. You make sure they live. Or you die.” The hatchlings in his lap beeped fretfully, worried at his tone. 

First Aid’s expression was distinctly unhappy, but he nodded finally. “All right. For now,” he added, with a return of that maddening certainty that he was running the show instead of Barricade. “It wouldn’t be the best idea to relocate them at this stage anyway. Their sparks are all stable; I think I can synthesize everything they’ll need, and I can certainly make them more comfortable. Luckily I had the modifications installed before I arrived, though I’d about given up hope of putting them to use any time soon.” 

By modifications, apparently First Aid meant two nozzles attached to coiled hoses, roughly similar in size and shape to the fuel pumps humans used to refuel their vehicles, hidden beneath panels along his sides. Splitting the lower portion of each arm into two sections, he deftly managed to cradle two of the weaker but still functional hatchlings and hold the nozzles to their mouth components simultaneously. They squeaked uncertainly, craning their necks to make sure Barricade was still there, and then grimaced, mandibles working in disgust as First Aid squirted a small amount of fluorescent green fluid into their mouths. 

“I know it doesn’t exactly taste marvelous,” First Aid told them, in the same high-pitched annoying voice he had used to talk to the human offspring, stroking them a little reassuringly and mopping up any spillage by unfolding a seemingly endless supply of small, useful appendages. “But that will dissolve all the gunk that’s been accumulating in your systems, and then you’ll be able to process this much better.” Barricade recognized the deep, glowing blue of medical grade energon, and the hatchlings gulped it down eagerly, grasping at the nozzles with their talons. 

“Just a little bit, take it slow. Your tanks are getting ready to shut down for awhile, but this should help.” First Aid watched them in satisfaction and then giggled suddenly. (Barricade was struck again by how impossibly young the sound was, but now it made more sense.) “I really am the cow, aren’t I.”

One of the hatchlings, beginning to drift into a fitful doze where it gripped Barricade’s chest armor, perked up suddenly. “Ooo.”

“Mooo, exactly,” First Aid told it, laughing. 

Barricade snorted, but he had to admit, the nozzles were a definite improvement over slicing open his own energon lines over and over until they collapsed. He refused to return First Aid’s smile, when the medic met his glance, staring back impassively. The medic was a prisoner, slaggit. Not some sort of… bonded partner helping raise his family of hatchlings, like some stupid human television show. 

“What are their designations?” 

Barricade shrugged. “Don’t know. They haven’t exactly told me.”

“You mean you haven’t given them names?” First Aid tilted his helm. “Our caretakers gave us hatchling designations, until we were old enough to choose our own. What do you call them, then?” 

“’Come over here,’ and ‘shut the frag up,’ mostly. They all look the same; how the Pit would I even tell them apart?” That wasn’t strictly true. There were small variations in size, color, the way one would always curiously tilt its head at something new, the one that was always slowest to eat and the one that always managed to get its head stuck in cans and fences and other not-quite-head-sized openings. The one with the slightly bent front talons. The hatchling with an inordinate fondness for chewing on his tires. Barricade could tell them apart, but he felt he needed to do something to restore his reputation, whatever tattered shreds of it remained.

“Hm, well, that won’t do.” First Aid held up the hatchling in his left split-appendage, now that it had finished its meal, and eyed it consideringly. “You look like a Squiggles, I’d say. And you…” he lifted up the other hatchling, “you are my little Birdy Boo, yes you are.”

“What?!” Barricade stared at him in horror. “You can’t call them that!” 

“Why Barricade, I thought you’d approve.” First Aid’s optics twinkled at him through the visor. “It’s tradition to have a dreadfully embarrassing hatchling name, builds character, makes you a stronger ‘bot. Unless you have some other suggestions?” 

While Barricade continued to gape at him, he handed over the two hatchlings. Barricade refused to think of them as Squiggles and and…Birdy Boo. Refused. “Well then. Who’s next?” 

By the end of it First Aid had inflicted the rest of the hatchlings with names as well, although thankfully none quite so…horrific, as the first two. A few, though Barricade would deactivate before he admitted it, he actually rather liked. The littlest one, the one Barricade had been sure was dying, was dubbed Bravespark. First Aid hooked him and the other two immobile hatchlings to small energon feeds, injected them with various coolants and fluids and nanite cultures, and assured Barricade that they seemed to be progressing normally as far as he could tell (not that Barricade had asked).

“Fulcrum,” First Aid said quietly as he held the last of the hatchlings. The rest had at last consented to recharge in their nest instead of on Barricade, still overheated, stirring restlessly now and then, but they did seem to be in less discomfort and none of them had purged their tanks, a welcome change. “This one is the Prime spark,” he told Barricade. 

“A Prime?” Of course. The one with the two bent talons. A hatchling Prime, and Barricade had gone and nearly ripped his arm off. He felt a painful twinge of nostalgia for the snarky comments Starscream would have made, had he been there. Kept the little fragger alive, though, didn’t I? he said to the memory of Starscream. The memory-image failed to look impressed. “How can you tell? Never noticed anything special.” Other than he was a clingy little glitch. 

First Aid shrugged. “I don’t know, really. His spark doesn’t scan any differently, and probably won’t until his final instar, but I can still…it feels different. Like his resonance frequencies are much bigger than his frame. I get the same feeling around Optimus.” 

Starscream had never mentioned it, or even the possibility of there being a Prime in the bunch. Perhaps he hadn’t known, either. “Just the one?”

“Of the survivors here, yes. There may have been more that didn’t make it, but I doubt it, as all the hatchlings we found on the Nemesis appear to have been the same age.” First Aid’s optic ridges were drawn into a frown of memory. “Seventy-one seems large for a single clutch, but…the Fallen was a very powerful and ancient Prime. There’s only one Prime in every clutch, and every clutch a prime number, thus the name, at least according to what we’ve been able to decipher of the legends of the ancients. Or maybe not. It’s possible we’re entirely wrong.” 

First Aid addressed the hatchling again, looking into its small bright optics as it stared solemnly back. “You make three now, that we know of, alive in this universe. It is a thing of great hope, and an honor to meet you, small one.” 

Three Primes, one per clutch. Which meant that one of First Aid’s fellow hatchlings had likely grown up to be a Prime, as well. A Prime who might be wondering what had happened to his brother. Perfect. Somewhere inside Barricade’s processor an image of Starscream sighed and tilted his helm slightly in disappointment as he inspected one long, elegant talon. “Really, Barricade. Long term planning was never your…thing, was it.”

Chapter Text

“What the frag did you do to him!” 

The helicopter seemed huge, all shining red armor. The morning sun streaming through the remains of the barn door flashed off of his rotors as he gathered the unconscious medic in his arms and glared at Barricade with fierce blue optics. Barricade fought his first impulse to shield the hatchlings in their pile; it would only draw the helicopter’s attention to them, and for now, at least, they were staying quiet. The helo’s optics briefly scanned over his battered frame, and Barricade stiffened at the way they dismissed him as a threat before turning back to fuss over First Aid.

Thank Primus the hatchling burrowed into his wheel well was far enough out of it that he hadn’t responded to the intruder. Barricade hadn’t had the spark to dislodge him earlier when Gasket had wedged himself into his frame, gnawing miserably on his tire, and with him there there was no way he was going to be able to fend off an enraged…Prime? The mech was certainly big and imposing enough to qualify. The copter, unlike First Aid, was positively bristling with weapons. Even without a hatchling encumbering him, in his current condition Barricade was badly outmatched. 

“I didn’t do anything, chopper,” Barricade growled, moving as casually as he could to draw the helo’s attention to the other side of the barn. “He ate about half a tractor; maybe it disagreed with him.”

“Ate a what?” The helo looked up from First Aid with a hot blue glare, although he seemed somewhat calmer now. Barricade indicated the rusted, partially dismantled heap, just to the side of the broken barn door. Reconfirming Barricade’s opinion that the medic was rather cracked in the processor, First Aid had spent a considerable amount of time talking to the hollow frame of the tractor, making sure it was ok with being recycled for the sake of the hatchlings before beginning to dismantle it.

The helo sighed, closing his optic shutters briefly. “Of course he did,” he murmured, letting his helm fall against First Aid’s with a slight clunk. One of First Aid’s hands twitched slightly. Barricade allowed himself to admit to relief at that small sign the medic was still among the functioning – cracked in the processor he might be, but right now First Aid was the hatchlings best chance at survival. Survival among the Autobots. As a true Decepticon he should deactivate them before allowing them to be taken to serve the Autobot cause, but...it was no longer an option, if it ever had been. He was weak, perhaps. As weak in spark as he had become in his corroded frame. 

The helo had folded his weapons back into his armor and rearranged First Aid in his grip, settling himself against the barn wall so that the medic was propped comfortably against him. “Glitch head,” the helo said to his offline brother, his voice rough with relief and exasperated affection. So much for hoping he’d just take First Aid and fly away, but at least he wasn’t blasting them all into oblivion. Yet. 

The hatchlings in the nest were beginning to make small, questioning beeps, one or two small helms peering out cautiously. It was too much to hope that they would be overlooked for much longer. Barricade surreptitiously tried to pry Gasket from his wheel well without much success, vague plans for luring the intruder away if he decided to attack forming in his processor.

“Sorry for jumping to conclusions. And about your door.”

Barricade jerked his hand away from his wheel well with a guilty start. He flared his armor and revved his engine defensively, causing the helo to wince slightly at the sputtering sound. Pit. That sounded…distinctly unimpressive. The helo looked far more concerned than intimidated; Barricade supposed he should be grateful he wasn’t laughing at him outright.

After a moment of thoughtful contemplation, the helicopter’s mouth lifted in a half smile. “Relax, buddy. Barricade, right? Name’s Blades. Don’t worry, I usually know better than to interfere with one of Aid’s little rescue projects, but when he faded out like that I kind of panicked. 

One of Aid’s ‘little rescue projects?’ What the frag. Barricade narrowed his optics. “What’s wrong with him?”

“We don’t know.” The helo, Blades, regarded his brother with a worried frown. “He…had a really rough molt cycle, earlier this year, and he still hasn’t fully recovered. He’s stabilizing now, though. It hasn’t happened for awhile, except sometimes when he overdoes it.” The helo glared down at the offline medic. 

Gasket chose that moment to clamber out of Barricade’s wheel well and across his shoulder to wedge his small, overheated helm under his chin, meeping unhappily. Blades’ helm snapped up; Barricade froze as the helo’s optics and scanners zeroed in on Gasket. 

“Hatchling,” Blades murmured incredulously. Too late, Barricade raised one hand to shield Gasket from his view. Their optics met for a long moment, Barricade feeling uncharacteristically and utterly vulnerable as he held the spawn of the Autobots’ greatest enemy against his spark. Nowhere to run, no way to fight; the copter had him and he knew it. 

Gasket chirred and meeped again, turning to wrap both sets of talons around his hand. Blades’ optics brightened with a warmer light, squinting slightly in the beginnings of a smile. 

“His programming’s intact?”

“What?”

“The Fallen…we have evidence that he planned to overwrite his hatchlings’ processors, to use the energon from the Sun Harvester to force-transfer them into Supreme frames and fuel them. They wouldn’t have lived long, but while they did they would have been unstoppable. It doesn’t look like that happened, though.“ Blades’ smile grew wider. Lies, some small part of Barricade’s processor protested, but it made a horrifying kind of sense. Even more horrifying was the realization that before he had known the hatchlings, become their default caretaker, he would have considered it a regretful but worthy sacrifice. 

“Aid’s been helping take care of a hatchling. No wonder. That explains a few things, anyway.” Blades nodded towards Gasket and hoisted First Aid a little closer. First Aid whirred in a muffled, discontented fashion against his brother’s neck, sounding remarkably like Gasket. “All these warm, fuzzy feelings coming through the bond, I was starting to think he’d gone and fallen in love with a Decepticon,” he said with a chuckle.

“Through the bond,” Barricade repeated. Slag. That didn’t sound good. He eyed the copter warily although he could feel his straining engine step down several notches, reassured despite himself by the way Blades’ grin seemed to be going a little sappy around the edges as he watched Gasket. 

“We’re a gestalt. The Protectobots.” Blades pried Soundwave’s device off of First Aid’s back and flicked it towards Barricade with a reproachful look. “You didn’t need to hit him like that, you know. He would have helped you if you’d asked.”

No wonder the copter had shown up so quickly. Soundwave’s signal blocker blocked most spark energy signatures and communication frequencies, but would have had no effect on the quantum-aligned sparks in a gestalt bond. First Aid’s brothers had known exactly where he was and at least a general impression of his mental state the entire time. A gestalt, with a Prime in the bunch, not to mention Optimus slaggin’ Prime’s very own hatchling spawn, and he’d gone and kidnapped their much beloved little medic. Holy frag, could it get any worse?

“Mmph. Blades.” Said little medic stirred, his optics slowly brightening behind the visor. “He had no way of knowing that,” First Aid mumbled blearily as he lifted his head.

“Certain Decepticons need to get with the program, then,” Blades said mildly, putting his hands on either side of First Aid’s helm and running one gentle finger component over the cracked visor. “Self-preservation skills of a robotopossum in traffic, I swear. Give me one good reason I shouldn’t haul your aft to Ratchet right now.”

“Fourteen, actually.” First Aid gave his brother a dazzling, if still somewhat unfocused smile. ”They’re here, Blades, all of them. Barricade saved them.” 

“He did, did he. All fourteen?” Blades lifted his head, scanning until he found the rest of the hatchlings in their pile. “All fourteen, would you look at that.” Blades met his brother’s happy smile with a brilliant one of his own. “Optimus is going to flip his shizzle.”

First Aid giggled, but his brother’s rotors rustled in concern as he scanned over the hatchlings again. “They seem a little—“

“Yes, first molt cycle, which is why I wanted to get in at least one more supplemental fueling before—“

“That system powers directly off of your spark, Aid, couldn’t you have—“

“I know, but if I synthesize it they’ll be able to absorb it much more easily—“

“Regardless—“

“Yes, Dearest. I’m sorry.”

“I’ll give you ‘Dearest.’ Better yet I’ll sic Groove on you. We’ve missed you.”

“You poor things.” First Aid laughed. “It’s been all of, what, twelve hours?”

“Of course we trust you, but with your spark all weird now—“

“It’s not weird, Blades—“

“Not that I’m complaining—“

Barricade gave up on following the fragmented, affectionately teasing conversation before he tossed the meager contents of his tank. Gestalt, indeed. Since he didn’t seem to be in danger of imminent deactivation anymore he made his way back to the hatchling pile and tried to coax Gasket into joining them, but instead ended up with Fulcrum, Trajectory, Noggin and…Squiggles (and blast it all to Vector Sigma, but the name was stuck in his processor for good now) latched on to his leg armor and all determinedly inching towards his torso.

“It’s been a good run. Little pit spawns,” he murmured, feeling suddenly very tired. More tired. He couldn’t remember anymore what it was like to be not tired. The game was up, not that he’d really expected…he didn’t know what he’d expected. He’d just been surviving, one moment to the next, as he always had. Maybe they’d keep him alive for awhile, for the sake of the hatchlings. Or simply reprogram what was left of him, after Optimus Prime ‘flipped his shizzle’ whatever that meant. Fulcrum looked up and gave a soft, worried beep. “Be sure you give ‘em as much hell as you gave me, ok?”

~~~~~~~

Starscream sat in front of him, perched on an outcrop of rock as if it were a throne. Although Starscream’s expression held an air of great disappointment, Barricade felt a surge of joy through his spark, it had all been a mistake, a delusion, Starscream was alive, Cybertron was not destroyed, they would be strong again against the rest of the universe, they were saved…

Starscream leaned forward, towards him, his gaze intense. “Just like that?”

“Like what?” Barricade asked, confused.

“You’re giving up, giving them over to those…” Starscream waved a hand, “Autobot fools.”

“What? Giving who over? The hatchlings?”

“Of course the hatchlings. Idiot.” Starscream was sneering at him, but Barricade was too happy to see him to mind. Starscream sneering was the natural order of things. He was tempted to give him a hug, just to hear him screech.

“These two don’t seem like such bad sorts, for Autobots. They seem to care for the hatchlings, at least. They’re so young. Maybe…maybe they’ll be different, even if they were spawned by Optimus.”

“You’re as bad as Megatron.” Starscream had his hands on his hip projections, glaring at him in disgust. “Cozying up with Autobots, treating the flesh creatures as if they were equals.”

Megatron doing what? That made no sense at all, but Barricade’s attention was diverted by the fact that Starscream showed no surprise at the information that Optimus Prime had spawned a clutch. 

“You knew, didn’t you, about the other hatchlings.” Starscream stiffened at the note of accusation in his voice but did not deny it. “Something you forgot to tell the rest of us? The Autobots weren’t so bent on extinction as you wanted us to think, were they. Did you know what the Fallen was planning for his own clutch, too?” Schemes within schemes within schemes. None of this fragging war had ever made sense, nothing was what it seemed. Barricade was sick of it all, his core roiling with a sort of baffled despair.

“Irrelevant.” Starscream’s optics flared in anger. “Have you no pride? No honor? Is this what the mighty Decepticon empire has come to?”

“It’s not like I’ve really got a choice. Cybertron is gone. You left me here alone.” Barricade hated the waver in his voice, but could not suppress it. Pride and honor were fine things when you had a full tank and charged weapons, but two years of hiding, scrounging and stealing fuel, falling apart system by system from untreated injuries and lack of maintenance, the desperate, exhausting, and endless toil of keeping fourteen fragile hatchlings alive…it had all taken a toll. “Damn you.” His fists were clenched and trembling. “For two years my best friends have been cows. If you don’t like what I’m doing come back and fix it yourself.” 

Starscream raised an optic ridge, unimpressed by his outburst, his expression fading from angry to considering as he tapped his cheek spar with one long talon. How often, Barricade thought with sudden shame, had Starscream forgone all pride, all honor, to keep him alive? How often had he begged and groveled, diverted Megatron’s wrath to himself, bowed to the unnerving whims of the Fallen, the incomprehensible plans of Sentinel Prime, all the while weaving his own tangled web of plots, counterplots, and alliances. Yes, he had secrets, had lied to Barricade, was in his own way as ruthless and unbalanced as Megatron, but always in the cause of a strong future for Cybertron…but not even for Cybertron would Starscream have allowed the Fallen to overwrite and reprogram the hatchlings. The thought came unbidden to his processor, but Barricade could not bring himself to question it. If it was an illusion he clung to in order to preserve his sanity then so be it.

He sighed. Starscream was gone. This was only the maundering of his overly fragmented processor, tormenting him with his own doubts, his own failures.

“I never thanked you.”

“What?”

“For everything you did, for me, for the hatchlings. You kept us alive.”

Starscream narrowed his optics in consternation. “Sentimentality, Barricade? This is worse than I expected.” The jet regarded him probingly for a long moment and then loosed a much-put-upon sigh and leaned back against the rock. “It’s glaringly obvious none of you can manage without me. Something must be done.” Barricade blinked as Starscream…faded, becoming one with the boulder until it was only a rock outcropping with a vaguely Seeker-shaped outline. 

“Starscream?”

“Barricade?”

The familiar sensation of hatchling fangs gnawing fondly on his tire brought him back online, his systems rebooting sluggishly as he dismissed the usual slew of error messages. Primus, his processor hurt. He groaned and turned his helm to see First Aid gazing over at him curiously.

“Good morning. Or evening, more accurately; you’ve been out most of the day.” First Aid said in his soft voice, so different from Starscream’s. “You might want to move cautiously; you’ve got three of them on your chassis and Gasket is back in your wheel well.” 

Barricade sat up carefully, unable to stifle a pained exclamation as his joints protested the movement, one hand coming up to catch Fulcrum, Leeway and Barricade, Jr. as they started to slide down his chestplates, their talons no longer strong enough to keep their grip. The hatchlings buzzed at him weakly and then whimpered and pressed their overheated helms against his hand. Barricade stroked their backplates a little in a futile attempt to comfort; this molting business sucked major exhaust.

The medic was sitting next to him with Trajectory and Noggin in either hand, feeding them again from the nozzles. Pingback and Birdy Boo were curled, dark and silent, with the other three hatchlings in full molt. First Aid gave Barricade a weary smile. “Some of them are still taking energon, at least. Molting is such an energy-intense process; I want to get as much of this new formulation into them as I can.”

Barricade blinked and looked around. The barn was empty of helicopters. The evening sun gleamed golden through the high window at the back of the barn, illuminating the neatly repaired barn door and a small portable storage unit next to the remains of the tractor. Huh. That was new.

“I’m not in stasis cuffs,” he said, looking at his arms in mild surprise.

First Aid looked at him quizzically. “No. No you’re not. Blades left you some high grade, said you looked like you could use it. You can have it if you promise to drink it slowly; your systems are a mess.”

“What?” Barricade said intelligently. He felt like he’d been saying that a lot lately.

First Aid dipped his helm, pointing to Barricade’s right. 

It wasn’t a large cube, but it was honest-to-Primus high grade. Top notch high grade, no less. He had refused the medical grade First Aid had offered him earlier, saving it for the hatchlings, but there was no refusing this. Barricade sipped it slowly, reverently, cradling it in his free hand, watching the remaining online hatchlings take their fuel, content not to think at all as the long-forgotten taste sang through his entire frame and filled him with other things also long forgotten. Hope maybe. Kindness. The high grade was poisoned, possibly. He didn’t particularly care.

First Aid coaxed Gasket out of his wheel well with some clever prying by his finger subunits and tried to refuel him, but after a few desultory sips the hatchling curled up in a stubborn ball and refused to take anymore. First Aid finally gave up and hooked him to a small energon feed. The rest of the hatchlings he tucked in amongst their bits of straw and rusted cans, but they were still restless and fretful, even after their refueling. First Aid stroked them gently and sang to coax them into recharge, some human song about a little star in the sky. His voice was low and sweet as he repeated the simple melody several times, first in English, then several other human languages, modern and ancient Cybertronian, other alien languages he had no name for. Primus singing wonder at the dawn of time. Barricade, watching the sun patterns shift from golden to red to pink-purple along the barn walls, felt his spark catch unexpectedly. 

“What now?” Barricade asked finally, with a sort of dreamy detachment, the ache in his processor replaced by a warm sense of well-being. Starscream’s face seem to glare at him from somewhere in the swirling patterns of energon. Could the Autobots buy his loyalty with a measly cube of high grade? Frag yeah they could. This was…bliss. He swirled the last of the fuel around the cube and swallowed it, savoring the fumes, the mellow heat filling his tank.

“That’s up to you.” First Aid patted Barricade’s knee and then leaned over to settle Gasket in with Bravespark, Starshine, Ducky, Birdy Boo, and Pingback, all of them still and silent now in the full grip of the molt cycle. Barricade couldn’t help feeling a twinge of alarm every time he looked at them; were it not for the heat still emanating from their frames he would have sworn they were deactivated. First Aid spent extra time checking over Bravespark, his lip components pursed in concentration, and then settled back into his spot by Barricade.

“Blades will be back to help when he can, but until then, would you mind monitoring the hatchlings?” First Aid’s voice was cheerful but raspy with static, and Barricade only then noticed how dim his optics were behind the visor. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to catch some recharge, or my brothers really will drag me to Ratchet.”

“Uh…sure?” Apparently Optimus Prime was not going to be bursting through the door demanding his face, at least not anytime soon. Ok. He could live with that, he supposed. Whatever.

“They are all progressing normally as far as I can tell, but Bravespark has had a few fluctuations in his engine readings and I want to keep a close optic on them. They may not mean anything, but I’ve got a readout here – I’m patching you in.”

A request for a scanwave connection pinged Barricade’s CPU and he cautiously accepted. Various medical data points scrolled past, much of it unfamiliar, but First Aid pointed out Bravespark’s engine data, already tagged with alerts for any fluctuations outside of acceptable levels. Barricade suspected First Aid really didn’t need his help at all – there were alerts set up to wake him from recharge for a whole host of parameters – but if it was a ploy to make him feel better and give him something to do besides ineffectively comfort unhappy hatchlings…it was working. As long as the little readouts stayed within their allotted safe zones, he could see for himself that the hatchlings were ok. 

“Also…” 

A file packet appeared in his queue, labeled “Hatchling Pod/Molt Record, 0.0 to 7.24 Vorns”

“A little light reading, if you’re interested. Wheeljack’s notes on raising us. It should give you a better idea of what to expect with the second instar stage, and beyond. I apologize for the format; Wheeljack always intended to create a more organized document…but…” First Aid’s voice trailed off and his intakes caught for a moment.

Barricade found he was glad First Aid was looking down at his carefully interlaced fingers, so he did not have to meet his optics. Wheeljack had…raised him? It was obvious First Aid had cared deeply for the inventor. Barricade hadn’t been the one to deactivate Wheeljack, but he certainly had done nothing to prevent it. He’d even congratulated himself at the time, to be so strong, to watch without flinching. It had been Wheeljack’s inventions that had finally taken down Starscream, but all he could think of now were the inventor’s terrified pleas. No prisoners. Only trophies. When had that become the creed of Decepticon and Autobot alike? 

First Aid sighed and patted Barricade’s knee again, as if Barricade were the one that needed comforting, and gave him a sad but peaceful smile. 

“It was quick, Bumblebee said. I’m glad to know he didn’t suffer for long.”

Barricade was suddenly unable to endure that gentle touch on his leg. “Rest,” he said roughly, crumpling the empty energon cube and rising. “I’ll keep watch.”

Chapter Text

Beachcomber had surveyed the location originally, deep underground near the lingering warmth and slowing pulse of Cybertron’s dying heart, and he and Wheeljack and the rest of the Science and Medical Division had made it their temporary home, their refuge for a time from the war, the hidden sanctuary to safeguard their precious hope. Ample energon could still be scavenged for those with the knowledge to find it. It could have been bleak, but it was surprisingly cozy down here, and it felt, somehow, protected. As if they were being watched over by friendly optics, although the more pragmatic of them dismissed the sensation without hard evidence to back it. And now everything, the long orns of patient tending and waiting and preparation, was about to pay off. Their very future as a species was at stake, and not a single one of them, if they were honest, had any idea what they were doing. They grinned at one another with nervous excitement.

“Wheeljack, hurry up! You’re going to miss it.” Hoist cupped his hands anxiously under the hatchling pod, watching as the small figure inside squirmed and clawed at the membrane. One talon had broken through, allowing a thin trickle of clear fluid to run down the side and drip from the bottom. Next to him Arcee, Signal Flare, Camshaft, Elita, and Perceptor clustered around the emerging hatchling, while the rest of them kept a close optic on the other pods. Most were near hatching as well, and had been squirming and struggling for joors, but this was the first one to actually puncture the membrane.

“He’s trying so hard,” Arcee winced sympathetically as the form of the hatchling, blurred by the thick protective pod membrane, paused for a moment, bracing its helm against the side of the pod and wiggling the one free talon in a beckoning motion. “I just want to help him out.”

“He can do it,” Hoist reassured her. “C’mon, little guy, keep trying.”

Wheeljack pushed his way into the excited cluster of mechanisms around Hoist. “Oh wonderful, look at that. He’s really gonna do it, look at him go!”

“Everything’s ready to go, in case he needs it?” Hoist asked, never taking his optics from the squirming hatchling. Another talon joined the first.

Wheeljack nodded. “Such as it is. Let’s hope he doesn’t need it. Emergency resuscitation on the first hatchling in a thousand vorns with absolutely no instruction manual is not something I really want to try.”

“He won’t need it,” Camshaft said, his optics glowing brightly. “He’s a strong one. They all are.”

“Number three’s hatching, too!” Evac called from where he was watching over the first three pods.

“Ha! Told you he’d be the first out.” Smokescreen grinned smugly from where he watched over podlings number eight and nine.

“You’ve been taking bets on the hatchlings?” Hoist sounded mildly indignant.

“Based on the order of spawning, relative growth and energy conversion ratios, and cumulative movements per joor, I must dispute your conclusion, my dear Smokescreen,” Perceptor said, nevertheless leaving Hoist to go assist Evac. “My calculations show that number five has been the incontestable leader in development over the last orn.”

Smokescreen made a rude noise, to which Perceptor responded with a rude gesture over his shoulder. Signal Flare, grinning, positioned himself exactly halfway between Hoist and Perceptor, hedging his bets, and Elita rolled her optics at him, poking the big tankformer in the side as she went over to help Perceptor. Despite all the good-natured teasing and the almost audible hum of excitement in the room, the mood in the hatchling incubation chamber stayed intently focused, none of the science and medical team wavering from their constant scanning and monitoring of the eleven new lives under their care.

“It’s too bad Optimus is missing this,” Elita said softly, as she and Perceptor watched hatchling number three. This one had indeed breached the pod membrane, one talon poking through in almost identical fashion to Hoist’s number five.

Perceptor nodded, cradling his hands under the pod. “All is being recorded most meticulously indeed, but…yes. I wish he could be here, too. We are most privileged to have had a small role in bringing it about.”

“We’ve got the whole arm!” Hoist announced as hatchling number five resumed his struggles to emerge. “And…whoopsie doo! Here we go!” Signal Flare darted back over to the little crowd around Hoist.

“My fine mechs and femmes, we have our first hatching!” Wheeljack announced, to quiet but sparkfelt cheers (and a pretended groan of dismay from Smokescreen. Perceptor was too engrossed by the hatchling in front of him to claim victory).

“Wheeljack, how’s he doing? Is he ok?” Elita called.

“He’s venting normally—” a pause, as Wheeljack and Hoist hovered over the hatchling, their helms close together “—vitals all strong and steady… Primus.”

“What?! What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Wheeljack answered. “He’s beautiful, absolutely perfect. Just look at his little optics! Look Hoist, how he’s holding on to your hand!”

“I see, I see,” Hoist laughed, cradling the tiny frame, the optics bright and clear, no longer shrouded by the pod fluid. “He’s got a pretty good grip for a newspark, and he feels...soft. He’s almost all protoform.”

“Those little talons, they don’t even seem real,” Arcee said, exchanging grins of wonder and relief with Camshaft and Signal Flare and flashing victory signs to the rest of the team in the hatchling chamber.

“Don’t let him get cold; we don’t know what sort of temperature fluctuations they can handle,” Wheeljack cautioned, hovering a little.

“Let’s get him to the warmer and get him dried off a bit,” Hoist agreed. “Clear the way, everyone,” he added, smiling. “Hatchling, coming through.”

“We’ve got an arm out over here, now, too, and…wow! When it happens, it happens fast, doesn’t it. Hatchling number two is out!” Elita announced. There were more muted cheers and mutual congratulations.

“Number two?” Smokescreen asked, startled.

“Number three,” Elita clarified, “second one hatched. He looks good so far.”

Perceptor, after letting Evac get a quick look, took his hatchling and joined Hoist and Wheeljack at the warmer in the center of the chamber, and everyone not directly monitoring a pod joined them to admire the two new arrivals while everyone else patched in visual feeds and provided commentary.

“Look at their little optics, just looking around at everything!”

“I can’t believe they’re finally out.”

“Have they said anything yet?”

“It’s too bad Optimus…damn this war.”

“They’re so tiny, even smaller than cassettes!”

“They do have quite the grip, don’t they,” Elita commented, watching Hoist unsuccessfully try to place hatchling number five on the warmer.

“He’s not letting go! I don’t want to hurt him,” Hoist said. The hatchling made a cascade of distressed, high-pitched cheeps every time Hoist tried to delicately pry loose the tiny talons wrapped firmly around his finger units. He gave up at last and let the hatchling cling, stroking him reassuringly while Wheeljack took more detailed measurements of his vital signs. Perceptor was having similar difficulties with his hatchling. Elita, trying to help, found her finger tightly entrapped as the hatchling transferred one set of talons.

“Oh dear, I’m afraid we’re stuck,” Perceptor laughed.

“One of the unforeseen hazards of hatchlings, it appears,” Elita said, laughing as well, carefully rearranging her arm-with-hatchling-attached to a less awkward position. The tiny bot watched her, blue optics focusing on her face in fascination.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“What’s his designation, has he said?” Evac asked.

“They won’t have full-fledged language processing capabilities for a long time, Evac,” Wheeljack reminded him.

“But…not even designations? How are we going to know what to call them?”

“What’s wrong with Three and Five?” Perceptor said.

“We can’t keep calling them numbers,” Camshaft objected. “Not once they’re hatched.”

“I fail to detect anything unsuitable with the number three,” Perceptor murmured. “Three is a perfectly delightful digit, yes it is,” he cooed to the hatchling still grasping his hand. The hatchling turned his small helm to focus on Perceptor, optics wide, and flared his thin bits of plating a little.

“Bzee?”

Elita laughed at him. “Perceptor, you’ve lost your processor. Why are you talking like that?”

“It’s obviously the optimum method for conversing with pre-verbal hatchlings. Look how he responds to it.” Perceptor addressed the hatchling again, pitching his vocal unit higher and letting the intonations rise and fall outrageously. “Yes, my dear little microchip, you know I’m communicating with you, don’t you, such a clever, darling little protoform.” The hatchling squirmed and wiggled in his hand, squeaking as it let go of Elita’s finger and began trying to climb Perceptor’s arm.

“I agree, Camshaft, we can’t just call them by number anymore,” Wheeljack said. “We’ll have to give them temporary designations until they can choose their own.”

Several of the Science Team shifted uneasily. “Can we do that?” Signal Flare finally said. “I mean, what if they don’t like the names we pick?”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way to express your opinion if you don’t like it, won’t you, you adorable little energon cookie,” Wheeljack cooed to hatchling number five, imitating Perceptor’s mode of speech. Number five chirruped back at him. “Why don’t we call you Cookie, hmm? Is that your designation? Is it? Are yooo my little Cookie-bot?” He sqreeked his vocals even higher. “Are yooo? Are yooo?”

“Apparently he is your, ah, ‘little Cookie-bot,’” Hoist chuckled, shaking his head in resignation as the hatchling beeped and wriggled happily in response to Wheeljack’s apparent loss of sanity.

In the end no one else felt comfortable actually assigning names to the hatchlings, so Wheeljack, as lead scientist of Operation Hatchling, named them all. Number three became Snugglebits, followed by Wisehelm, Caliber, Zap, Hot Spot, Isotope, Tangent, Bridger, Sparkles as the remaining hatchlings emerged over the next several joors, until only one was left still in the pod.

“Here he comes, finally,” Wheeljack said. He held hands at the ready as the last hatchling finally breached his pod membrane. “I was starting to get worried about you, bitlet.” The set of talons sticking out of the pod seemed to wave at them all excitedly. “Come on out, little Happy Claws,” he encouraged. “The rest of your brothers are waiting to meet you.”

The last of the hatchlings emerged in a rush of incubation fluid and a pair of startled blue optics into Wheeljack’s waiting hands. He was examined and cuddled and pronounced healthy, and taken to join the improvised hatchling nest where he was promptly engulfed by his ten wriggly siblings.

“All eleven,” Hoist said happily, watching to be sure the newest hatchling was not being overwhelmed by all the squirming. Tangent and Isotope wrapped themselves around the new one and all three proceeded to gnaw contentedly on one another’s talons and foot supports before gradually powering down into recharge, still in their tangle of small limbs and frames. It had been a long cycle, but no one wanted to leave; the whole team took turns crowding around the nest and admiring the hatchlings until sheer exhaustion made them head off for their own recharge.

“This simply isn’t working, Wheeljack,” Elita said, several joors later, frowning as Hot Spot dumped the small cube of energon all over himself for the second time and then started chewing on one of the armor projections on Elita’s forearm, with a discontented buzz-growl of hunger and frustration. “They have no idea how to refuel, and they just don’t have the coordination to hold onto the cubes. We need some sort of…feeding devices to regulate the energon flow. Tubes, or nozzles maybe.”

Wheeljack was having slightly more success as he tipped one corner of the cube against Zap’s mouth components, allowing the hatchling to intake a tiny portion at a time. Still, the majority of the fuel was ending up either on Wheeljack or the hatchling, especially as Zap insisted on “helping” by trying to stick his talons into the cube and pull out the energon more rapidly. Wheeljack made a thoughtful noise as he put down the cube and tilted Zap onto his ventral plates to let him drip dry for a moment . “I could definitely use a few more finger subunits, that’s for sure. Maybe that’s what that diagram was about, in Ratchet’s file. The only glyph we could translate was ‘mandible’; we always assumed it was some sort of hatchling dental cleansing device, but maybe it was intended for refueling. And the other schematic, that was similar to a medical spark fusion conversion chamber, like Ratchet has. That would let us refuel them directly from our own systems!” Wheeljack’s optics lit up with excitement at the thought of redeveloping the ancient design. “I bet I could come up with something.”

Elita nodded, expression sober. “They’ll draw a lot of energy, but I agree. Integrated hatchling refueling systems would be a good precaution, if we ever have to evacuate the hatchlings quickly. At least some of us should have them installed. I’ll let you test the prototype out first, though, and at a safe distance,” she added on a lighter note.

“Is this normal?” Evac, the other hatchling-tender on duty, watched the hatchlings with a worried expression as they clumsily tumbled and pulled themselves about in their nest. “I mean, they can’t even feed themselves, or walk, or communicate. I knew they would be small, and different from Allspark-kindled newsparks, and they’re certainly appealing, but…are we sure they’re not…deficient, somehow?”

Bridger squawked as his helm was trapped under Sparkles and Wisehelm, and Hoist rescued him, gently nudging the hatchlings apart.

Wheeljack shrugged. “Optimus remembers so little of his hatchling phase, and as Sentinel kept him so guarded, and left us no records, we really have no way of knowing if they’re normal or not. Megatron might be the only one still alive who could enlighten us. If he’s still alive.”

Evac snorted at that. “Um, yeah. No. I’ll continue to live in ignorance, thank you.”

“Also….” Elita said, exchanging a significant glance with Wheeljack. “Wheeljack and I have a theory that Prime-kindled hatchlings truly are new sparks, while we who were Allspark-kindled have been…recycled, from previous sparks that have already lived and extinguished once, or perhaps many times.”

“Recycled!” Evac drew himself up indignantly, rotors flaring. “Just who are you calling recycled?”

“It’s only a theory,” Elita laughed. “However, it corresponds very nicely with what we know of how the Allspark generated new life, and the way Allspark-kindled mechanisms are able to immediately function and communicate and control their own frames. Perhaps it takes time for a spark to adjust to the physical plane. Perhaps originally our sparks were all Prime-kindled. It is possible that the existence patterns that we gain in our previous lives remain when our sparks are rekindled by the Allspark, allowing us to function with immediate proficiency once we are embodied.”

Evac gave her a skeptical look, but Wheeljack and Hoist were both nodding.

“Most juvenile techno-organic and organic lifeforms begin life in a similarly primitive stage, after all,” Wheeljack added. “In fact, from what we can decipher of the Ancient’s archaeological records from the Primordial-era, a lot of the evidence seems to point to us being descendants of organic lifeforms, rather than the other way around.”

Evac blinked at that. “I appreciate the…value and worthiness of our organic neighbors as much as the next Autobot, but that’s taking it a little far, don’t you think?” he said a little plaintively. Even Elita looked somewhat shocked.

“Huh,” she said finally. “Wouldn’t that make old Megsy lose his coolant.”

~~~~~~~~

Barricade hurriedly shut down the memory packet from Wheeljack’s hatchling records file, and stood up to pace, his spark pounding in shocked outrage. Descendants! Of inferior organic lifeforms! It was ridiculous. Organic species were the inferior copies, everyone knew that. Beneath his outrage, however, burned an undercurrent of unrelated, building shame. The hatchling facilities in the record file, while obviously cobbled together of scavenged supplies and wedged into some sort of battered and ancient underground facility, were scrupulously clean and well-maintained. Every hatchling was tended and cared for with the utmost attention, and expertise by mechs and femmes programmed for discovery, repair, and creation, not for…war. Destruction. Not originally, anyway, no matter what they had become later. He looked at his pile of grubby hatchlings in a barn with something close to despair, remembering how many times they’d been at the verge of deactivation, the days, even weeks, they’d been left in dark hiding places while he foraged for fuel.

The medical readouts for the hatchlings in First Aid’s monitoring feed were still reassuringly in their safe zones, but what hidden damage had they suffered, under Barricade’s unskilled care? “I’m sorry. You should have had someone better than me,” he murmured. Even if the Autobots were a bunch of lunatics, with near-blasphemous theories.

Wheeljack’s file had thousands of sections he hadn’t gotten to yet, but the labels alone were telling. Processor stimulation games. Learning modules. Coordination exercises. Meticulous records of growth and development. Endless memory files of every squeak and buzz emitted by every single hatchling, no doubt, although the orderly file listing cut off suddenly at just before the third instar, a gap before resuming again…Barricade went back and skimmed the label tags and found it again, the time break in the file listings. In the subcategories after the break, only five hatchling labels appeared.

Barricade glanced at First Aid, recharging with his head bowed over his pulled up knee components, his back against the barn wall near the hatchlings. It didn’t look all that comfortable. Only five. Barricade opened the small, unlabeled sub file that was tucked just after the time gap, scanned it quickly, and then closed it again, feeling his spark roil with a mix of emotions. Pretty much what he had suspected. The secret hatchling base had been discovered; six of the hatchlings had not survived. Damage reports, severe hypothermic shock (another hatchling feature he’d discovered the hard way, hatchling systems were not nearly as resilient to temperature extremes as adult mechs – he’d nearly lost them all that first winter). One of them, Hot Spot, had had his arms ripped away. What he had not suspected was Starscream’s role in rescuing the five survivors. First Aid, here today, because of what Starscream had done so long ago. An act of mercy? Or calculation. A way to put Optimus in his debt, perhaps, or had Starscream somehow foreseen that these hatchlings would need First Aid to survive? Barricade wouldn’t put anything past the devious jet at this point. He waited expectantly, but his inner Starscream seemed to have gone silent. No jet appeared in memory bank glitch or hallucination or whatever it had been to point out his inferior thought processes.

A crunch of gravel and muted engine noise from outside the barn brought Barricade out of his thoughts to sudden alertness. Cybertronian engine noise, Barricade noted quickly, something fairly light and fast. Scout class, most likely, but the wrong pitch to be Bumblebee, and not making any attempt at concealment. There were sounds of transformation, and then a soft tapping at the barn door.

“Hello?” The voice was deep, but tentative. “Hello, Barricade? May I come in?”

Barricade sighed in resignation. One of First Aid’s other gestalt brothers, no doubt. At least this one knew how to knock. The repaired barn door included a robot-scale latch on the inside. He opened it to reveal a very tall, gangly cycle-former with big blue optics, who greeted Barricade by ducking his helm and flashing a sweet, shy grin.

“Groove,” he said, by way of introduction. “Limbo!” he added, leaning back to navigate the door frame. Once inside his optics fastened immediately on his brother, and then back to Barricade, as if asking permission. Barricade narrowed his optics—First Aid was right next to the hatchlings—but like the medic, the cycle-former appeared to be unarmed. If he was hiding any heavy artillery in that thin, fragile-seeming frame then Barricade would eat the rest of the tractor, not to mention the guy was practically radiating innocent harmlessness with his hopeful expression and luminous blue optics.

“Go ahead,” he said, waving towards First Aid. Groove flashed his quick shy smile again and went to his brother, having to duck under a few of the support beams along the way. He folded himself down beside First Aid and wrapped long arms around him. First Aid sighed and relaxed a little in his recharge, leaning into his brother and murmuring something before going still again. Groove examined the crack in Aid’s visor (and Barricade was starting to feel an utter cad about that) and tucked him in close.

Barricade settled himself on the other side where he could keep an optic on everyone, while Groove peered over at the silent pile of hatchlings and then around the barn with open, friendly interest. How this sweet, fragile crystal of a bot had survived so long in the big bad universe Barricade had no idea. He found himself studying the other mech’s face, trying to match it to one of the hatchlings from Wheeljack’s file. Hatchlings were all so similar, formed to a standard mold when newly-emerged, but there was something about Groove’s long, tilted cheek flanges and high peaked optic ridges, the small half smile as he looked about that reminded him of one of the hatchlings from the memory file. Barricade had grown attuned to even the subtle differences among hatchlings in two years.

Groove smiled and ducked his helm every time he happened to meet Barricade’s optics. Embarrassed? Or shy? Barricade wasn’t sure, but he found himself wanting to break the silence, strike up some sort of…verbal exchange, but for the life of him he couldn’t think of a way to begin. All of his conversations with First Aid had been pre-fabricated by the need to care for the hatchlings. He’d never been much for idle chatter in the first place, but now after two years alone, with no one but the hatchlings and the occasional semi-sentient organic lifeform to provide conversation…he seemed to have lost the knack.

“Scaramouche, scaramouche will you do the fandango?”

Groove was looking at him hopefully.

“Uh…the…” It took Barricade a moment to remember the proper code response, as he’d attempted to permanently delete it after Frenzy had sung the entire Queen repertoire nonstop for three weeks (and he hadn’t been all that particular about the order of the lyrics, either). “Thunderbolt and lightning, very very frightening?”

Groove’s smile turned as high wattage as his helicopter brother’s. “Exactly! Not for awhile yet, though,” he said. “There are some tornado warnings to the west, and volcano watches from Lake Michigan to Valparaiso, but we’re ok for now. The magma plumes have really calmed down the last few months anyway. Blades is keeping an optic on it, and Streetwise and Hot Spot are on standby if we need to evacuate.”

Barricade hadn’t been paying attention to the weather, but now that Groove mentioned it, the wind did seem to be picking up quite a bit. And volcano watches? That did not sound good.

“Just a precaution,” Groove said, reassuringly. Some of Barricade’s alarm must have shown on his face. “We’re probably fine, and we don’t really want to move the hatchlings at this stage unless it’s unavoidable, but we’re also not taking any chances. Also, there’s been a rather cryptic message from Galvatron that he’s on his way back to Earth, which is breaking all kinds of treaties, but don’t worry. We’re sure he wouldn’t be coming here at all without good reason. Optimus will get it sorted out and you won’t have to be involved at all if you don’t want to be.”

Groove seemed to think this last part was quite concerning, so Barricade nodded vaguely rather than letting on that he had no idea what Groove was talking about. The silence stretched for another long moment.

“What is the fandango, anyway?” Barricade asked finally.

Groove tilted his head thoughtfully. “Hmm. I could show you, but we should probably go outside. Might knock things over in here and wake up the bitlets.” Groove nodded at the hatchlings.

“Ah…maybe later,” Barricade said quickly, and then, changing the subject with studied casualness: “So. Galvatron. On his way back.” Or completely obvious and awkward obviousness, but Groove only nodded.

“With the decelerating time shift, he must have started about two point five vorns forward to be reaching us now, so he’s been in transit nearly two years. The reverse trip is massively energy intensive, so for him to leave Cybertron like this it’s got to be something major, although with the Matrix and the Allspark in cahoots who knows…” Groove trailed off, finally noticing Barricade’s expression. “You have no idea what I’m talking about.”

Barricade schooled his expression back to impassive sternness, but his spark still pounded from hearing those words so casually uttered: ‘for him to leave Cybertron.’ As if it were still there, as if their entire planet, their home, had not been destroyed forever. It was an Autobot trick, or Groove was certifiably glitched and not just somewhat odd, but those optics held only honest concern as Barricade’s engine caught and sputtered with suppressed emotion.

“I forgot, First Aid said you were still kind of, uh…twitchy. He’s been trying not to overwhelm you so I guess he hasn’t gotten to that part yet.” Groove looked completely, undeniably, sane. It was Barricade who felt his processor splintering, stalling, not sure what was real anymore, what was illusion. Maybe the corrosion had reached his processor at last.

“You’ve been driving him nuts, you know, with your engine sounding like that and not having time yet to do anything about it.” Groove was still watching him with concern, his voice low and soothing. “Once the hatchlings are all in full molt it would make him very happy if you’ll let him do some repairs.”

“I’m not ready for the smelting pits just yet,” Barricade gritted out. Twitchy! The nerve of these youngsters! Coddling him as if he were a fragile newspark instead of it being the other way around. If he weren’t rusting apart at the seams he could have snapped Groove in two with one hand. “I want the truth. All of it. Now,” he growled.

Groove seemed undismayed by Barricade’s scowl of doom. Made of sterner stuff than Barricade had first supposed, then. Groove sighed and rested his cheekplate against the top of his brother’s helm. “You’ll wake him up if you blow out a gasket or something, you know.” He raised his optic ridges at Barricade in inquiry. “Would you mind a bit more company? Hot Spot’s better at explaining than I am.”

Great. Another gestalt brother. And Groove was asking instead of calling Optimus Prime and the rest of the Autobots to dispose of Barricade and take the hatchlings for their own, he recalled with a sudden chill. All the chips were in their hands, now.

“You think I’m going to have a processor lock up or glitch out or something. You just want someone here to pin me down.”

The corner of Groove’s mouth quirked in amusement. “Well. Maybe.”

“Fine.”

Shortly thereafter, Barricade again heard the crunch of gravel and hum of a Cybertronian engine over the rising sound of the wind and distant thunder. A much bigger alt mode, this time.

“You don’t happen to know where the lost Star Saber of Nexus Prime is hidden, do you?” Groove asked as they waited, out of nowhere.

Barricade gave Groove a blank stare. Groove shrugged one angular shoulder. “Just checking. It would be useful to have it around.”

“You must be Tangent.”

Groove’s optics widened a little. “Oh man, he gave you that whole file, didn’t he. Blackmail material, dude. Blackmail material.”

Barricade grinned in spite of himself, on slightly more familiar territory. “Good to know. So why’s he still Hot Spot.” Barricade nodded towards the door.

“Hot Spot’s always Hot Spot,” Groove said, as if that explained everything. There were sounds of transformation outside and a quiet knock at the barn door.

“Coming in,” a deep, rumbling voice announced. “Nobody glitch out, ok? I don’t want to have to do any pinning,” the mech continued with a chuckle.

Only the red optics, framing mechanisms crinkled with good humor, allowed Barricade to keep his composure as Hot Spot carefully maneuvered himself through the door. Other than optic color, the mech was the image of Optimus Prime. Hot Spot stood cautiously to almost his full height. The barn was large, designed for storage of bulky farming equipment, but at more than half again Barricade’s own height Hot Spot had to bow his head slightly to avoid hitting the ceiling rafters. Fire truck alt, Barricade could see now, not semi. This had to be the third Prime, the one First Aid had spoken of; he was practically exuding calm leadership all over the place, even as he stood there in his slightly awkward pose and—Barricade blinked a few times, resetting his optics to read the color wavelengths in the dim lighting of the barn to make sure—powder blue paint job.

“Thank you for trusting me,” Hot Spot said, making no move as yet to come any further into the barn. Pit. He even sounded a little like Optimus, as he remembered him from Cybertron, all that compassion and kindness slag going on. Were all Primes so fragging compelling?

“Not like I’ve got a lot of choice,” Barricade muttered.

“I know, and for that I’m sorry. Ask me to leave at any point, though, and I’ll go. No questions asked. We value your goodwill, and theirs.” Hot Spot nodded, indicating the hatchlings.

Barricade floundered for a response to that for a moment, while Hot Spot waited patiently. “Yeah. Right. We can all join hands and sing later.”

Hot Spot took that as permission to make his way to his two brothers, successfully navigating the lower support beams through the center of the barn to kneel comfortably next to Groove and First Aid. At least he didn’t fuss over the cracked visor, Barricade noticed gratefully.

“Fandango demonstration, later,” Groove informed him.

“Excellent.” Hot Spot put an arm around them both and First Aid smiled slightly in his recharge and burrowed closer. “So,” he said pleasantly. “Where shall we begin?”

“Cybertron,” Barricade said shortly.

Hot Spot nodded. “Cybertron. As you may have gathered, it is not destroyed. It’s not in the best of shape, mind you, but it is essentially intact. Whatever happened when Sentinel’s device was destroyed appears to have blown it about seventeen hundred vorns into the future, but it’s time-decelerating at a rapid pace. By Perceptor’s best estimates present-day Earth will catch up to it in approximately seven thousand Earth years, at which time Earth and Cybertron will resume their aborted collision course and the entire solar system will become a big scrambled mess. According to Galvatron nearly everyone on-planet should have been deep underground during the temporal backlash and most of them could have survived, but that still amounts to less than a thousand at best. And even if we manage to produce more hatchlings, they’ll still only be fifth or sixth instar in seven thousand years. Humans and Cybertronians are going have to, as you put it, ‘join hands and sing’ if we’re going to save both our worlds.” Thunder rumbled outside as if providing dramatic emphasis.

“The Ultimate Doom,” Groove added, nodding, once the thunder quieted. “But wait! That’s not all.”

“Still with me?” Hot Spot said, watching Barricade closely. “You might want to sit down.”

Barricade didn’t argue. He sat and let his helm rest on his knees for a few kliks. Cybertron. Time decelerations. He wondered who could possibly still be living there, and if they could be anything close to sane after so long on a dying planet. Less than a thousand…Cybertronians had become scattered through the vorns of the war. How many of their people were left? He lifted his helm again to look at the fourteen hatchlings, approximately one percent of their total population, still recharging peacefully. They had loved all those episodes of ‘Sesame Street’ he’d projected for them, before his signal receptors had corroded out, Barricade thought randomly, before forcing his processor back into focus. “All right,” he said, finally. “Galvatron?”

“He’s very shiny,” Groove said, his noseplates crinkling up impishly. “It was all First Aid’s fault.”

Hot Spot smiled at that, looking down at his recharging medic-brother fondly, although his voice was solemn, almost sad when he spoke. “It was indeed, although the Ancient Primes and Optimus were kind of involved, too. Not to mention the Matrix of Leadership. And the Allspark.”

“The Allspark, but…” Barricade trailed off. “It’s still destroyed…isn’t it?” he asked tentatively.

“Mm. Yes and no. Let’s see, where to begin.” Hot Spot shifted, cuddling Groove and First Aid closer. “When we arrived to this solar system two years ago, we discovered that Optimus Prime was…changed. You were right to be wary, Barricade. We were not naïve enough to expect any mechanism who has fought a war such as Cybertron’s has been to come through it spark and soul intact, but…a Prime spark is built to carry great burdens, and Optimus…had always remained Optimus, despite everything.” Hot Spot paused for a long moment, looking down at First Aid.

“Even Primes have their limits,” Hot Spot said finally. “The problem is that when Prime sparks crack, they tend to take down entire planets, entire civilizations. Sometimes even the very fabric of reality cracks with them. So Optimus did pretty good, actually, considering. It could have been much worse, though the…executions were bad enough, and every time Optimus broke a little further. ” Hot Spot’s optics were sad but steady as he looked at Barricade. “Watching Megatron die, that first time, getting killed himself and a traumatic resurrection, and then, one does not lightly kill a fellow Prime, even one so twisted as the Fallen. It was Sentinel’s betrayal, though, that broke him completely. Megatron offered a truce, there at the end, did you know? And Optimus destroyed him anyway.”

No, Barricade had not known. The storm was approaching in earnest now, with thunder and lightning occurring almost continuously, and intermittent onslaughts of rain and wind.

“Tornado watches and warnings have all been cancelled,” Groove said quietly. “Just a lot of wind and rain, now. Some localized damage to property, but the human authorities have it well in hand.”

Hot Spot nodded and resumed his story. “Megatron had betrayed him before, with offers of truce. It was not so…inconceivable that Optimus should destroy him, to end the war, to save Earth and the humans. What was wrong was the glee with which he did so. Without Ironhide…Ratchet and Sideswipe and Bumblebee did their best to hold him together, and with the best of intentions Optimus refused to abandon Earth to her fate—two years ago the whole planet was on the verge of tearing itself apart—but it was really only a matter of time. He tried to hide it, to keep us far away after we arrived, but…we knew.”

“Problem was, we kept sticking our sensors where they didn’t belong, trying to find a way to help,” Hot Spot continued. “Megatron was not dead. He had absorbed the majority of the Allspark energy, directly into his spark. Just like the Matrix, the energy of the Allspark can only change form, it can never be destroyed, and the bulk of it had become one with Megatron. When the shard was used to revive him, the Allspark became whole, at least enough to gradually attempt to assert itself, although for a long time Megatron refused to acknowledge it and the Allspark is no tyrant. First Aid found Megatron, what remained of him. He was…still aware. In torment, with no way to end it, with the Allspark a part of him he could not die. Optimus knew, had felt it all along, had been fighting the path the Matrix was trying to show him as Megatron was fighting against accepting the Allspark. They were both trapped, linked in agony with no way out. First Aid,”—Hot Spot’s voice broke a little and he took a deep vent—“First Aid confronted him, about leaving Megatron in that condition, and Optimus…snapped.” First Aid shifted slighty, frowning. Groove buried his helm against Hot Spot’s shoulder. “Optimus had his energon sword to First Aid’s spark before he realized what he was doing.”

Barricade made a noise. Optimus Prime had held a sword to his own hatchling? Had held a sword to First Aid, of all of them?

Hot Spot nodded, his optic ridges drawn together in pain at the memory. “That would have been three Primes dead by Optimus’ sword, which would be…quite a record. He stopped before that happened, though. He tried to turn the sword on himself. First Aid grabbed it by the blade to stop him.”

Barricade winced. Medics had the majority of their sensory network in their hands and upper arms. Ouch didn’t even begin to cover it. “Yeah,” Hot Sot sighed the word out slowly. “All of our memory files get a little hazy from there.”

“Wait…” Barricade frowned, puzzled. “You said ‘three Primes dead.’ I thought….”

“Ah,” Hot Spot grinned in understanding. “No, First Aid’s the Prime, not me, although we’re not really advertising the fact that there is another Prime still alive. Or three now, more accurately, if we include your little bitlet, but not all of the Dreads have been accounted for and we’d rather they not become targets. We didn’t know Aid was a Prime, though, until later. We knew something was different - First Aid was still in his sixth instar, while the rest of us were already seven, but we didn’t know why. The damage to his hands from grabbing the energon sword triggered his last molt. Ratchet thinks it was premature, a traumatic molt cycle, and that’s why he still has electrical problems sometimes. Prime sparks are supposed to take longer. It took him three months to recover, and we were all out of commission for nearly as long. Our sparks are linked; we are changing, too.”

Barricade blinked his optic shutters a few times, but First Aid did not suddenly metamorphose into a figure of power and awe. He remained as he had been, just a weary, gentle young medic-bot, recharging in the embrace of his brothers.

“It’s not so unheard of, for someone like Aid to be a Prime,” Groove contributed, lifting his helm again. “A lot of the Ancient Primes were healers, not warriors. They spoke to us from the Matrix, when we were…sort of dying, but not really. They were excited about First Aid because he was part of a gestalt, something about the weight of our sparks resetting the center and source of all possibility.”

Barricade decided to not hear that part about talking to the Ancients, for sanity’s sake. “All right. First Aid Prime.” He laughed briefly and rubbed his forehelm. He’d kidnapped a gestalt-member, Prime-spawn, and a fragging Primus-to-goodness Prime himself, and lived. At least until Optimus got to him. Very well. Carry on. “And Megatron? What happened to him?”

“Optimus tried to get the Matrix to heal First Aid, but it wasn’t working; the Matrix refused him. First Aid was still awake, he kept insisting that Optimus use it on Megatron instead.”

“It was very irresponsible of me,” First Aid mumbled sleepily into Groove’s shoulder. “What if I’d unleashed Megatron as he was on the Earth again?”

“You didn’t,” Groove said, patting his brother on the backplates. “You knew what you were doing, and so did the Matrix. Now go back to recharge.”

“With you talking about this?” First Aid protested, lifting his head. He gave Barricade a look over with still-dim optics. “Are you doing ok? Hot Spot, make sure he gets some real energon before we go any further.”

“Yes, oh my Prime,” Hot Spot said, with a wink at Barricade. First Aid rolled his optics and dropped his helm against Groove’s shoulder again, snuggling himself in more comfortably. Hot Spot got up and made his careful way back to the big storage container that Blades had left by the barn door and extracted a full cube of energon. Not the high grade, Barricade was disappointed to see, but a nice crisp-looking mid-grade, better quality than anything he’d had in a long time.

“Go ahead,” Hot Spot said, when Barricade hesitated. “We’re all well-fueled. The electric lava has its problems, but we’re not hurting for energy at the moment.”

“Ah, ok. Good.” Electric lava, sure. Barricade decided to just roll with it and drank his cube, a little self-consciously with the other three all snuggled together, watching him with expressions of fond satisfaction. The energon had an interesting taste to it, a hint of magnesium and ash. Different, but not bad.

“Megatron is now this Galvatron, I presume,” Barricade said, as he neared the bottom of the cube, beginning to feeling pleasantly full. It let him examine the thought with some measure of equanimity. Megatron, alive. Or alive-ish, depending on how much remained of him in Galvatron. He wasn’t sure yet if it was good news or bad news. “The Matrix healed him?”

Hot Spot nodded. First Aid appeared to have dozed off again, cuddled between his brothers. Hot Spot ran a caressing hand up and down his helm. “We were all pretty out of it at the time, but yes. When the Matrix and the Allspark get together, things can kind of get out of hand. There were a lot of fireworks, apparently, and the magnetic field in the area still hasn’t straightened out, but Megatron was reforged, and in the process the cracks in Optimus’ spark were mended, enough that he could find his way back to himself. Sentinel Prime lied to them both. But what Optimus saw and loved in Sentinel was not a lie, it was the reflection of truth from his own spark. Megatron found the truth of both their sparks and showed it to Optimus again.” Hot Spot shook his head a little. “I don’t know if I’m explaining it very well. They were keeping old promises, Galvatron said, when we asked him later.”

Barricade tried to remember him, Megatron from before his obsession with the Allspark, before the strangeness that had overtaken him after his association with the Fallen. He had followed Megatron for reasons beyond fear and inertia, once. Respected him. Loved him, even, with the fierce loyalty of a soldier for a charismatic and gifted commander, though that had faded quickly in the face of Megatron’s growing erratic behavior.

“He’s…shiny now? Galvatron?” Barricade asked, curiosity fastening on that small fact after another long moment of trying to absorb it all.

Groove grinned. “When the Matrix repairs someone it’s rather impressive. Or maybe it’s something to do with the Allspark? At any rate, he’s indestructible by anything less than a supernova and possibly not even that, so we’re glad he’s on our side. Or we’re on his side. Whichever. We were worried that it might have reprogrammed Megatron against his will, but both Optimus and Galvatron concur that nothing was done they didn’t both agree to.”

“So if Megatron…Galvatron, is the Allspark now…what does that mean? Can he…I mean, the Allspark is back on Cybertron, so…” He was babbling. What did it mean for Cybertron? It had been dying for so long, even before the Allspark had been launched, but now…in orbit, in the future, around Earth’s steady yellow sun…

Groove hummed a short melody Barricade recognized instantly, though it had been several thousand vorns since he had heard it. The theme song to the “Detective Nightbeat” holovid mystery series. He had watched every episode…Barricade felt his spark clench. That avenue of thought had long been too painful to remember.

“A very good question,” Hot Spot said, nodding seriously. He did not elaborate, by which Barricade inferred that everyone was just making it up as they went along. Well, and when had things ever been any different? Barricade sighed and leaned back. His systems were working hard to process the unaccustomed fuel input and sending him increasingly hard-to-ignore demands for recharge. The storm outside, which he had at some point ceased paying attention to, had settled to a steady soothing rain.

“Ok,” he said, tallying up the various processor-blowing revelations on his finger units. “Cybertron, Galvatron, First Aid here’s a baby Prime, Optimus isn’t likely to go off the deep end and destroy the universe, and impending doom unless we make nice with the humans.” Sentinel's plan of enslaving a human workforce would have been faster, but with these youngsters running around being all trustworthy and helpful and slag maybe the humans would buy in to cooperating of their own free will, in the interest of survival. Free will. Freedom is the right of all sentient beings. Ugh. Barricade briefly considered slamming his helm against the wall behind him several times. “Anything else I should know?”

“A few secrets are not ours to tell,” Groove said mysteriously, tilting his helm, “but that’s the major scoop.”

“It’s not all sunshine and energon cookies, of course,” Hot Spot said. “The humans, understandably, have not been swift to trust or forgive, nor have all members of our own kind been able to accept that the war is over. Another reason we are keeping you, and the hatchlings, under close guard. We don’t know yet how the humans will respond to the idea of Cybertronians increasing their numbers in this manner, although it is likely many of them will find the idea threatening, especially with the memory of Chicago still so raw.”

Barricade bristled defensively at the thought, and Hot Spot nodded in understanding. “Keep in mind, Barricade, I also know humans that would give their lives to protect innocent offspring no matter the species, even ours, the aliens that have brought so much destruction to their planet,” Hot Spot said. “Give them a chance.”

Groove giggled suddenly. “And some that would go even further than that. Optimus gets emails and letters almost every day from humans offering to have his offspring.”

Barricade straightened, more shocked than he had been by any of the other revelations so far. “Can they do that?” he asked, horrified.

“Not yet,” Hot Spot chuckled. “Just give them time, though! Humans are very determined lifeforms when they put their brains to it, and especially when a few billion of them decide they want something very much. We are their worst nightmare, but we are also their fondest dream. It may be the saving of us all.”

Chapter Text

Barricade woke to a faint trembling sensation. He would have thought it internal, except that he could see bits of dust being shaken from the rafters, catching in the pale shafts of early morning light through the barn windows. Groove and Hot Spot were gone; First Aid was kneeling next to the hatchlings, his optics alert and awake now behind the visor, a slight tingle alerting Barricade that he was scanning on some frequency. Some of the hatchlings squeaked faintly but did not awaken, simply burrowing closer together. Earthquakes were no new thing; there were minor ones every few weeks or so although none big enough to threaten the barn’s stability, but this one seemed…different somehow. Barricade remembered Groove’s mention about volcano watches and eyed the ground uneasily.

“Whoops,” First Aid murmured, lifting his helm as if he was listening to something. Barricade sat up, disoriented for a moment, wondering if his memories of the night before were true or if he had just dreamed Hot Spot telling him outlandish tales of Cybertron, Megatron reforged, First Aid the Prime spark of his clutch…the medic was climbing to his feet, seeming much restored after his long nap of the night before but still not looking particularly…Primelike. And weren’t Primes supposed to have some sort of identifying glyph, anyway?

The faint shaking had not lessened, but it hadn’t grown more intense either. “Don’t worry,” First Aid said, giving Barricade a reassuring smile as he opened the barn door. “It’s only Bertha.”

Bertha? There was still one more brother Barricade hadn’t met yet, but Barricade was fairly sure his name wasn’t Bertha. Barricade followed First Aid cautiously as the medic went outside and stepped over the rickety fence that marked off the pasture to the neighboring farm. The center of the field, illuminated by the slanted sunlight, bulged oddly, and First Aid made right for it. 

“Hello, dearspark,” the medic said, addressing the ground. “Stay down there, please, the cows need their field. Yes, you were very clever to find me, weren’t you,” he crooned to the gently shifting earth. Driller, Barricade realized, as light glinted off a small hint of silvery metal poking through the earth, a glimpse of one of the spinning, many-toothed rings that made up the maw of Shockwave’s captive monster of mayhem and destruction. Shockwave’s Pit-spawned driller, and it was nudging at First Aid’s foot and making happy rumbling sounds like some sort of enormous puppyoid.

“Bertha’s part of the reason the whole Midwestern United States isn’t a supervolcano right now,” First Aid said as he laid on the ground to better pat the behemoth. “She’s been busy diverting magma for the last year, and it seems to be working. Much better than should be possible, for a single driller. Beachcomber says the Earth seems to be knitting itself back together in all the right places, and we think…we might be getting some help from an unexpected source. There are just a few little leaks, but you’ve been taking care of them, haven’t you darling.” First Aid gave the driller one last affectionate pat and then got back to his feet.

“Be a dear and go find Beachcomber, that’s right. Up by the Great Lakes, you know the way, there you go sweetspark.” The bulging earth rippled and subsided, looking somewhat rumpled but otherwise intact, and another series of vibrations shook the earth and faded away as the driller – Bertha, of course First Aid would name one of the most fearsome Cybertronian creatures in the galaxy Bertha, really he should be beyond astonishment by now – sank back into the planet’s crust and continued on her way.

First Aid made his way back to Barricade. “I do hope the ground isn’t dangerous for the cows. Perhaps we should let the farmer know, but I really don’t want to draw more attention to the area than we have to.”

Barricade frowned. Definitely not. The last thing he wanted was curious flesh creatures poking around while the hatchlings were so vulnerable. “We could tamp it down?” he suggested.

First Aid flashed a happy smile. “Brilliant!” 

Together they tamped the grass. Where, in all the extensive annals of the Decepticon credo, Barricade thought, was there anything written to prepare one for stomping around a grassy pasture with a very young medic-Prime, firming down the soil so that bovine organic creatures would not get their hooves stuck while they grazed? It was too bad the hatchlings were molting; they would have thought it a delightful lark.

Two of the hatchlings were stirring weakly when they returned to the barn; the others were all in the stillness of the molt cycle. “They’re progressing more quickly, now that they’ve got plenty of fuel in them,” First Aid said. Barricade held Escape Velocity and Squiggles, who both seemed to content to rest, burning-warm and quiet against his chestplates until they went back into recharge. Barricade felt strangely forlorn without the mob of all fourteen of them clamoring for his attention, not sure what to do with himself now that the driving need to constantly acquire more fuel was gone. He felt weary to his very struts, as if whatever had been propping him up for so long had suddenly been removed. Despite having recently refueled and recharged it was all he could do to keep his optics online, although he was pleased to note his self-repair was making tentative attempts to tackle some of the corrosion, faint silver gleaming along the edges of the ugly brown patches. 

First Aid checked over Squiggles and Escape Velocity one more time. “They’re nearly there,” he said. “After they’re all in full molt cycle, there won’t be much to do other than keep their environment as stable as possible and monitor them for the next few weeks. In the meantime…” He eyed Barricade with an I-mean-business kind of look that had him straightening in alarm.

“If you’ll permit me, we could work on getting some of your systems back in shape. We’ll have plenty of time, and it will keep both of us from fretting too much.” 

Barricade wanted to protest that he most certainly was not fretting, but…yeah. Ok. He was totally fretting. “Permit you,” he replied instead, scoffing. Kid was a Prime, with four gestalt brothers and a Primus-damned driller for backup. No wonder he’d never felt like he was in control of anything since he’d first kidnapped the little medic.

First Aid nodded, clasping his hands together as if to keep from repairing Barricade right then and there. “Please?” he said, his optics shining with hope. Barricade had no chance whatsoever. Forget rifles and cannons, or even the mystical and ancient Primus-given authority supposedly inherent in all Primes. Those optics alone were formidable weapons.

“Gah! Ok, ok,” Barricade said, surrendering. “What would this involve, exactly?”

First Aid lit up like someone had handed him the world’s largest energon treat. “Without the resources of a full medbay what I can do is somewhat limited, but at least I can get your engine and fuel pump cleaned out, replace damaged energon lines, recharge and restock your nanite colonies, try to get the corrosion under control, track down those short circuits, de-bug your transformation systems, your cooling system needs a total revamp and your firewalls and antivirals are…”

Barricade held up a hand as the litany of things wrong with him continued. “All right, I’m a mess, I get the picture. I suppose you’ll need to take me offline for some of that?” he asked, not liking that idea at all. He’d never much liked having anyone poke around with his insides in the best of circumstances, and although he doubted at this point he’d wake up reprogrammed or reformatted, part of him was beginning to panic at the thought of being so vulnerable, at being incapacitated while the hatchlings were also completely helpless.

First Aid tilted his helm considering. “Mm, not necessarily, but Barricade, I need to be honest with you here. It should have been energetically impossible for you to support the fuel needs of fourteen hatchlings for this long, and I’m still not certain how your systems managed to adapt, but they’ve all reached their limits. Your energon conversion system is completely overclocked. You’ve got damages from over two years ago that haven’t even begun to repair, corrosion all the way down to your spark chamber, and your frame is on the verge of total collapse. What you really need is a solid year of medical stasis and a complete rebuild, but field repairs and a good long rest while the hatchlings are in molt cycle should be adequate to at least keep you alive and functional.”

Barricade felt his spark drop in dismay. He hadn’t realized things were that bad. He stood up to return Squiggles and Escape Velocity, deep in either recharge or molt cycle, to the nest and looked down at the pile of still, silent hatchlings.

“My brothers and I will protect them with our lives,” First Aid said persuasively, one hand somehow finding Barricade’s. Barricade raised an optic ridge and looked down at their linked hands, and then over at the medic in bemusement. First the holding hands. Was singing songs next? Skipping together through the cow pasture?

“Does Optimus Prime know about them?” Whatever wild stories about Megatron restored and Optimus somehow…fixed, too, although Barricade was still unclear on that one, he wasn’t quite ready to trust the leader of the Autobots who had once seemed bent on the extermination of every Decepticon on the planet, not to mention Cybertron itself.

First Aid nodded. “He does. He sends his love.”

“His love?” Barricade repeated incredulously. “Just that?”

“Just that,” First Aid said simply.

At some point First Aid must have let go of his hand, because Barricade had them both back again. First Aid went over and began digging through the storage box by the door, then returned, holding a cube of something that looked suspiciously like one of Frenzy’s attempts to mix coffee and various human soda flavors.

“What. Is that.” Barricade asked, flatly.

“Repair nanite cultures, energon system cleansers, heavy metal supplements, and some dissolved gases to make it more palatable. Not as good as what Hoist makes, but it shouldn’t be too awful.” 

“It’s fizzy,” First Aid added, sloshing the cube a little invitingly. Reluctantly Barricade stretched out his hand and took it, eyeing the contents with great wariness. “Do you want me to take a drink first?” First Aid offered. Barricade frowned. The war was over, but he still a Decepticon warrior. He feared no Autobot medical concoction, slaggit! Taking a deep breath through his intakes first to prepare himself, he took a miniscule sip. And then another. Ok, so it wasn’t so bad. Mildly sweet, and the metals left a pleasant tangy aftertaste.

First Aid gave him an approving pat and went back to the storage box. Barricade wondered uneasily what else First Aid was going to pull out. Another cube, it seemed. At least this one looked like ordinary energon.

“More?” Barricade asked, lifting an optic ridge.

First Aid nodded firmly. “More. And then more recharge. And then we’ll get started on repairs.”

Lulled by the sound of rain that moved in later in the morning and a full tank, Barricade recharged most of the day, though even with the rain the barn seemed empty without the sounds and stirrings of the hatchlings. When it came time to allow First Aid access to his systems for repairs, he steeled himself not to flinch away. He accepted the request ping automatically, and then froze, startled. First Aid had given him complete reciprocal access to his own systems.

“Now,” First Aid said, as if it were completely routine for the medic to also be at the mercy of his patient, ”you’ll probably be more comfortable offline, but if you want to stay awake for this first part, I’m just going to be doing a thorough mapping of your energon lines and locating the worst areas of corrosion. The scanning frequencies might tickle, but they shouldn’t hurt; be sure to tell me right away if anything feels uncomfortable, but if you doze off that’s fine, too.”

It did tickle, quite a bit at first, but as Barricade grew accustomed to the scans he did find himself dozing off, and then falling again into a deep recharge. The next several days became a blurr of recharging, waking to listen to First Aid explain what he was doing next and if it would pinch or tickle or which pain sensors he’d be deactivating (to which he paid very little attention, but it was nice of First Aid to try to let him know exactly what he was twiddling around with in Barricade’s interior), gazing meditatively at the silent, molting hatchlings, and recharging again. He felt a profound lassitude that made even lifting a cube of energon to his mouthparts seem like an enormous effort. First Aid claimed it wasn't anything that he was doing, and that Barricade should simply rest whenever he felt weary.

Barricade tried dutifully to download more of Wheeljack’s hatchling record, but usually ended up just falling back into recharge again. Occasionally it would be Groove, or Blades, or Hot Spot, or another mech he didn’t recognize but assumed was the fifth brother, helping First Aid or watching over him and the hatchlings while First Aid recharged, usually cuddled close to one of them. He became very familiar with First Aid’s faceplates as he worked endlessly on Barricade’s repairs, his expression always peacefully intent.

“Don’t you have more important things you need to be doing? With your brothers?” he roused himself enough to ask one day. Hot Spot had crawled into the barn at some point to recharge and First Aid was using his larger brother as a backrest as he sorted a tangle of wires extending from one of Barricade’s arms. There were deep score marks along Hot Spot’s shoulder, extending across his chest armor. First Aid had treated the damage with some sort of orange sealant, the bright color against Hot Spot’s pale blue armor giving the impression he was outfitted with decorative streaks of flame. Barricade would be the first to admit he’d been a little out of touch, but there were obviously larger events afoot than the repairs of a wayward Decepticon soldier. The hatchlings apparently needed very little attention, aside from Aid’s monitoring feed that still scrolled faithfully along in one of his subroutines.

“There aren’t many of us left, Barricade. Making sure you stay operational is very important. And my brothers are glad I’m finally taking it easy for awhile.”

Barricade lifted his helm up to stare disbelievingly at First Aid for a moment. Taking it easy? From what he could tell the kid had spent every waking moment of the last…four days? Five days? (closer to nine days, his chronometer said, when he checked it) immersed what had to be extremely tedious repairs. What the frag did he do when he wanted to really let loose and have fun, neural surgery on nanites?

First Aid unfolded another set of manipulators with a tiny soldering tool attached and began splicing the remains of Barricade’s wiring attachments that had run to his long-lost melee weapon. First Aid said they didn’t currently have the resources to replace it, but he was retrofitting something he called a “retractable octo-tentacle gripper” (which was based on one of Wheeljack’s schematics, which made Barricade somewhat nervous). First Aid retracted the soldering tool and transformed a small static sanitizer to remove any impurities. His hands were truly remarkable Barricade was beginning to notice, able to do most of the work of an entire medical berth unit in two compact, versatile appendages. First Aid had also grabbed an energon sword with those hands, Barricade recalled. He didn’t see any signs of old damage; he wondered if Ratchet had fixed them, or if they’d repaired themselves during First Aid’s final molt cycle.

Scrolling through the neatly detailed list of repairs First Aid had done already, Barricade felt deeply uneasy. He’d agreed to the repairs, but they were expending so many resources on him…it seemed all out of proportion; he did not merit such efforts. Quite the opposite if anything.

”It’s just, this is taking all of your time. I mean, you’re the next leader of the Autobots, right?” he asked. Shouldn’t he be following Optimus around and doing…Prime things?

“Goodness,” First Aid said, straightening a moment, as if the thought had never occurred to him. “I certainly hope not.”

Hot Spot stirred behind him and chuckled, sitting up somewhat gingerly to lean his helm against First Aid’s and draping an arm around him. “Don’t worry. I can be your figurehead.” He gave Barricade a wink.

First Aid smiled and brought an arm up to pat his brother fondly on the side of his helm. “Thank you dear. That’s very thoughtful of you.”

Barricade let his helm thunk back down against the ground and gave up, not sure why he’d been protesting in the first place anymore. Freely offered repairs from a soft-sparked Autobot! He should be exploiting First Aid for all he was worth, not trying to talk him out of it. First Aid was a good kid, though, and somehow along the way the youngster and his four brothers had gotten under his armor. They all seemed so relentlessly determined to believe Barricade was worth saving. He kept catching himself thinking of them as the small hatchlings from Wheeljack’s file, and feeling almost…fond. Protective. It was all the fault of those fourteen blasted hatchlings! The little pit spawns had corrupted him.

~~~~~~

The next time he awoke it was a different brother huddled next to First Aid, the fifth one. Little bright-opticked, wriggly Wisehelm, he knew now, who had grown up to be Streetwise. The black-and-white mech seemed troubled even in recharge, faceplates furrowed in an unhappy expression. Groove was curled up against him from the other side, also in recharge.

“What’s with him?” Barricade mumbled blearily. He’d not had a chance to talk to this brother much, but he’d seemed as relentlessly cheery as the rest of the Protectobots, a smile always lurking even when he was being serious.

“He assists human law enforcement sometimes,” First Aid answered softly.

“So?”

“Just like us, humans can do terrible things to one another, but when they do those things to their children…that gets especially hard.” First Aid used the hand not occupied with Barricade’s repairs to cuddle his brother closer.

Humans were inferior and savage, that they would injure their own young was no surprise. (Inferior and savage, and yet he remembered uncomfortably his own initial callousness to the hatchlings, and the Fallen’s plans for them. And then there were First Aid’s six deactivated brothers.)

“You care so much about them and what they do? I never understood that.” Or why Optimus Prime had been so obsessed with protecting the planet and its primitive inhabitants.

“We left Cybertron when we were barely in our third instar, and were sheltered by races in six different galaxies. Primitive and advanced, Organics and techno-organics, multidimensional beings, even some one dimensional beings, so different and yet we knew only that they were our friends. They were a part of us, as we were of them.” First Aid shrugged. “We have trouble seeing the humans separately from our own kind, I suppose. Optimus says humans remind him of hatchlings, so small and curious.”

“Hatchlings!” Barricade looked at First Aid in astonishment. “Humans are nothing like hatchlings! They’re revolting. They’re…squishy.”

First Aid laughed softly. “Regardless of their…aesthetic appeal, this planet, these particular organics may be important for another reason. Have you ever wondered why so many events seem to have converged here, in this unremarkable corner of the universe? Why The Fallen was so obsessed with this particular system, this particular star? Why the Allspark found its way here?”

“Um…” No, he hadn’t, not really. It was puzzling, though, now that he thought about it.

“Even though there are humanoid races scattered all over the local group of galaxies, and maybe further, nowhere else is the evolutionary line so clear and unbroken, reaching all the way back to the beginnings of life on Earth. There’s a small matter of time discrepancies, of course, but Earth could be the source of the humanoid life in the local galaxy group, including our own species. The similarities between us are undeniable. Don’t you think we should find out more before destroying what could be our own distant ancestors?”

Ah yes. First Aid had been raised under the influence of Wheeljack and all of his crazy theories. No wonder the poor kid was a little glitched.

“Hrm,” Barricade said, noncommittally. It probably wasn’t a good idea to disagree with a medic who had his finger subunits poking around in your fuel processing system.

“We must have been melded and modeled from other sources as well; our reproductive methods for instance are very different, but…Barricade, we give our warriors and elders replicated facial hair. There’s no Cybertronian reason for it. The only explanation is Earthly.”

Barricade grumbled his engine. Now that was taking things too far! He had chin spars, forged of the finest durabyllium alloy. They bore no resemblance whatsoever to fleshy facial fuzz.

“Humans are capable of so much, both terrible and wonderful, in their short lives. Maybe together we can learn to understand one another, and so understand ourselves. Or instead of making friends we could destroy one another in an endless cycle of violence and despair, but the other option sounds much more pleasant, doesn’t it?”

Barricade eyed the medic skeptically. First Aid made it sound all so simple, so obvious. Reality, in Barricade’s experience, was bound to be much more messy and confusing, and really his own processor was still too scrambled to make sense of any of this right now.

“You made friends with one dimensional lifeforms?” he asked, changing the subject. How would that even work? Slag, if he could do that, maybe the crazy kid could do anything.

“Well, Beachcomber did,” First Aid said, laughing a little, “and then he introduced the rest of us.”

“I liked them a lot,” Groove murmured sleepily into Streetwise’s neck. “They were surprisingly interesting to talk to, seeing as how they were one dimensional and all.” 

~~~~~~

More recharge, more repairs. On nice days Barricade crawled out to bask in the sun while First Aid worked on him and the cows watched curiously over the fence. He obediently ate whatever First Aid gave him: metal supplement sticks, endless cubes of fortified energon, lead sulfide crystals, some surprisingly tasty oil cake (the secret was in the mercury sauce, Hot Spot said). The hatchlings continued their transformation to second instar, their shapes gradually growing more rounded and compact, as if they were drawing in on themselves.

“Aren’t you supposed to have a glyph or something?” Barricade found himself saying accusingly to First Aid at one point. “How can you be a Prime without the official glyph?” He was, he realized, extremely loopy. First Aid had suggested he go into stasis for the delicate work around his spark chamber, but Barricade had opted for the alternative, which was to be drugged halfway to Cybertron, apparently. There were occasional strange fluttery sensations but Barricade was most definitely feeling no pain. He had to keep fighting the urge to giggle.

“It’s on my forehelm, like Optimus,” First Aid said, smiling a little. Humoring his patient, no doubt, although his face was somewhat abstracted as he concentrated on whatever he was doing. “It came in after my final molt, although it’s very hard to see unless the lighting is just right.”

Barricade squinted at First Aid’s helm suspiciously, but didn’t see anything there (although it was a little hard to decide which helm to look at; there seemed to be two.) “Riight. And once you got the glyph you knew you were a Prime.”

“We didn’t even notice the glyph until later.”

“Ah ha!” Barricade said, triumphantly, then wondered what he was triumphing about. There was another face floating above him. Streetwise, grinning down at him over First Aid’s shoulder with his bright blue optics. Barricade transferred his suspicious gaze to him.

“So how did you know he was a Prime, then, without the glyph?” he demanded of Streetwise. It was all a trap, this Prime thing. He knew it. He narrowed his optics further. A snuggle trap! Oh, they were devious.

“Wow, you gave him the good stuff,” Streetwise commented to his brother with a chuckle. “And to answer your question, we were there, too, you know. Aid’s spark nearly extinguished, and we nearly went with him, but when it reignited it was…well…he was a Prime.” Streetwise shrugged as if it should be obvious. “It was like feeling the joy and pain of every single spark of life in the whole universe all the time. We still get the edges of it, sometimes. I don’t know how he stands it, but that’s part of the deal I guess. Optimus and Aid have to have sparks big enough to love the whole universe.”

First Aid squinted his optics in a little smile at that, his visor rippling with layers of scans as he checked the response from Barricade’s spark chamber linkages. “I think we’re selfish beings, really. We just want you to be happy for our own comfort, if nothing else. It gets overwhelming sometimes, and since sentient beings do persist in being unhappy a good lot of the time…it’s not a very comfortable way to exist. I can almost understand Sentinel, and the Fallen. What almost happened to Optimus. I could see where it would become tempting to shut it all out.”

“Mm hm.” Barricade nodded his helm wisely. “I see.” He didn’t see at all, actually, but it would lull them into a false sense of security. Maybe he should giggle. That would throw them completely off track! It was brilliant! Aaaand even he could tell he wasn’t making any sense. Barricade firmly clamped his mouthplates and shuttered his optics before he started babbling gibberish or proclaimed his undying love for photovoltaic pussycats in poetry. Streetwise and First Aid had moved on to talking about sentimental slag now, about how they kept one another whole and the sharing of burdens. Next time he’d take the stasis. 

~~~~~~~

This awakening was different. There was a small earth tremor…no, a hand, gently shaking him.

“Barricade?” Barricade onlined sluggishly, feeling as if he could recharge forever. “Barricade.” The urgency in the voice finally penetrated the processor fog, and he onlined his optics to see First Aid peering down at him, his expression serious.

“Yeah. M’awake.” Despite the dragging weariness and a certain raw feeling to various segments of his frame and inner components, he noted that nothing twinged or ached, and that he felt considerably better than he had in several vorns. Kid knew his stuff.

“Bravespark’s vitals are crashing. I need to get him to Ratchet right away.”

“What?” Barricade’s spark seemed to understand well before his processor caught up, clenching painfully in his chest.

“Blades is already en route, and I’ve updated Ratchet. I don’t have the right equipment here to treat him.” Barricade could see it now, the hatchling monitoring feed in his subroutine, where Bravespark’s readings were drifting suddenly, beginning to fluctuate out of their safe zones.

Barricade pushed himself up to find First Aid cradling Bravespark in one hand, the hatchling almost unrecognizable now with his frame and outer armor molded into a rounded, roughly egg-shaped form. Like a small version of an adult mech’s cometary protoform in its protective transition mode, Barricade suddenly realized. The hatchlings had been turning darker over the last few days in what First Aid had said was a good sign of approaching emergence.

“He’s not critical yet,” First Aid reassured Barricade quickly, although Barricade noted that the medic’s attention was focused in razor sharp alertness on the hatchling as he wrapped him in an insulating blanket.

“I should have let you take them to Ratchet in the first place,” Barricade said numbly, the thought of objecting not even crossing his processor.

“You can’t second guess yourself on this, Barricade. Moving them in the middle of a molt cycle had its own risks as well, and Bravespark was stable up until a breem ago. Ratchet’s the very best, and he’s been diverting full priority to getting the medbay ready for any sort of emergency hatchling treatment, so don’t worry.” First Aid glanced briefly towards the barn ceiling. “Do you want to say goodbye?”

Barricade shook his head, but let his hand rest briefly on the bundled hatchling before Aid hurried outside, Barricade trailing behind. Now he could hear the throb of helicopter blades.

Blades transformed after he landed and took the hatchling, gently tucking him into a cache in his side.

“Steady as she goes, Blades,” First Aid said, and Blades nodded, sparing Barricade a quick, bolstering glance before collapsing into flight mode and taking off. They both stood and watched as he faded quickly to a distant speck in the sky and was gone.

“I’m still monitoring; it’ll just have to come through the gestalt link,” First Aid reassured him quickly, as Bravespark’s reading dropped off Barricade’s feed. “Bravespark’s hanging in there. He’ll be with Ratchet in less than twenty minutes.”

“You’ll let me know?”

First Aid nodded, watching the sky as Barricade was, although Blades was long out of sight. “Of course.”

They went back to the barn, where Barricade paced around, unable to settle as First Aid gave him regular updates in a calming manner that told him he wasn’t the first nervous non-patient he’d had to wrangle. He knew when Bravespark arrived at the Autobot base, when Ratchet started the delicate surgery to correct the miswiring in the tiny engine that had finally short circuited under the stress of the reconfigurations of the molt cycle.

Groove and Streetwise arrived shortly afterwards.

“You look like you could use a drive,” Streetwise suggested, after watching Barricade pace the small length of the barn several times. “Why don’t we get out of here? It might help take your mind off of things.”

Barricade frowned, looking back nest with the rest of the hatchlings.

“Groove and I will keep watch,” First Aid reassured him. “And I can transmit updates to you just as easy on the road. Stretching your engine a little will do you good, but if anything hurts or feels off let me know right away, ok?”

Barricade took four more tense strides, circling the barn once again. “Fine.”

Streetwise’s alt mode was…of a familiar form. Barricade couldn’t help smirking a little as the black-and-white police cruiser revved his engine a few times and started his siren. He was pleasantly surprised, after bracing himself to transform, to slide smoothly and easily into alt mode instead of feeling like he’d been disassembled with a rusty wrench.

Streetwise pealed out down the broken pavement, and Barricade darted after him and together they flew down the country roads, sirens on, lights flaring. It was satisfying to watch the few human vehicles hastily pull to the side or veer out of their way, and Streetwise wasn’t nearly the Autobot goody four wheels he’d expected although he was careful, Barricade noticed, that none of the humans came to any danger, steering Barricade away from more populated areas. As promised, First Aid gave regular updates on the progress of the surgery.

Barricade?

He slowed and pulled over to the side of the scraggly country road, Streetwise rolling in behind him. His spark pounded hard in trepidation of what First Aid might say.

Yeah?

The surgery is over, and Bravespark is doing absolutely fine, vitals stabilized and the repairs are holding. Ratchet’s going to watch him very closely, and we won’t know for sure if there are any other repercussions or damages until he emerges, but right now everything is looking very good.

Ok.

Barricade transformed and sat by the side of the road, watching the tall grass sway, listening to the small organics that lived there sing with their small skreeking voices. Streetwise waited patiently a short distance away.

“I don’t think I’m cut out for this,” he told Streetwise conversationally, squinting his optics up at the bright blue sky.

“I hear ya,” Streetwise said, with a sympathetic look that, had they been standing any closer, might have also included a pat on his shoulder. “I don’t think anyone is, no matter what their base programming. Except for First Aid, maybe, or Optimus, but they’re…you know. Different.”

Barricade huffed a short laugh through his vents, suddenly weary. A good sort of weary, though, from an engine well run. “I’ll say.”

“Have you thought about what you want to do yet?” Streetwise asked after awhile of watching Barricade pick absentmindedly at the healing patches of corrosion on his armor. “Once the hatchlings finish their molt?”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead,” Barricade said honestly. It had gradually sunk in that he wasn’t going to be deactivated, reprogrammed, or imprisoned (as long as he continued to cooperate, of course, but for the moment he was finding playing nice with the Autobots, at least these Autobots, much less painful than he’d anticipated), but the thought that he might be given a choice rather than simply doing whatever he was ordered and hoping it was endurable…and here Barricade’s thought processes floundered. When was the last time he’d been given a choice at anything?

“You’ve got some options. With Galvatron on his way back it opens up the possibility that you could go back to Cybertron with him. The energy expenditure to go forward through the anomaly is a lot less than coming back. Assuming, of course, that Galvatron’s not coming back due to some sort of major catastrophe. Or you could stay on Earth and finish raising the hatchlings.”

“Cybertron…” Barricade murmured, remembering that brief glimpse of Cybertron, his first in countless vorns, before it was swept away. But not destroyed. He could go home. He could work to save it, to bring it back to life, to rebuild all that the war had destroyed.

“Cybertron needs every mechanism it can get,” Streetwise was nodding, “but… I really hope you’ll consider staying. The hatchlings need you, too.”

Barricade snorted. “The hatchlings don’t need me. They’ll be lucky if I haven’t fragged them up completely.”

“Fragged them up…” Streetwise looked at him incredulously. “You really think that, don’t you. I know you were never programmed to be a caretaker, but Barricade, do you have any idea how brilliantly you’ve done?“

Barricade only looked at him wordlessly.

“Primus, you really don’t.” Streetwise shook his head. “There’s no help for it. Optimus is definitely going to have to give a speech.”

“Is…that a threat?”

Streetwise let out a peal of laughter. “Never underestimate the power of an Optimus speech. I mean, you’ve seen what First Aid can do when he gives you that look, right? When he goes all hopeful with his optics? I think they all must get some sort of secret Prime power, or something.”

Barricade groaned, letting his helm drop into his hands. “I’m doomed, aren’t I.”

Streetwise did give him a pat on the shoulder, this time. “’Fraid so, Mama Bear. I’m afraid so. You’re in good company, though.“

“What did you call me?”

“It’s your code name. Mama Barricade. Mama Bear.” Streetwise gave him a cheeky grin.

His repairs had also included various frequency receptors. Barricade glared at the impudent youngster while calling up internet information on the organic in question. Large. Furry. A symbol of strength and power, the females were famous for their aggressive defense of their cubs.

“And don’t you ever forget it,” Barricade growled, bear-like, taking a not-all-that-serious swipe at Streetwise’s leg with one arm.

Streetwise dodged him easily, chortling, and then folded down into alt mode. “Ok. I totally see why First Aid likes you. Your navigation systems should be back online; you want to test them out and find your way back?”

First Aid greeted them at the barn with a hug for his brother and a gentle touch and yet another cube of energon for Barricade. Barricade found himself gulping down the cube with a ravenous appetite. First Aid, smiling, handed him another, which he sipped more slowly, standing over the hatchlings. Several of them looked…different. Gleaming silver outlined the edges of the delicate hatchling armor sections. Their helms were all tucked down into their centers, with the hands and talons laced tightly across their faces, but as he watched he thought he saw Starshine’s optics illuminate faintly for a moment before dimming again into darkness.

He looked at First Aid, questioning.

“Yes, they’re all showing signs of emerging.” First Aid knelt and rested a hand gently on one of the hatchlings. “They’re cooling down, and starting to stir; it won’t be long now.”

Barricade did not want to admit to himself how much his spark leapt at the news. Fraggit. He’d missed the little pit spawns.

“Bravespark’s really going to be all right?”

“Would you like to see?” Streetwise offered. “I’ve got an optical feed.”

“Streetwise,” First Aid chided him gently. “You’re not supposed to have access to that.”

Streetwise buzzed at his brother. “How else am I supposed to keep track of you when you get buried in the medbay?”

Barricade cautiously accessed the feed waiting in his transmission queue, focusing in first on the small, round (lonely) form of Bravespark in the middle of a large medical berth, banked with insulation and hooked to various monitoring devices with Ratchet adjusting something nearby. There were gleaming silver edges to Bravespark’s armor, just like the rest of his brothers still in the barn. Barricade tensed suddenly as the massive form of Optimus Prime moved into view, crouching down so his helm was close to the hatchling. Barricade felt a growl rumbling through his engine at the sight of the Autobot leader so close to the vulnerable hatchling. Until he spoke.

“Mooo,” the mighty leader of the Autobots said softly to the hatchling. “MOOooo.”

Ratchet turned from the monitors to stare at his commander, hands on hip gimbals. “Optimus Prime. Have you completely lost your processor?”

“First Aid said they liked cows,” Optimus looked up at the medic somewhat sheepishly. “I thought he might find the sound reassuring.”

“Optimus has a deeper vocalizer setting,” First Aid observed. “I think he makes a better cow than me.”

Barricade’s processor, at this point, seemed to have become accustomed to taking the incomprehensible in stride. Either that or he was just tired. Suddenly it was an effort to keep his optics online.

“Rest,” First Aid nudged him back to the spot he’d cleared for Barricade’s repairs. “You’re going to need all your strength to keep up with second instar hatchlings.”

Chapter Text

“Special delivery,” Blades said as he unfolded from alt mode in the driveway the next day. He grinned at Barricade, removing a small bundle from the cache in his side and carefully tipping it into Barricade’s hands. “Ratchet wanted to get him back before he was awake enough to really know what was going on.”

“You brought him back,” Barricade said, staring at Blades.

“Ratchet says he’s doing absolutely great; no reason not to,” Blades said cheerily. “And we really didn’t want to traumatize the little guy by having him wake up in a strange place, not knowing anyone around.”

Barricade unwrapped the insulating blanket and cradled Bravespark, inspecting him closely. The hatchling was limp and relaxed in normal recharge instead of clenched tightly in the molt cycle. “He looks different,” he said in surprise. “He’s…green.”

Of course he’d known the hatchlings would change when they molted, but it was more startling than he’d expected; the differences would take a little getting used to. Bravespark’s armor gleamed a pale yellow-green, (an odd sort of color, were they all going to be like that?) and it felt soft, faintly flexible to the touch. Newly molted hatchlings needed to be handled delicately until their armor hardened, he remembered from…somewhere. Wheeljack’s notes? He didn’t remember reading it, but he must have downloaded it at some point during his repairs, and saved the information in his memory banks. Second instar: when the processors and frames went through a period of high malleability, the maturing protoforms able to mimic and mold to protective local camouflage, although not able to scan alt modes into full, specialized transformation until the fifth or sixth instar. Increased mobility and capacity for verbal language processing.

Bravespark’s faceplates were scrunched in recharge, the way he always did, but they were different as well, more finely shaped, the mandible components wider and smoothed out, the helm buttress more sharply defined and optic ridges now with a distinctive arch.

“He must have been awake enough to get a good look at Ratchet,” Blades chuckled. “Good thing his color nanites are still colonizing, or he’d be pure Ratchet green.”

Barricade looked down at Bravespark in alarm. “Don’t worry,” Blades reassured him. “If they’re anything like we were, they’re little chameleonformers; they’ll try out all sorts of colors and shapes. What they start with doesn’t mean anything.”

Bravespark stirred and one optic unshuttered to blink up at Barricade dimly. “Brrrp?” The hatchling wrapped his talons around Barricade’s hand. The digits were longer now, and as Barricade watched the ends shifted in form slightly, smoothing around the tips to grip more firmly. As Bravespark snuggled trustingly against his hand and sighed and fell right back into recharge, Barricade felt as if his spark chamber was trying to melt around his spark. 

“Here I thought I’d finally got rid of one of you,” he murmured to the little recharging hatchling. “Looks like I’m stuck, now, doesn’t it.”

“Enjoy the snuggly stage while you can,” Blades said, still grinning.

“I estimate Starshine and Ducky will be emerging by tonight,” First Aid said, “and the rest over the next two or three days. Once they’re all fully awake…”

“Yeah,” Blades said. “Fourteen of them. We are so going to need backup. Who can we get out here on short notice with the right amount of security clearance, discretion, and energy? Maybe Bumblebee, if Sam can spare him—“

“That yellow cretin!” Barricade snarled. “He’s not coming anywhere near the hatchlings.”

First Aid looked startled. “But…we didn’t get to see him very often, but he was one of our favorite caretakers. He’s really very good with breakable lifeforms.”

“He never once dropped us, not even when he used to play toss the hatchling with Jazz,” Blades added.

Toss the hatchling! What kind of barbarians were these Autobots? 

“They didn’t toss us very far,” First Aid said reassuringly, noting Barricade’s appalled expression. “It was great fun.”

“Over. My. Deactivated. Chassis.”

First Aid and Blades looked at one another, rapidly consulting in gestalt fashion.

“What about—“

“-but he won’t arrive for two more weeks.”

“Then—“

“Of course! If Maggie and Glen can manage without him…”

“No humans.” Barricade interjected.

“Not for the moment, no,” First Aid agreed. “But I think we can come up with a few helpers who’ll be acceptable.”

By nightfall Ducky and Starshine were stirring almost continuously, struggling to transform their newly flexible protoforms out of their stiffened outer shells. Barricade, First Aid, and Blades crammed themselves around the nest, watching in fascination as the tracework of silvery cracks over each armor segment appeared and disappeared as the hatchlings expanded and flexed.

Bravespark was beginning to stir as well, from his daylong doze against Barricade’s chestplates. He buzzed up at Barricade and then nudged and dug his claws insistently at Barricade’s armor, and by reflex Barricade opened an arm panel to slice open an energon line.

First Aid made a small sound and put a hand on his arm. “I just got all of those replaced.”

“Oh. Right.”

“He should be able to learn to drink from a cube after some practice, but for now…allow me?” First Aid said, holding out a hand for Bravespark. Barricade passed him over with a reluctance that made no sense. First Aid had had a tricky time resetting Barricade’s overclocked energon processing system to normal conversion levels, and it really didn’t make sense to overstress his systems again or to outfit him with feeding nozzles when they would be needed for such a short time. He should be feeling relieved to no longer be the sacrificial offering for a horde of voracious little vampirebots, not…left out. A little regretful. How strange.

Bravespark watched First Aid with wide optics at first—he’d been in molt cycle already when Aid had arrived—but soon was guzzling energon eagerly from one of the medic’s nozzles. Bravespark had always been so much weaker than the other hatchlings; it was heartening to see him refuel with such an enthusiastic appetite. Blades watched his brother fondly as he fed the hatchling.

“Yes, it helps,” First Aid said, smiling back at him, answering some unspoken gestalt-thought. “I won’t do anything reckless, Blades, don’t worry. Not until Ratchet thinks it’s ok. This batch will keep us more than busy enough for a long time, anyway.”

“Ok for what?” Barricade asked.

“Ok to spawn a clutch. Ratchet doesn’t want me to try yet. Or Optimus either, for that matter, not until some of his old damages have a chance to heal for another vorn or so.” First Aid frowned slightly. “With these hatchlings now, our population levels aren’t quite as critically low as they once were, but still, it’s frustrating to have to wait, there are so very few of us left…”

“Once he found out he was a Prime, we’ve been half expecting him to sneak off and spawn without telling anyone, like Optimus did,” Blades explained.

“Hm,” First Aid squinted a little grin at his brother, but didn’t deny it.

“But…spawning a clutch, are you really ok with doing…that?” Internal reproduction, it was all over the place on this planet of organic lifeforms, but as far as the equivalent process for Cybertronians…. Barricade didn’t know the details. He didn’twant to know the details (he hadn’t touched those entries in Wheeljack’s notes with a ten span electro-stick). He wasn’t sure why he was so concerned; he knew enough of Aid’s brothers to know they’d never allow him to be forced into something he didn’t want to do, not to mention First Aid was formidable himself in his own gently unformidable way, but…he could see the kid subjecting himself to any number of horrors for the greater good and all that slag. Optimus Prime had a rather alarming history of such things himself, misguided as Barricade had thought it at the time.

“I’m terrified,” First Aid admitted, looking down at Bravespark as he fed and stroking his helm tenderly with a few manipulator digits. “I will love them all so much. I already do, and they’re only possibilities.”

“Why do you ask?” Blades said, eyeing Barricade with a measuring expression. “Are you interested in contributing to the next generation?”

“Gah!”

“It’s theoretical at this point, but we’re fairly certain Starscream managed it, so spark-code contributions should be entirely possible,” First Aid added in all apparent earnestness. Barricade may or may not have whimpered, at which point they had mercy on him and dropped the subject, though he continued to be somewhat unnerved by something…considering…in First Aid’s optics every time he looked over at Barricade.

Bravespark snuggled back up to Barricade when he was done with his meal, hiccupping a little and humming in well-fed contentment as he cycled back into recharge. He had gone from green to white armor, Barricade noticed, and his helm and frame now vaguely resembled First Aid’s more squared off shape although his faceplates kept their distinctive cast. 

“Hey, head’s up! I think this guy’s coming out!” Blades said, whispering in excitement from where he was crouched by the hatchling nest.

Starshine’s rounded form wriggled for a moment, the silver cracks along his armor stretching, expanding, and then with a muted sound of transformation his arms, legs, and helm unfolded, the thin, dark bronze outer layer peeling and flaking away to reveal soft, pale silver armor beneath. The newly emerged hatchling dragged himself clumsily over the lumpy shapes of his brothers, whirring softly. Barricade carefully scooped him up and tucked him next to Bravespark. Like Bravespark, Starshine’s features had refined, become more distinctive, but he was still recognizable as the hatchling Barricade had kept alive for so long. Starshine blinked up at him with dim, drowsy optics before sighing and cycling down into recharge. The process was repeated a few breems later with Ducky. Barricade was chagrined to realize some time later that they were both gradually taking on the patchy black, white, and silver blotches of his healing armor.

“Oh dear.” First Aid’s optics were crinkled in amusement. “I’ll see if I can speed up your paint job a bit.”

By morning Pingback, Gasket, Leeway, and Fulcrum had all emerged and Starshine and Ducky were making hungry burbles against Barricade’s armor. They had both also been well into the molt cycle when First Aid had arrived, but they never even onlined their optics to notice the unfamiliar mech or where the fuel was coming from, just grasped the nozzles tightly with both talons and imbibed. Barricade watched in amazement at the quantity.

“Are you going to have enough?” The rate Ducky was going…seriously, how could one little tank hold that much? 

“I hope so,” First Aid laughed. “There’s enough for the first feeding or two, at any rate, and I’ll synthesize as much as I can. Hatchling-grade is optimal of course, but they can manage on regular energon and solid supplements if they need to, once they level off a bit. We can try teaching them to drink from cubes once they’re a little more awake, as well, although when we were second instar it took us several orns before we got more energon in us than on us.”

“Is it going to be like this for every molt cycle?” No wonder the Fallen had wanted to harvest the sun.

“It slows down after this one, a little, but yeah,” Blades told him. “Growing hatchlings takes a lot of energy. Ratchet’s been stocking up on hatchling-grade, too. I can make a fuel run if we need it.”

After Bravespark woke up again and took his second meal, First Aid finished off the rest of the tractor, downed several cubes of regular energon, and curled up for a nap while Groove and Streetwise showed up to replace Blades and help cuddle newly emerged hatchlings.

Over the rest of the day and following night the pattern continued: hatchlings emerging, recharging, refueling, until only Escape Velocity and Birdy Boo remained in molt stage. Barricade sighed and leaned against the barn wall, holding Fulcrum, Bravespark, Gasket, and Noggin. If he was this tired from simply sitting around and holding hatchlings for two days, he couldn’t imagine how First Aid was managing, synthesizing and fueling their voracious appetites as well, although Streetwise and Groove made sure First Aid recharged between feedings. First Aid was curled up now with four of the hatchlings, who were recharging in blissful sprawls against his chestplates. Streetwise and Groove were also dozing, cuddled up with four hatchlings snuggled between them. The two remaining hatchlings in molt stage weren’t showing signs of emerging right at the moment; Barricade considered joining everyone else in recharge, but the sound of helicopter rotors outside brought him back to full alert.

Groove and Streetwise blinked awake as well. “Blades is back,” Streetwise informed him, smiling. “You might want to go outside and check out what he brought on his supply run.”

Hm, maybe more of that high grade? Barricade looked down doubtfully at the four hatchlings on his chassis, but when he moved to stand they all automatically gripped talons into his armor with no more than a few mild squeaks of disturbance.

Barricade squinted and stretched as he emerged from the dim barn into bright sunlight and clear blue sky, feeling somewhat stiff from all of the sitting, but otherwise enjoying the pleasant lack of any major aches or pains. Blades transformed in the driveway as he landed. A ball of energetic, blurry silver barreled towards him and at first Barricade thought Blades had somehow brought back a fifteenth hatchling from somewhere. This was far too large and moving way too fast, however, even for a second instar hatchling. It wasn’t until the small mech was swarming up Barricade’s leg armor yelling his name that he was able to put a name to him.

“Frenzy, Frenzy, by Primus, you little glitch! I thought you were deactivated!”

“Ha! Stupid squishies, stupid Autobutts, couldn’t even chop me up right.” Frenzy made a rude electronic sound. Barricade had never been so happy to hear it. “Hey, medic-bot,” he called, as First Aid poked his head out at their arrival and Hot Spot, who had been on guard in alt mode in the driveway, transformed. “Hey fire-butt.”

“It’s the Zee-man, hey,” Groove said, smiling in greeting as he stooped out of the barn with Streetwise behind him, both cradling hatchlings.

“Frenzy.” First Aid smiled. “I’m so happy you came. See, I told you we’d find him.” Barricade was astonished to see Frenzy dip his optic stalks bashfully.

“Aw, never doubted you, doc. Honorable Autobutt, all that slag. Are these the hatchies? Little Barricade babies, aw.” Frenzy craned his neck from his vantage point on Barricade’s shoulder, peering down at the hatchlings clinging to his chest and arms, all wearing various patterns of black and white on their armor (some of them, Barricade thought, looked suspiciously like little cows rather than police cars). The other three hadn’t stirred, even with all the commotion, but Bravespark was wide awake, his optics brightly alert as they tracked Frenzy’s every move.

“Hiya hatchy, little slagger, aw.” Frenzy leaned down, stretching out one of his own talons towards the hatchling and very gently touched Bravespark’s own talons, tickling over them lightly. “Softy soft enough for ya, doc-bot? Treat ‘em like squishies, don’t want ‘em to go ka-splat!”

“That’s perfect, Frenzy,” First Aid told him. Frenzy waved his optics happily and scrambled back down Barricade’s frame and scaled First Aid, then Groove and Streetwise, to inspect the rest of the hatchlings. Barricade, well acquainted with Frenzy’s quicksilver attention span, took no offense as the little mech seemed to forget him completely. Upon discovering that one of them was named Barricade, Jr., Frenzy collapsed dramatically to the ground to roll about, cackling and kicking his legs, apparently finding this hilarious. “Little Cade! Itty bitty hatchy Barricade!”

Barricade, Jr., who had been recharging while clinging to Groove’s shoulder, onlined his optics and watched Frenzy’s antics with a dour expression on his little faceplates. “Slagger,” he muttered, in a tone of utter disgust. Groove and Streetwise both looked at the hatchling in surprise and then began to snicker helplessly, and First Aid clapped a hand over his mouthplates, his optics dancing. Hot Spot and Blades were laughing so hard they had to hold one another up in the driveway, and Barricade was hard put not to join them. Primus be damned if the little scrap didn’t sound exactly like…him.

“Ratchet sends presents,” Blades said, once everyone had regained their composure, except for occasional giggles (Barricade Jr. had wedged his helm back against Groove’s neck and was either back in recharge or ignoring them all completely). Blades handed a mid-sized container to First Aid. “He said they’re experimental, but if they work it should take some of the load off you until the hatchlings learn to drink from regular cubes or we get some more of us retrofitted with nozzles.”

First Aid pulled out something that looked like a small cube of energon with a trigger-nozzle attached to one corner. “Hatchling bottles!” First Aid gave a laugh of delight. “And twelve units of hatchling grade. Oh bless his spark.”

They experimented with the modified feeding cubes when the next wave of hungry hatchlings awoke, and though it took some practice to get the angle and flow speed just right, once everyone got the hang of them they worked brilliantly.

“I wonder why Wheeljack never thought of this,” Hot Spot said, as he refueled Toolkit. “Bottles, like the humans use. It seems so obvious.”

“Not bottles, exactly,” Streetwise observed. “Hatchlings aren’t really equipped to suckle. These are more like…sippy cubes!” 

“Humans have had a lot more experience with altricial young,” First Aid said, “and we were the first hatchlings since Optimus. Maybe portable self-contained feeding receptacles are only obvious in hindsight.”

With the barn inhabited by four of five Protectobots (Blades was on guard outside, although Barricade wondered how long a large red helicopter could make repeated flights to a random barn out in the middle of the country before someone started taking unwanted notice. Not to mention the regular visits by a big blue fire truck) plus Frenzy (who could bound across the barn twenty times in less than five kliks, Barricade had counted), things were undeniably crowded, but somehow rather than being claustrophobic the atmosphere was strangely convivial. It reminded him a little of long space flights with dozens of battle-brothers crammed together in the hold of a tiny ship, back in his first vorns under the Lord High Protector. There had been the same sense of tedium eased by camaraderie, shared purpose, swapping stories and jokes and complaining of kinks in neck struts.

Frenzy proved to be a surprisingly competent hatchling-feeder, arranging a hatchling nearly half his size across his legs and then bending himself almost in half to hold the cube in the right position (having four hands helped), talking animated nonsense to the hatchling the entire time. His current subject, Fulcrum, had finished his cube and gone back into recharge with talons firmly gripping Frenzy’s leg and lower torso.

Frenzy stood, wobbling under the weight of the hatchling on his leg, and hop-dragged himself over to Barricade with Fulcrum clinging like an oversized space barnacle. “Bittybit’s topped off, boss!” he panted cheerfully, flinging two of his arms across Barricade’s leg. “Gimmethenext, hungry hungry hatchies whoo!”

Barricade looked around, considering. Escape Velocity and Birdy Boo were too newly emerged to be hungry as of yet, and every other hatchling was either currently being fed or in recharge. “Mission accomplished, Frenzy. For the next two breems anyway,” he sighed wearily, though never so weary as it had been all those other times, when the fuel had come directly from his own systems. Six eager helpers and an ample energon supply. It was a vast improvement.

When Frenzy didn’t answer him, Barricade finally looked down to find the little mech had gone completely limp in recharge over his leg. Ah yes, Frenzy had two settings: ultra-on, or off. Nothing in between. Barricade scooted Frenzy, with Fulcrum still attached, up a little, and the pile of hatchlings in Barricade’s lap glommed on to him happily until Frenzy’s skinny silver frame was barely visible, a few of them turning silver to match. And did Gasket have… optic stalks? Barricade blinked his own optics, but it was suddenly too much effort to try to look closer. First Aid was eyeing him with a look that meant, he suspected, that he was approximately one klik away from being oh-so-gently and firmly offered energon and told to take a nap.

To forestall it, he rested a hand on the pile in his lap and said, “Thank you. For this.” There, see, that wasn’t so hard. He could play nicey nice with the best of them. (Aaand he was starting to think in Frenzy-speak. Great. Nappity naptime it definitely was.)

“You were the first thing he demanded, once we got him repaired,” First Aid said.

“And then he wanted Twizzlers, paintbrushes, a rocket launcher, and catfood, in that order,” Streetwise remembered, chuckling. “After that he hacked every piece of equipment in Ratchet’s medbay and programmed everything to do the Macarena.”

“What has he been up to, all this time?” Barricade had asked Frenzy directly, earlier, but Frenzy had only gotten about three words into the reply before deciding that the barn needed to be investigated vertically in addition to horizontally.

“The last year he’s been working mostly with Maggie and Glen, tracking down some internet anomalies, various projects,” First Aid said cryptically. “He’s been a big help.”

Geological anomalies, internet anomalies. There were an awful lot of anomalies floating around, Barricade thought. More secrets, although nothing felt threatening or even particularly worrisome about them. Some secrets are not ours to tell, Groove had said, but maybe he could get Frenzy to sit still long enough to pry a few out of him later.

“Frenzy’s pretty creative,” Streetwise added, grinning. “The world wide web will never be the same.”

Groove smiled at Barricade, his shy Groove-smile. “Little robot geek sandwiches, too.”

Barricade frowned. Did that mean the humans were attempting to eat Frenzy or that the little menace had harassed them into fixing him cheeseburgers?

“Wheelie and Brains hated him for about two breems and then they decided to adopt him,” Hot Spot explained further, at Barricade’s look. “You should see them all recharging on Glen’s couch.”

“With teddy bear,” Groove giggled.

“No substitute for the real Bear, though,” Streetwise winked, grinning at the Frenzy-and-hatchlings snuggle pile in Barricade’s lap.

Living with humans. Snuggling with Autobots, and…teddy bears. With that alarming (and, Barricade had to privately admit, kind of sparkwarming) image, and in the secure knowledge that all the hatchlings were safe and well cared for, Barricade growled once for Streetwise’s benefit, powered off his optics and let himself relax into recharge.

He awoke to pandemonium. Once he sat up and calmed his racing engine, Barricade downgraded that assessment. It was only moderate hubbub, startling after two days of cuddling and feeding slow, sleepy hatchlings. Escape Velocity and Birdy Boo were still recharging on his chestplates, but the rest of the hatchlings were awake and exploring, some of them crawl-walking across the barn floor now at a fairly good clip rather than the creeping pace of their first instar, others climbing on the Protectobots, and of course there was the usual mayhem that was Frenzy, who was cackling and staggering around the barn with two gleefully bleeping hatchlings clinging to his legs and one wrapped around his head.

Out of the chorus of hatchling squeaks, chirps, and beeps, a tiny voice chirruped “Bear!” and Barricade suddenly found himself the focus of a hatchling stampede as all twelve abandoned their other entertainments. By the time they reached him and clambered on board all of the hatchlings were black-and-white, regardless of what color they had started out. A few of them sported tiny, vaguely door-wing-shaped appendages on their backs.

“Aw, would you look at that.” The Protectobots were all watching with fond, sappy smiles, Blades poking his head in through the barn door to enjoy the show.

“Mmph.” Barricade extracted a few hatchling limbs from his mouthparts and nudged someone further up onto his helm and another someone off his audio. Escape Velocity and Birdy Boo stirred fretfully under the onslaught.

“We’ve got all aerial surveillance diverted. Why don’t you take them all outside for a bit?” First Aid suggested. “I can take those two; they’re going to be hungry pretty soon, anyway.”

No one else seemed hungry. Barricade looked down at the crowd of bright optics looking up at him. Some of them sported optics in blue or yellow now, although Fulcrum’s blinked back to red as he watched. “What do you think, Pit spawns?” He jiggled the ones on his arms a little. “Should we go see the cows?” There was a chorus of excited buzz-beeps of agreement, which included a few words in Cybertronian and English as the hatchlings tried out their burgeoning language skills.

“OooOOOooo!”

“Cowwowcow!”

“Frag, yeah.”

Barricade kept his face straight with an effort, standing carefully with his squirmy, clingy, happily mooing horde, pausing to let First Aid extract the two still sleepy ones. Frenzy scampered in and out the barn door several times, leading the way. Once outside, the hatchlings grew quiet, flattening against his armor and staring around at the trees and sky with wide optics.

“Their visual acuity and color perception is quite a bit better in the second instar,” First Aid explained as he came to stand next to them. “It’s a big wide world, isn’t it little ones?”

“Bweeeooo,” Starshine agreed, echoed by several of the other hatchlings.

“Come on down, little hatchies!” Frenzy flopped on his back and waved his limbs up at them. “Don’t be robo-chickies hatchy hatchies, chick chick chicks! Brwaaaaaaawk!”

Cautiously at first, the hatchlings clambered down Barricade and began to make small excursions with their funny stumbling crawl-walk locomotion, with Frenzy offering encouragement. They had seemed completely comfortable with the Protectobots and feedings inside the barn, but outside apparently was an entirely different matter. The hatchlings kept a leery distance from all of them except for First Aid. The other four Protectobots, for their part, didn’t try to push the hatchlings past their comfort levels and settled at a non-threatening distance to watch. Hot Spot oh-so-casually filled up a few hatchling feeding cubes and set them on his knees, drawing a few interested glances but no takers for the moment. As the hatchlings grew bolder they ventured to the fenceline separating the cow pasture. Several of them climbed up the fence and mooed, and the cows obligingly ambled over to nose and snuff at the hatchlings curiously, to a chorus of delighted squeak-buzz-giggles.

After the cows and hatchlings had gotten reacquainted and the cows wandered off to continue their grazing, Frenzy led a trail of hatchlings in a game of chase down the driveway. At second instar the hatchlings were still more proportionally designed for climbing and clinging than walking; their mincing, unbalanced steps as they attempted to imitate Frenzy made them look like some sort of drunken conga line. Frenzy slowed enough to be “caught” and was engulfed by the horde. Barricade was impressed – Frenzy held perfectly still as he was thoroughly investigated by a dozen curious hatchlings.

“Careful,” Barricade admonished, coming up next to them. Not that he really thought Frenzy would let himself get damaged, but he knew from experience how sharp hatchling talons could be and Noggin’s talons were right up by Frenzy’s optics. 

“Aw, they ain’t hurting me, boss, little hatchies, little noggy woggies.” Frenzy waggled his mandibles in a lopsided grin from underneath Leeway, now leaning on his face and peering closely in his optics. The hatchlings spent the rest of the afternoon exploring, dragging branches around, dragging Frenzy around, watching Streetwise and Groove do a fandango demonstration (several of them bouncing up and down in place or sitting and kicking their limbs about in excited imitation), attempting to pick up grasshoppers and gravel (both of which still usually eluded the dexterity of their hatchling talons, although they were doing better than they had as first instars), and expanding their vocabulary skills with varying degrees of intelligibility and accuracy.

“Codfish,” Fulcrum said distinctly, his expression very serious as he handed Barricade up an ancient plastic cup he’d dragged out of a ditch somewhere. His bent talon had straightened itself sometime during the molt process, Barricade was pleased to see.

“Uh, yeah. Nice. Thanks.” Barricade took the cup and tilted his head back to drop it in his mouth, swallowing the grungy petrochemical morsel. He’d eaten worse.

Fulcrum seemed satisfied with that, and clambered up Barricade’s leg and up to his shoulder and snuggled in, his systems whirring softly. The hatchlings were slowing down at last, it seemed. Several had wandered over to First Aid for energon and were now clinging in various stages of drowsiness. Barricade acquired Toolkit in addition to Fulcrum. Squiggles was edging closer and closer to Hot Spot, eyeing the energon cube. Hot Spot wiggled it enticingly, and Squiggles finally climbed aboard, transforming from pointy and Frenzy-silver to blocky and Hot Spot-blue as he did so.

“Sorry bitlet, this gas station’s full,” Hot Spot said to Pingback, who had also climbed to his knee and was bleeping up at him mournfully. “I don’t have Aid’s fancy hands. I can only feed one at a time, see?”

“Aw, c’mere, little guy,” Groove said, dipping with his long arms to snag one of Hot Spot’s pre-filled cubes.

“Energon, energon!” Pingback squeaked, tumbling and rolling off of Hot Spot in his eagerness and scrambling over to Groove.

“And aren’t you a handsome fellow,” Groove said, as Pingback switched to match Groove’s mostly-black-with-red-trim color scheme. “See if you can hold it by yourself, like this.” Groove, with Blades grinning over his shoulder, watched in satisfaction as Pingback guzzled his cube, gripping it tightly with only a little assistance from Groove controlling the nozzle flow, but Barricade stiffened as their expressions changed suddenly to alertness, all of the Protectobots taking on listening poses, exchanging quick glances and scanning the sky. Blades flared his rotors out briefly, protectively over Groove and the hatchling and settled them back again, but his stance was still defensive, armor and weapons bristling.

“Oh my,” First Aid said, shifting some of his hatchlings so he could stand.

“Ooo?” one of them questioned, sleepily.

“Moo, dearest,” First Aid responded, patting it reassuringly. “Everything’s all right.” Despite his words, First Aid was also scanning the sky, his expression sharply alert.

“What’s going on?” Barricade demanded.

“It looks as if things are going to get interesting very quickly,” First Aid said. Barricade couldn’t tell if the assessing look First Aid was giving him was worried at all or just…assessing. “Galvatron’s re-entered the current space-time stream, and for some reason…he’s heading right for us.” 

Chapter Text

“Galvatron? Right for us?!” Barricade felt his engine stutter. “But why? How does he even know where we are?” 

“Apparently someone gave him our coordinates as soon as he hit the Oort cloud,” Blades said, eyeing Frenzy sourly.

Frenzy waved all his arms defensively. “Hey, if big big BIG Boss asks ‘where’s that fraggin’ Barricade,’”—Frenzy tried to make his voice boom impressively—“Frenzy talks!”

“He asked for me!?” Barricade’s vocalizer crackled embarrassingly. Why in slagging Pit would Galvatron be coming specifically for him? Barricade was a minor player, he kept his head down, followed orders, avoided attention from the big guns and stayed alive. Slag slag slag, this was NOT good. He needed to get out of here, but…the hatchlings. He could not abandon them. He would not abandon them. The past few days had taught him the folly of ever imagining he could care for fourteen second instar hatchlings on his own; running away with them now was not an option, but…what would this Galvatron do to them? Barricade paced, Fulcrum still clinging to his shoulder, glancing nervously up at the sky.

“Barricade, it’s going to be ok,” Hot Spot said. He was standing, too, still holding Squiggles as the hatchling, full and happy, sprawled his spindly limbs across the armor of his forearm. “Galvatron is not our enemy, or yours. We won’t let anything happen to you, or the hatchlings.”

Barricade snorted. Right. Some crazy Allspark-forged version of Megatron was heading right for him, intending Primus-only-knew-what, and he was supposed to trust a bunch of kids fresh off the assembly line (…er…spawning...apparatus…whatever they came out of), for protection.

Blades was eyeing him with a measuring expression, as if debating whether or not to say something. “Optimus is en route, as well,” he finally said. “We’ll have plenty of back up anyway.”

“Hopefully Prowl can fast-talk the humans so we don’t end up with a full scale welcoming committee,” Streetwise added. “I don’t think the terrain here can handle it.”

Barricade gave them all a horrified look that was the opposite of reassured. Optimus, and Prowl? Prowl was on planet too? And the humans, who had full cause to hate them…what would they do to the hatchlings, all his careful years of hiding them, and now…

“Barricade,” First Aid had come up beside him, placing a hand on his arm. The hatchlings on Aid’s shoulders and chestplates stirred and made a few soft, worried chirps. “Trust us, please.”

“Trust you!” Barricade was closer to full blown panic than he had been in a very long while. Not since that first grim winter, when he’d come back from foraging for fuel to find the hatchlings cold and non-responsive, and realized just how much he didn’t know.

Despite his calming tone, First Aid’s hand on his arm was trembling just perceptibly. Barricade narrowed his optics in suspicion. The reciprocal medical link First Aid had given him was still active. Barricade hadn’t accessed it before, but now he did, noting the elevated engine rate and galloping spark pulse, re-routing of spark energy away from non-vital systems, priming for fight or flight. He wasn’t a medic, but he could read it easily enough: First Aid was terrified.

First Aid’s expression turned faintly surprised and then rueful as he detected Barricade’s probing, though he made no move to cut off the link.

“It’s not what you think,” he said, as Barricade moved away, suddenly wary, cursing himself for letting himself be lulled by these youngsters with their easy camaraderie (he’d gotten inured to the point that the inevitable displays of gestalt affection didn’t even churn his tanks anymore), their kindness and acceptance, their reassurances and wild, unbelievable tales of truce and rebuilding. Lies, traps. And now Optimus and Megatron were coming, either to fight yet another epic battle in which they would all be collateral damage or to rip off his face and take the hatchlings to some unknowable fate.

Blades, frowning, came over and reached for First Aid’s hands, cradling them loosely in his own. First Aid’s faceplates furrowed a little, wincing, and through the medical link Barricade recognized not only fear, but…pain? Error messages, reports of short outs and electrical damage in both arms. Blades sighed and narrowed his optics, glaring down at First Aid. “How long?” he asked.

“Not long,” First Aid said, not meeting his brother’s optics. “I’ve been taking it easy!” he protested.

Streetwise made a disbelieving sound at that. “Sure you have. You’ve been rebuilding Barricade from the struts up, nonstop, for three weeks, synthesizing energon for fourteen hatchlings, and remotely consulting with Ratchet, Prowl, Optimus, Beachcomber and Bertha, not to mention probably thirty human hospitals, seven human embassies, and at least that many schools and universities.”

Hot Spot also came over, Squiggles now perched high and camouflaged on his shoulder, visible only as a lump with bright red optics peering down. He put an arm around First Aid’s shoulders and the medic leaned in, the furrows in his faceplates growing deeper.

“It’s only twenty-three hospitals.” First Aid mumbled, his voice frustrated, muffled as he burrowed into Hot Spot’s side. “This is…it’s just so vexing. I’m not afraid of Optimus. I’m not. It’s just an involuntary panic response to the short outs in my hands, Barricade. I’ll be fine once I see him, it’s just…”

“His frame remembers what happened when he grabbed that sword, even if his processor knows better,” Hot Spot explained, pulling his brother closer. The hatchlings on First Aid whirred and hummed, and Noggin made a sympathetic sound.

“Poor poor Autobutt,” Noggin said sadly, patting Aid’s chest armor with his talons.

First Aid’s laugh was half static. He leaned against Hot Spot and cuddled the hatchlings on his chestplates with stiff and careful fingers. “Don’t…please don’t tell Optimus, Barricade.” First Aid’s voice was small, vulnerable, as Barricade had never heard it before. “He’s borne so much already, and knowing this would hurt him all over again. It’s…really it’s ok.” By the frowns of the other four Protectobots, it was most certainly not ok, but refusing First Aid’s plea would take a more hard-chambered spark than any of them there possessed.

Barricade felt his systems calming from their panic, remembering, now, the great and mighty Optimus Prime mooing to Bravespark, Frenzy repaired and thriving. Frenzy was perched on Groove’s shoulder, playing tug-the-branch with Pingback and ignoring them all, seeming unconcerned about the arrival of Optimus Prime, Galvatron, and/or impending Doom.

“You gave him complete medical access? Aid…” Blades was saying.

“Trust for trust,” First Aid replied firmly, sounding closer to his more usual state of imperturbable.

“Yeah, sure,” Blades muttered darkly. “And you do realize that in less than five minutes we’re going to have the only three Primes in the known universe in one square-decaspan location. Strategically we should put each of you in a different galaxy, just in case.”

First Aid smiled up at him.

“I’m just sayin’,” Blades shrugged a shoulder, then wrapped Aid and Hot Spot in a hug, leaning in to them as well with a longsuffering sigh. “Ok. Fine. Trust for trust. If things don’t work out I can always shoot stuff later, right?”

“That’s the spirit,” Hot Spot chuckled.

First Aid snuggled in to them both, with another static-laced laugh. “You guys, I’m all right. You can stop hovering. Anyway, we’re out of time.”

“Blades is the only one that hovers, silly,” Hot Spot said, looking up to wink an optic at Barricade. “I levitate.”

Frenzy snickered wildly, scrambling down from Groove’s shoulder, and Groove came over and coaxed Pingback off of his chestplates and on to Barricade. 

“Good idea,” First Aid said, and before Barricade quite realized what was happening, Groove and Streetwise had somehow transferred hatchlings until all fourteen were clinging to his armor. He wanted to protest—how could he protect them if he couldn’t move freely?—but the weight and the tickling grasp of their little talons steadied him somewhat. Regardless of his dubious qualifications as a caretaker, the hatchlings trusted him. Whatever happened, he would not betray that trust.

Streetwise gave him a wry, bracing brother-smile as he moved back. “Don’t worry. We’ll watch where we step.”

There was a distant, building sound, a Cybertronian jet engine roar, and Barricade spotted it, a streak of orange fire against the deepening evening sky. Or…two streaks? Everything started to happen very quickly from there, while Barricade stood befuddled, the hatchlings flattened tightly against his armor. Hot Spot was standing, his brothers gathered close. He crouched, leapt for the sky, tumbling into himself as he did so, and he was floating, suspended in the air as Blades tossed First Aid skyward before leaping after him. Groove and Streetwise simply stood with arms outstretched, to be drawn up against what had been Hot Spot’s legs, wrapping themselves around them/him. Not only were the Protectobots a gestalt, they were a gestalt gestalt, apparently.

The combined form landed lightly, without the resounding thud Barricade had expected. He was modest in scale as gestalt beings went, but he was impressive enough. He went down on one knee, resting one arm casually over it. He watched the rapid approach of the two jets in the sky for a moment and then turned large blue optics to Barricade. Slag. How could someone so big look so…fragging adorable, actually. 

“Defensor, at your service,” the gestalt rumbled, smiling. All of the hatchlings had scrambled to Barricade’s back and were peeking around and up, wide-opticked and silent, all except for Birdy Boo and Escape Velocity, the last two to emerge from their molt cycle. They had been recharging the day away while the others explored, and both decided that now, urgently, they needed to refuel, completely oblivious to the very large combiner in front of them. They nudged at Barricade’s arms, beeping imploringly.

“There should be another couple of charged feeding cubes…” Defensor leaned and carefully picked them up with the tips of his large fingers. “Frenzy, if you could?”

And thus Barricade found himself juggling a cube, a hungry hatchling, and Frenzy perched on his arm feeding the other hungry hatchling with twelve more clinging to his back as Galvatron transformed overhead and landed in the cow pasture with a roar of engines. Barricade had a confused glimpse of shining silver-red, illuminated fiercely in the setting sun and nearly as large as Defensor, and then a second roar of transformation and landing and a somewhat smaller form before he had to return his attention to Birdy Boo, who was loudly protesting Barricade’s inattentive removal of the energon nozzle from the vicinity of his mandibles.

“BARRICADE,” Galvatron roared like a supernova erupting. “THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT.”

Barricade, his spark in his throat, looked hastily upwards again. The glowing red optics were filled with a powerful fury, an ancient and overwhelming authority that seemed to bore straight through his very spark. The world spun in slow motion as Galvatron stepped towards him. Barricade managed to drop to one knee and bow his helm in the ancient posture of submission before he fell over altogether, still cradling Birdy Boo and his feeding cube to his chestplates.

“My Lord High Protector.” He said it without a trace of the sarcasm, the cynicism with which he had uttered the title for so long. Any thought of escape, of defiance, was burned completely from his mind; only absolute and utter obedience remained. A tiny part of his processor was scrabbling about in a panic, frantically reviewing memory files in an attempt to identify what offense in his deliberately unremarkable career as a Decepticon that Galvatron thought he was guilty of, but rest of his processor had sharpened to a crystal calm. He would need to angle himself, was the strangely clear thought, so that the blow, when it came, would strike full on himself and not the hatchlings, and fall so that none were crushed. He braced his legs, rising slightly, balanced in preparation.

Birdy Boo continued to blissfully guzzle energon in his arms. The rest of the hatchlings were silent and still as glitch mice against his armor; he didn’t know where Frenzy had gone. Galvatron was close enough he could hear the rush of heated air cycling from his vents, feel it against his armor, but no blow came.

“Galvatron, sir?” Defensor’s voice was respectful but unalarmed. “As wonderful as it is to see you, we weren’t expecting you again for several vorns, and I’m afraid you have everyone rather worried. Perhaps you could clarify your purpose?”

“My purpose.” Barricade dared to reposition his secondary optics a little, so he could look without raising his helm. Galvatron was still watching him with predatory intensity, his optics narrowed with…more than anger. More than a hint of weariness, the beginnings of…amusement? Surely not. But there was the tiniest quirking of Galvatron’s well-fanged mandibles that grew deeper as he took note of Barricade’s surreptitious observation.

“My purpose. As in, am I here to void our truce, claim Earth and its inhabitants as my rightful minions and plunge Autobot and Decepticon once again into an ever more hopeless spiral of mutual self-destruction?”

“Well, yes,” Defensor said apologetically. “Because then of course we would be obligated to stop you, and it would be a shame to frighten the cows.”

“No. No, nothing like that.” Galvatron waved a hand casually, and the hint of a grin grew wry, but Barricade did not relax a single diode as Galvatron’s gaze on him never wavered.

“What is my offense, my Lord?” Barricade was surprised by the steadiness of his voice. “Enlighten me, so that I may make…amends.”

That sound…it took Barricade a moment to realize, Galvatron was chuckling. “All fourteen surviving hatchlings, I see. It seems you have already served a sentence appropriate to the crime.” Birdy Boo had finished his cube, and was now squirming his way up to find a comfortable crevice against his neck, nuzzling in contentedly. “I feared for them, when they could not be located,” Galvatron’s voice was almost soft. “It gladdens my spark to know they are well.” 

Barricade wasn’t sure what prompted him to ask, “And you, my Lord, are you…well?”

It seemed to be the wrong question. The furious glare returned. “I was well enough, until Starscream, blast his scheming. What the FRAG did you say to him, Barricade?” Barricade’s spark sank. Insane. This Galvatron was as insane as Megatron had ever been.

“S-Starscream, my Lord?” he said carefully. “I haven’t spoken to him since…our final battle.”

“No dreams? No visions?” Galvatron demanded. Barricade’s astonished expression must have been answer enough. Galvatron gave a weary sigh, though his voice was still a growl, more irritable now than furious. “I am well, Barricade. The Allspark is part of me, now. I am changed, but nothing was done to me that I did not agree to. I even agreed to this; my current condition is my own fault for giving in to Starscream’s constant badgering. Although,” –Galvatron chuckled again, with a note of wicked satisfaction—“Starscream did not perhaps fully realize what he had bargained for.”

Barricade raised his helm, finally, to look at Galvatron in confusion, squinting a little at the glare of sunset off of Galvatron’s armor, but Galvatron was no longer watching him. His own helm had turned to the driveway, where a large red-and-blue semi had just ground to a gravel-crunching halt.

“Ah,” Galvatron said, his grin returning, wide and unmistakable. Barricade stared helplessly, the smile striking him to his core even though it was not aimed in his direction. “It’s about time.” Defensor took a few careful but hasty steps to move out of the way.

“Megatron,” Optimus roared, as he transformed. They leapt together as fiercely as they had ever done in battle, a clash of metal and shower of sparks, crashing to the ground with force enough to shake the trees lining the fence row. It took Barricade a long, stunned moment to realize they weren’t actually trying to deactivate one another. Both were laughing.

“Most. Epic. Glomp. Ever.” Defensor spoke in a delighted whisper-rumble. The second large figure that had landed behind Galvatron approached, eyeing the two rolling figures in the driveway a bit warily. Thundercracker. Barricade’s reeling processor screeched to a halt. The second jet was Thundercracker.

“What kind of welcome is this?” the blue jet asked as he approached Defensor, looking him up and down.

“We thought it might make Barricade feel better.” Defensor embraced him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Also, we can all hug you at once, this way. You won’t hold still long enough, otherwise.” Thundercracker rolled his optics but submitted to the hug graciously enough.

“Barricade.” Thundercracker gave Barricade a nod of acknowledgement after he emerged from the hug. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”

Defensor tumbled apart into five Protectobots again. They ranged themselves around Barricade, First Aid immediately scanning him over, a gentle touch on his shoulder.

“Barricade? Are you still with us?” First Aid asked, looking into his optics with concern. Barricade managed to make some sort of sound in reply as his processor reeled, something between a grunt and a whimper. “Galvatron can be a little intense sometimes.”

Thundercracker snorted. “Try spending a month with him in a space-time rift.”

“Quite a day,” Hot Spot commented cheerfully, squinting up at the quarter moon brightening in the early evening sky as the sun faded and rocking on his heels a little, as if it were the most casual thing in the world. “How fares Cybertron?”

Thundercracker shrugged. “Still a disaster, but we’ve made some progress.”

“How’re ya doing, bitlets?” Streetwise asked, crouching down to check the hatchlings. They stirred, some of them creeping higher on Barricade’s armor. One of them, no doubt Gasket, was gnawing on his left front tire. Frenzy reappeared from somewhere underneath him, still holding Escape Velocity. First Aid was scanning and patting Barricade over in worried fashion, though Barricade could tell he was still being careful with his hands.

Thundercracker watched them with a bit of an amused smile. “Did you ‘capture’ him, too?” he asked, inclining his helm at First Aid. “They really ought to stick a warning label on that guy.”

It took a few tries to get his vocalizer to work. “Thundercracker. What did he mean? About…about Starscream.”

Thundercracker scratched at his neck with one claw. “Um, yeah. He doesn’t always remember to communicate clearly with us ordinary mortals. You know how he’s also the Allspark, now, right? Apparently Starscream wouldn’t stop pestering him until Galvatron consented to the Allspark bringing him back.”

“Back,” First Aid repeated, his hands pausing in their examination. He straightened and looked around, searching for a third jet. “As in alive back?”

Thundercracker nodded. “Oh yeah. Very alive. And thirty other sparks decided they wanted to tag along, too. It’s quite a mix; you’ll recognize most of them. The only catch?” Thundercracker tilted his helm, indicating Galvatron, sitting up now on the driveway. Optimus was sitting as well, looking utterly dumbfounded. “They’re coming back as hatchlings. Galvatron’s going to spawn them.”

Barricade was inordinately proud of himself. He nudged Frenzy and Escape Velocity aside, handed Birdy Boo over to First Aid, and made sure all of the other hatchlings were up out of squashing range before allowing himself to faceplant into the dirt.

“Uh, guys? I think we broke Barricade,” someone was saying. He was puzzled by the way the approach of the ground seemed to slow suddenly, and realized hands were easing him down. Barricade succumbed to the darkness with a sigh of relief.

~~~~~~

“Are you sure you won’t have some energon, sir?”

“The Allspark sustains me, Little One.” Galvatron. Galvatron was still here. Barricade felt only a mild twinge of alarm at the realization; the voice was still deeply reverberant, imposing, but relaxed now, even affectionate. “I rarely feel the need to refuel, even with this new burden, though I will admit the lack of recharge is beginning to wear. Their sparks grow restless, and give me little peace of late.”

“Oh, you poor dear!” First Aid’s voice was dismayed.

“When I said I wanted all the power of a Prime, I should, perhaps, have been more precise.”

“As the humans say, be careful what you wish for?” Streetwise said.

“Exactly so.”

First Aid made another dismayed sound, and Galvatron chuckled.

“Do not distress yourself, spark of my brother. I have many amends still to make. I am…greatly honored by these sparks I bear, entrusted to me for a little time. Even if it does feel as if the forge of Primus burns in my chest.”

“There’s little help for that but to spawn them, I’m afraid. You don’t want to stay and raise them?” That was Optimus Prime, unmistakably, from somewhere nearby. Barricade got the sense he was kidding, with that last part.

“Primus forbid! You were quite enough. And Cybertron is as yet no place for hatchlings, nor will it be, not anytime soon. Perhaps with these new lives however, we can hasten that time.”

The conversation had been going on for some time, Barricade realized. He didn’t feel like moving just yet; it was pleasant just to lie still, let the evening breeze and sounds of crickets and voices wash over him. There were small pockets of warmth here and there against his armor that must be the hatchlings, a larger, occasionally twitching lump that must be Frenzy. Soft cheeps and chirrups that told him not all of the hatchlings were recharging, but he was reassured by the sense they were nearby. Actually he had no worries at all. Perhaps First Aid had given him something or done something to him. That possibility didn’t worry him either.

Optimus chuckled at something. “We have a brave explorer! Or a hungry one. Climb aboard, small one.”

“Energon,” one of the hatchlings squeaked (Gasket, maybe?) followed a short time later by contented slurping.

“I can’t believe we were ever that small.” That was Blades.

“I spent so little time with you, when you were this stage.” Optimus spoke with quiet regret. “You grew up so quickly.”

“You’re pretty handy at that, considering you never got much practice,” Hot Spot said.

“Thank you,” Optimus chuckled. “The feeding cube makes it look easy.”

“An ingenious device,” Galvatron conceded. “Would that I had had such a device when Optimus was second instar. He insisted on dumping the energon over his head and wearing the cube like a helm. His first words were ‘when do I get to sacrifice myself for the greater good.’ It was then I realized he was not quite right in the processor.” There were giggles from the Protectobots and good-natured protests from Optimus. Barricade mulled over the utter strangeness of it all. Had Megatron ever shown even the remotest hint of a sense of humor, even in earlier times?

“Are you sure he’s ok, Aid?” Groove asked. “He’s been down for awhile.”

“His systems are resetting; he just needed a break, I think. Barricade was on his own for a very long time.” First Aid’s voice was soft with sympathy. Barricade was fairly certain First Aid knew he was awake—the medical link was still active—but he was thankful to the medic for not mentioning it. He wasn’t sure he was ready to face reality yet. Even if this reality was…not awful. Insane, unbelievable, overwhelming, and bewildering, yes, but…not awful. Galvatron and Thundercracker. Soon-to-be hatchling Starscream. Hope for Cybertron, no longer lost forever. It was starting, at last, to really sink in. The hatchlings would survive—and here Barricade’s spark felt like it wavered with a tremulous hope—even grow to maturity in a future where…there was a future. Barricade couldn’t quite give it a shape, yet. The present was quite enough to try to comprehend, the future would have to wait.

There was a chirrup from somewhere in front of him, and suddenly his wandering thoughts focused as a single realization chilled through him like condensing methane frost, the image he had feared for two long years leaping starkly to mind before the rest of him caught up. Optimus Prime had one of the hatchlings in his grasp.

He pushed himself hastily up with a hiss of indrawn air through his vents. The hatchlings chirped sleepily as they rearranged their grips on his back and shoulders, and Frenzy twitched and grumbled in his recharge as he was left exposed from his cozy spot underneath Barricade. It was night, but the pile of mechs in front of him were lit by a pale blue-silvery glow, emanating not from the moon as Barricade first thought, but from Galvatron himself. (Hadn’t Groove said before that Galvatron was very shiny? Barricade hadn’t though he’d meant lit up like a lunar glow-worm…). Optimus Prime was sprawled against the Lord High Protector companionably, with First Aid and Groove tucked against his sides, curled up like hatchlings, and Blades and Streetwise each claiming one of his legs. Hot Spot leaned up against them all from behind, one arm pillowing his helm as it rested against Optimus’ shoulder. Thundercracker was in recharge, serving as a comfortable couch for Galvatron to prop himself against.

They were watching him with varying degrees of concern, but all Barricade could see was Gasket, lying spread-eagle in Optimus Prime’s hand, gnawing contentedly on one of Prime’s digits with perfect trust. He locked optics with Optimus, and, in a fraction of a klik, Barricade physically felt the universe shift around him, twisting into a new paradigm. Optimus had his battle mask up, but his optics held a smile, as if greeting a long lost friend. Like Galvatron’s smile earlier, it rocked him to his very core. A mighty warrior, battered and soul-scarred, a gentleness so powerful that entire worlds could do naught but yield before it.

Of course, was all he could think. Of course, he was always so. Barricade wanted to crawl into Prime’s arms, curl up against his chestplates like a hatchling, wail a thousand vorns of loss and pain and of the sheer waste of so many vorns, the Primus-damned waste of so many lives, so many worlds. (Had he cared so much? He had never realized, had all this time mistaken numbness for strength). Optimus. The fool. The soft-sparked Autobot fool, how dare he look at Barricade with such ridiculous, steadfast, unconditional acceptance? He was not worthy. He was not worthy of a scrap of the Matrix-bearer’s spark. He understood now why Jetfire had ripped his spark from his chest and given himself to Optimus; he mourned that his own spark was too tarnished to offer as well.

“Prime,” he managed, a hoarse rasp of sound. “Oh, my Prime. I have done…I have done unforgivable things.”

Optimus nodded, not denying it, though the acceptance in his optics never wavered. “As have I,” he said, and Barricade did not know if he could endure the sadness in that voice.

“As have we all,” Galvatron said. “And my crimes far outweigh your own. I regret any pain I may have caused you. You have been a loyal soldier, Barricade.” Barricade felt himself steady at that. His spark eased somewhat, as if a bracing hand had been placed at his back.

Optimus nodded in agreement. “He has done more than maybe you realize, brother. Barricade gave unstintingly of himself, his resources, indeed even the energon circulating through his systems, sacrificing his very frame to the point of near-deactivation to keep these hatchlings alive against impossible odds, surrounded by hostile forces. He is an example of the very best Cybertron has to offer.”

Barricade squirmed inwardly at the praise. He wasn’t, of course. He hadn’t been the best of anything, ever, but as Optimus said it he could feel something in him shifting, striving to shape himself to the words.

“Should have just brought them to you to begin with, instead of hiding,” he said gruffly. “I was stupid.”

“No,” Optimus said gravely. “No, you were right to run. I would certainly have had little mercy for you, as I was then. The thought that I might have harmed these little ones as well is…difficult to bear, but…I very nearly deactivated my own hatchling. I no longer know what else I might or might not have done.” The hand not occupied with Gasket brushed over First Aid’s helm gently, and First Aid made a soft sound and burrowed in closer. “You were wise, Barricade. You did well.”

Galvatron lifted an optic ridge, placing a hand on Optimus’ shoulder and leaning forward a little to inspect Barricade more closely. Barricade’s knee articulations trembled somewhat, but it was growing easier to hold himself upright in the overwhelming force of Galvatron’s gaze. “Indeed you have done well, Barricade. How should I reward you, do you think? Shall I bring you back to Cybertron? Give you a place at my side? Thundercracker insists on staying here; I shall need a worthy second, although I make no promises for the day when Starscream reaches his majority.” Galvatron chuckled. “Knowing him, we will all be his humble servants before he is out of his first instar. I look forward to matching wits with him once again.”

Optimus shifted slightly. “It is a great honor, brother, but we had hoped Barricade would stay on Earth to continue his care of the hatchlings. We will not stand in his way, of course, if he wishes to go with you. He will be a great asset whichever course he chooses.”

Barricade simply looked at them all for a long time, rendered speechless, until something tightened, beginning in his tank and spreading through his frame in something he recognized as helpless laughter, at everything, at the absurdity of his existence. It doubled him over, once he began, hysterical laughter seizing him in waves strong enough to physically hurt. Even as he tried not to jostle the hatchlings too much with his wheezing convulsions, however, he felt something else unclench, hard knots in his soul that he hadn’t even realized were there.

First Aid was giving him worried looks and long-distance scans again by the time he settled, his vents relaxing at last except for occasional hitches. He felt strangely light. Hollow. Hallowed by mirth. Galvatron looked at him, faintly nonplussed. “I must admit, Barricade, that was not the response I was hoping for.” Barricade felt the urge to giggle, but quashed it firmly. “You may have some time to think it over, but not too long. Once I have spawned I intend to return directly to Cybertron.”

Barricade sent a brief but sparkfelt prayer to Primus that he be spared the honor of helping Galvatron to spawn his clutch.

“Thirty-one of our dearest friends and enemies, returned to us,” Optimus shook his head in amazement. “I am still in shock. After so many things going wrong for so long, fate seems to be making up for it with a vengeance.”

“I had not realized your resources would be so stretched with the recovery of these fourteen, else I would have tried to moderate the Allspark’s zeal, somewhat,” Galvatron said, with a frown.

“We will find a way,” Optimus said confidently. “Especially as Earth seems inclined to be helpful,” he added with a mysterious smile that seemed directed at Barricade. Barricade got the feeling he was referring to more than just the alliance with the humans. “By the way, Ratchet is demanding that he be allowed to check you over this instant. First Aid sent him the scans, but I still don’t think he’s convinced we aren’t all suffering from a mass delusion. Speaking from long experience, it’s probably best not to make him wait much longer.”

Barricade was amused by Galvatron’s expression of trepidation. Even the mighty Galvatron had a healthy respect for Ratchet, it seemed. “I had forgotten to factor in your formidable medic before agreeing to do this. At least he is not likely to place his helm to my chest and speak sentimental nonsense to the newsparks.” Galvatron gave Optimus’ shoulder a playful nudge as they stood, and then turned to roar at the seeker still recharging on the ground. “Thundercracker, arise!”

Thundercracker staggered to his feet, blinking in confusion, and then gave Galvatron a sour look. “We’re leaving, my Lord?” he said, with exaggerated courtesy.

“Prowl and Carly have been working diplomatic miracles,” Optimus said. “The human authorities have agreed to stay hands off for now, although we’ll have to make decisions very soon on how much to tell them.” 

Galvatron scowled. “Carly, you say. The confrontational one with the pleasing chestplate arrangement?”

Optimus laughed. “Human-Cybertronian relations have made great progress over the last year,” Optimus reassured him. “There will be considerable uproar, but I believe we will find the majority of humans eager to move forward.”

Optimus held each of the Protectobots close to him for a moment, and First Aid coaxed Gasket to let go of Optimus as they prepared to leave. The hatchling grizzled unhappily as he was deprived of Optimus Prime’s fingers to chew. “I wish I could be in two places at once,” First Aid said wistfully as he stepped back, tucking Gasket up against his chestplates. To Barricade’s eye he was still being careful with his hands, though he did not reopen the medical link; he wondered if Optimus had noticed.

“As do I, Little One,” Optimus said fondly, and then his voice took on a hint of sternness. “You, youngling, will kindly work only one miracle at a time, for the present. Pace yourself, for my sake if nothing else? That goes for all of you.”

First Aid ducked his head a little. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll try.”

“Hm,” Optimus said, his optics squinting a little. “Barricade will keep an optic on you, I’m sure.” There was laughter in his voice, but underneath, Barricade thought, there was also a plea. Perhaps he had picked up on some of what First Aid was not telling him. The Protectobots, his protectors for a time, but also younglings left in his care, as much as the hatchlings.

“Might be easier if you’d set a better example,” Blades said, grinning impudently.

Thundercracker caught Barricade’s optics and made a face like he was about to purge. Barricade returned the expression, feeling a warm sense of kinship, an ally of snark in this onslaught of Autobot affection. Nevermind that his spark felt warm and resonant with belonging and acceptance. No doubt it was a temporary affliction; Barricade could but hope.

“I’ll be sure to keep him in line, while I’m here,” Galvatron promised, clapping one hand on Blades’ shoulder and giving Optimus a stern look of his own. “I have it on good authority he was poorly raised.” There it was again. Galvatron undeniably had a sense of humor. Go figure. “Barricade?”

“Yes, my Lord,” Barricade answered, straightening.

“Think about my offer.”

Before he could answer, Galvatron had transformed, hovering long enough for Optimus to grab hold before roaring them both away.

“I’ll just tag along then?” Thundercracker muttered. “Not like I need to know where we’re going or anything.” First Aid managed to sneak in one more hug (using some sort of Circuit-Su covert snuggle skills, Barricade was certain) before Thundercracker transformed and followed them.

There was silence. The night sky was very dark now, moonless, streaked with occasional meteors. The hatchlings began migrating from Barricade’s back to his chestplates and shoulders, though they were still very quiet, peering up at him and wedging themselves closely together. He patted them absently.

“Noble,” Groove said finally, with a whoosh of air through his vents.

“Wheeljack,” Streetwise said. “Hatchling Wheeljack.” He laughed and Hot Spot lifted him and spun them both around and then did the same to Groove.

“Jazz and Mirage. Ironhide,” First Aid said softly, his visor a luminous blue band in the darkness, Gasket’s optics two little red stars blinking against his chest. Blades wrapped his arms around them from behind in an engulfing hug. “Evac and Camshaft.” He sent Barricade a short transmission, the names of all the returned sparks Galvatron carried. Barricade stilled in wonder at the list. Skywarp. Blackout and Scorponok. Bonecrusher. Oh Primus, Soundwave and all of his cassettes, those lost on Earth as well as ones lost earlier. He glanced back at Frenzy, still curled in recharge on the ground, his spindly limbs twitching every now and then.

“Galvatron apparently didn’t tell him anything. Would you like to be the one to break the news?” First Aid asked. “We weren’t sure how he would respond.”

Barricade shook his head. “Neither am I. Soundwave partnered him with me, shortly before we arrived on Earth. I…was afraid to ask why.” Soundwave had been a sparkless bastard, never showing any public signs of affection towards his symbionts, but Barricade had caught him once, tenderly stroking Laserbeak under his chin. Barricade had backed away with the distinct sense that if he’d been caught watching he probably wouldn’t live long enough to tell the tale.

Barricade knelt and scooped Frenzy up over his arm, the hacker as usual not waking from recharge for anything less than a nuclear explosion or a transmission with bad code. 

“I’ll tell him.”

Chapter Text

The air seemed to spark with energy long after Galvatron, Optimus, and Thundercracker left, despite the local humidity in the atmosphere. Barricade fancied he could still see bits of it, crackling over his armor, outlining the edges of the trees, although his other sensors insisted nothing was there.

The hatchlings were still subdued, most of them beginning to doze off now against his armor. Blades, Hot Spot, and Groove stayed on guard outside, while Streetwise, First Aid, and Barricade took the hatchlings back into the barn, where they burrowed willingly into their nest. Barricade tucked the still-snoozing Frenzy in among them as well. He was half-tempted to join them, as he doubted the peace and quiet would last for long, but his thoughts were still too restless to allow him to cycle down into recharge.

A crunch of gravel and sputtering growl of a decidedly non-Cybertronian engine brought Barricade back to high alert. First Aid and Streetwise were alert and listening as well, but nothing in their poses indicated alarm.

“Mrs. Anderson,” Streetwise enlightened him. “She owns this barn, and the cows. We’ve been trying to keep a low profile but with Blades and all five of us going in and out it’s been tricky, and Galvatron was pretty hard to miss, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t worry, Hot Spot will talk to her,” First Aid said. Barricade growled a little at the implication that he would be frightened of a single fleshy, then went to the door and cracked it open. The first glimmers of dawn were lightening the horizon. A battered pickup was parked in the driveway, and Hot Spot was crouched low on one knee to address a small, roundish human, the wrinkled outer dermis and fuzz of curly white hair indicating that she was an elder of her pathetically short-lived species, although Barricade doubted she’d seen even a full vorn of existence.

“That mama robot what’s been holed up in the barn with all those little ‘uns?” The human responded to whatever Hot Spot had said. “I was a bit worrit when I saw her messin’ around with the cows, but as long as she didn’t do no harm I’d no beef with her.”

Hot Spot smiled his easy-going smile. “We appreciate your discretion, ma’am, as well as the use of your barn. How did you know they were younglings of our race? I know Wheelie and Brains and some of our smaller frame-types are widely known.”

“Call me Phyllis, sweetheart,” she said patting Hot Spot familiarly on his leg. “I brought up six little ‘uns of my own. I know a mama with babies when I see ‘em. You, now, you remind me of my oldest boy, Terry, for all yer a big ass robot man.”

Hot Spot chuckled and shook his head, and the human cackled with laughter, her wrinkled face crinkling even further with creases as she did.

“Well now, you’re all welcome to hole up in that beat up ol’ barn fer long’s you need to, so long as there’s not gonna be no more giant aeroplanes tromping ‘round in my fields. My little pea-shooter wouldna done much good anyhow, so good thing ya’ll are friends, dearie.” The human laughed her creaky cackle again and patted the long stick-like object she was holding, and Barricade repressed a snort, more of admiration than scorn. She would have gone up against Galvatron armed only with a puny human-scale rifle? Ball bearings of titanium, some of these fleshies. Decepticons had learned that the hard way.

“We are deeply grateful, Phyllis, thank you,” Hot Spot said warmly. “We will compensate you for any trouble of course, but we’ll probably be relocating soon, now that attention has been drawn here. Not all humans are as understanding as you, and like your own our young ones are very vulnerable.”

“Compensation, eh?” The human straightened, giving Hot Spot as sly, impish look. “Well I won’t say a peep ‘bout your little ‘uns, regardless, but if that handsome Autobot commander of yours were to come by and let me give him a big ol’ peck on his cheek, I’d count any debts paid.”

Hot Spot threw his helm back and gave a hearty laugh. “I’ll see what I can do,” he promised. “I’m sure he’d be delighted to meet you.”

Streetwise was chuckling quietly somewhere behind Barricade. “Optimus. No species can resist him. It must be those legs,” he whispered.

First Aid nodded sagely. “Ratchet says it’s the aft,” he whispered back. Barricade wondered a little wildly if the human was going to offer to carry Optimus’ offspring, as well. She had known he and the hatchlings were here, and had kept it secret, all this time. It didn’t make sense. The human, Phyllis, spoke a little longer with Hot Spot, Blades, and Groove, and then left in her rickety vehicle. 

“Knows a mama with babies when she sees one,” he murmured. And had raised several of her own. Barricade felt almost...regretful he hadn’t gone out and spoken to her. He turned back to see Streetwise and First Aid watching him and shrugged. “What? I’ve been called worse.”

Hot Spot ducked his head into the barn. “I got a kiss, too,” he informed them, grinning.

Frenzy was awake and chattering animatedly to the hatchlings, who were all still in recharge but that didn’t seem to make any difference to Frenzy. Barricade managed to get his attention long enough to break the news about Soundwave and the other symbionts. Frenzy didn’t seem to react at all, nodding once and then going on to spout some nonsense about mutant ninja turtles and whether Optimus Prime would win in a battle with a sentient rat, but shortly thereafter when Barricade turned to look for him, he had disappeared from the barn.

Groove let them know where he was, before they could worry too much. Frenzy spent the morning perched up in the top branches of the giant sycamore tree at the edge of the cow pasture, beyond the reach of even Hot Spot’s ladder (although not Defensor, but Defensor would probably have crunched through most of the tree to get to Frenzy, and Frenzy could outmaneuver him anyway.) Barricade alternated between the barn and watching the small silver form so uncharacteristically still, but once the hatchlings woke up and bumbled and bobbled their way out of the barn for their late-morning rations, Frenzy scampered down the tree to help feed them, as spastic and irrepressible as usual, and Barricade finally gave up trying to pry any sort of coherent response from him. He seemed happy enough, regaling the hatchlings with tales of some “Warrior Goddess” who apparently came to visit Maggie and Glen on a regular basis and bestow Wheelie and Brains with head scritches. 

This day was a repeat of the previous (sans the exciting Galvatron conclusion), with all fourteen of the hatchlings fully awake from their molt cycle this time. They said hello to the cows, climbed all over Barricade and the Protectobots as they tried out new shapes and colors and words, and tumbled around with Frenzy and one another. Starshine, colored a curious mixture of Hot Spot-blue and grass-green, found his way to the top of Barricade’s helm. 

“Up!” he squeaked, waving his little talons at the sky. “Up up up!“ 

Barricade looked around thoughtfully. Everyone else was occupied elsewhere. He reached up and nudged Starshine onto his hand, bringing the hatchling back down to chest level. “Up, hm?” 

Starshine clattered his mandibles and beeped at him. Barricade jiggled Starshine around until his talons were all detached, and then carefully tossed the hatchling a few centispans into the air. Starshine gave a high-pitched squeal of delight and folded himself over, butting his rounded little helm against Barricade’s hands, aft in the air. 

“Up more up up up yes!!!”

He tossed the hatchling a little higher this time. Starshine buzzed and giggled and squealed.

“UP! More up!”

Escape Velocity, Trajectory, and Noggin were all scaling his legs now, too, beeping with excitement. Oh slag. What had he started? “Uh…that’s enough for now.”

The three hatchlings joined Starshine, clinging to Barricade’s arms and clamoring to be tossed. Blades came over, shaking his head and smirking. 

“Uh oh, now you’ve done it. I think there may be some fliers in this bunch.” Barricade, Jr. wore a matching smirk on Blades’ shoulder, and Bravespark was flattened and camouflaged against one side of his helm, giving Blades an oddly lumpy, lopsided appearance.

“Now you’ve done it,” Barricade, Jr. echoed, shaking his head sadly. He clambered down Blades’ arm and onto Barricade, joining the other hatchlings. “Up!” he demanded.

“Up…phleez?” Starshine couldn’t quite manage the harmonics of the fourth-level indicator of a courteous request in Cybertronian, but his attempt was reasonably close. The hatchling was looking at him mournfully, talons wrapped around his fingers. Gah! How could he resist that face? The little slagger had been taking lessons from First Aid. Barricade sighed.

“I can’t toss you all at once,” he said sternly. “One at a time. Got it?” The hatchlings meeped up at him hopefully. Adorably. Fraaag, he was so doomed. He was going to be tossing hatchlings until the universe ran out of stars.

They worked out a system of sorts, as the hatchlings (and Frenzy, who certainly wasn’t going to be left out of something that involved such delightful screeching mayhem) scrambled from ‘bot to ‘bot for their turn to be tossed. Noggin failed to realize he had to let go with his talons to become airborne, but didn’t seem to notice he was only riding hands up and down, and Gasket tried to launch himself from Hot Spot’s shoulder before he could be tossed, at which point Barricade discovered his new retractable octo-tentacle gripper was quite handy, actually. Ducky and Bravespark were the only ones that opted out, content to watch and giggle from various helm perches, and then it was time for an energon break for everyone. All that tossing apparently had worked up quite an appetite, although Barricade was relieved to see that the first ones to emerge seemed to be tapering off somewhat in the amount of fuel they required. Thirty-one newsparks (or sort of newsparks, anyway) that Galvatron was carrying. Barricade couldn’t even imagine. 

“How is it going? Is it going to…take long?” he worked up courage to ask First Aid. He had some decisions to make. He needed to know how long he had. 

First Aid’s expression was worried as he helped four of the hatchlings arrange their pile of sticks they’d been collecting. They seemed to want to build a standing roof, an advancement from their first instar efforts of dragging whatever detritus they could find into simple nest, but were having trouble keeping their walls propped up. (Noggin had gotten his head stuck in a forked branch, of course, and had to be extracted).

“It looks like Galvatron has all the necessary spawning sequences in place, and Ratchet says maybe three or four weeks before things get critical, even taking in to account the Allspark. Galvatron got here just in time. It depends on how quickly we can extract and refine enough energon, but so far at least two engineering firms have agreed to help and ten others are still looking over the contracts, so that’s promising.” First Aid shook his head. “Poor Ratchet. He’s had so much to bear, losing Ironhide, trying to keep Optimus sane and alive, and then me…and now all of this. It’s a good thing, but still…I just wish I could help him more.”

“Have you decided? What you want to do?” Groove asked tentatively, folding himself down next to the stick pile as he cuddled three more hatchlings against his chestplates.

“I don’t know,” Barricade admitted. “To see Cybertron again…” He trailed off, trying and failing to imagine himself there, at Galvatron’s side, rebuilding the future. “I would be a fool to say no, but...” The hatchlings. Barricade watched them, squeaking in excitement as they discovered they could wedge the sticks into Groove’s leg armor. Alive, growing, thriving, against all odds, despite all of his ignorance and mistakes along the way. They didn’t need him anymore. They’d be better off without him. And why did it feel like he was trying way too hard to convince himself of something that should be patently obvious?

“It is not an easy choice,” First Aid said softly, getting up to check over the regenerating patches of Barricade’s outer armor and patting Fulcrum and Toolkit, perched on Barricade’s shoulders, along the way. “I hope you stay, of course, but if you do go to Cybertron I’d feel better if there were time to give you a complete overhaul. The major issues are repaired, but some of those deeper rust infections are probably chronic without a full systems replacement.” He tapped Barricade’s chestplates gently. “Promise me you’ll not neglect yourself? I can set you up with a maintenance schedule that should keep you in good working order and head off any problems before they can get out of hand again.”

Slag. First Aid had his earnest, hopeful look turned up high enough to demolish all his hard-won Decepticon pride. Barricade mumbled something about of course he would take care of himself, and take all his supplements and update his anti-virals and not work too hard…he managed to stop himself before he promised to scrub behind his fenders and floss between his dental components as well.

“Speaking of neglecting yourself,” Hot Spot said, coming from behind to wrap First Aid in an affectionate headlock, “when was the last time you got away from this barn, either of you?”

First Aid leaned his helm back to look up at his larger brother. “Um…”

“Uh huh, yeah. Physician, take thy own advice, for once in your life. Why don’t you show Barricade the surprise? We’ve got things under control here.”

“Oh, well, but…”

Hot Spot rumbled his engines in a mock-threatening growl and pretended to wrestle First Aid to the ground, using one leg to lift and flip him over. Fulcrum and Toolkit made worried little tweeps next to Barricade’s audios.

“I yield, I yield,” First Aid gasped, between giggles, pinned under his brother.

“Good,” Hot Spot grinned down at him, bumping their forehelms together, then looking up at the two hatchlings who were watching the proceedings with wide optics. “Oh no,” Hot Spot said, widening his own optics comically. “I sure hope the hatchlings don’t come and save you!”

Fulcrum and Toolkit blinked down at him, making puzzled query sounds. “Get him,” Barricade said, nudging them. “Go get Hot Spot.”

They tumbled and scrambled down his armor. “Thundercats, ho!” Toolkit squeaked, as they pounced on Hot Spot, who rolled on his back, laughing and flailing dramatically as he was tackled and gnawed upon. Thundercats, what? Barricade remembered that he had internet access again and looked it up. Good grief. Maybe they should reconsider letting Frenzy watch the hatchlings.

Blades hooked hands under First Aid and lifted him to his feet, while Bravespark, Ducky, and Leeway scrambled down from his armor to pile on Hot Spot. The rest of the hatchlings abandoned their stick project to join in.

“We’ve got plenty of rations, and if we run into any problems I’ll snatch you back before you can say ‘Unicron’s Balls.’ Quick, get out of here while they’re distracted!” Blades made shooing motions at the both of them, while Hot Spot continued to flail and yell for help, much to the glee of his small assailants.

“Blades, we’re not going to just disappear on them,” First Aid said reprovingly.

“Great, we’ll get to watch them all whimpering and trying to follow you down the driveway.”

“No, I think they’ll be ok,” Barricade said, crouching down to the wriggling hatchlings as Hot Spot stilled, still huffing with laughter. “I had to leave them behind a lot, before. Hey. Pit spawns.” He whistled air sharply through his vents to get their attention. “I’m going out. You lie low, be good for Hot Spot, ok?”

They blinked up at him for a moment. A few of them made rude little raspberries they’d probably also picked up from Frenzy and then went back to gnawing on Hot Spot, seeming unconcerned except for Fulcrum, who was giving him a worried look. “I’ll be back, I promise,” he said, rubbing the hatchling gently on the helm. He felt like the scum from the bottom of a retrorat den, but he’d have to leave them behind eventually, wouldn’t he? And this was only for a little while.

“I’ll watchem all for ya, boss,” Frenzy said, jumping off of Streetwise to land on Barricade’s face and then dropping down to help pin Hot Spot.

Barricade gave Fulcrum one last pat and then stood and faced First Aid. “Lead the way,” he said.

They passed a police cruiser guarding the end of the road at the intersection that that led to the barn. Barricade felt a chill of apprehension, but the vehicle came up as completely non-Cybertronian to his scans. First Aid flashed his headlights and the human officer inside gave them a friendly wave and smile as they passed. It was similar to their first encounter, First Aid trundling along country roads while Barricade followed behind, with the difference, of course, that First Aid was now friend rather than prisoner (or bait for unwitting Decepticons, depending on interpretation).

They traveled north, First Aid offering occasional commentary on the humans or schools or hospitals he knew along the way and sticking dutifully to the local speed limits. They were heading to the same Autobot base he had stalked so desperately for a medic, he realized after awhile, although some of the roads First Aid chose to take were different.

They reached their destination just past sunset, taking a final turn that veered slightly west of the base. They passed through several layers of what appeared to be rusted and inferior human fences and security, but were, as First Aid informed him, somewhat more than that. The last was an impressive force field which let them through after First Aid chirped a passcode to it, sharing the sequence with Barricade. It made all of Barricade’s diodes vibrate as they passed through it. After the force field they passed a wide grassy field, dotted with trees, and then another dark form loomed ahead, the outline somehow familiar. First Aid pulled up to a ramp and transformed and Barricade did likewise.

“That’s…the Retribution.” One of the two smaller shuttle units from the Nemesis. It had long been deemed too damaged to be useable for much more than scrap and storage, he remembered.

“She’s not terribly spaceworthy anymore, poor old dear,” First Aid patted the side of the craft fondly. Was there anything he didn’t pat fondly? Barricade couldn’t bring any to mind. “We found her when we stopped by the Nemesis, on our way in to Earth. No one had even made an attempt to repair her and…well, I couldn’t bear to leave her behind.”

Barricade was somehow not surprised that First Aid’s tendency to care for and repair damages extended to space shuttles, as well as other Cybertronians, squishy humans, and hatchlings. Further than that even, maybe. A healer Prime. It was high time for one, perhaps.

“Go ahead, check her out.” First Aid smiled and tilted his helm towards the entrance. Panels along the hatchway lit up as Barricade entered. Despite the battered exterior, the interior was spotless and gleaming. A wide entry bay and docking area, approximately the size of the barn. Cargo storage areas to the left, one of which had been converted into a comfortable washrack facility, with several shallow, sturdy wash tubs along one side. Hatchling sized, inscribed with glyphs telling the legend of the first Seekers to win the skies of Vos. First Aid tried one of the cleanser taps, smiling.

“I’ve only seen the scans of the construction they’ve been sending me. This is the first time I’ve seen it in person,” he explained. “We found plans on the Nemesis that Starscream had hidden away. Grapple, Ratchet, Optimus, and Sideswipe have been implementing them over the last month, based on Starscream’s designs and some of the things they developed for us when we were small. Whatever the Fallen was planning, it looks like Starscream, at least, meant for the hatchlings to mature normally.”

Barricade felt a wave of sadness. All the things he hadn’t known about Starscream, things the jet had never hinted. How much would hatchling Starscream remember? Would he still be himself at all? First Aid had admitted that there was no knowing, no predicting how the returned sparks would develop, although their sparkwaves scanned true to the records of each mech or femme. Spark transfers to new frames had once been a fairly routine procedure, but how spark memory would work in the hatchlings returned from the Allspark remained a mysterious unknown.

There was more to the revamped Retribution, much more. Learning and exploration areas inscribed with more ancient tales and legends of Cybertron, filled with places for the hatchlings to climb, build, create, make messes, download data, refuel and recharge. A solid looking remote-solar energon generator (designated “Noodles“ according to the glyphs on the side) and small but fully stocked medical nook. Scattered around there were comfortable berths and couches for various sized mechs to relax, a Cybertronian-sized human entertainment center (the result of a collaboration between Sideswipe and a human named Miles, First Aid said) as well as several private living quarters and empty rooms in the back, ready to be put to whatever purpose might be needed. Out the back end of the shuttle there was a large landing strip for seeker frames as well as more climbing and exploration structures for the hatchlings, very much like the playgrounds humans made for their own offspring, although clearly designed with hatchling proportions and talons in mind. Also several muddy ditches for hatchlings to get filthy in, plenty of rocks, trees, grasshoppers, and sticks, and a good-sized pond for Ducky to fall in to. And was that an old barn, on the other side? Just like…home.

“From the air all of this looks like a parking lot for rusted, out-of-service aircraft, although that probably won’t fool everyone once there’s increased traffic in and out. Still, you can’t ask for anyone better than Red Alert for security, and we’ve got very good relations with the local humans. We hope we won’t have to keep them isolated for too long, though. It’s a wonderful planet, and we want the hatchlings to get to know all of it…but, one thing at a time, I suppose. Does it meet with your approval?” First Aid sounded like he really wanted to know the answer.

“It’s a little primitive, but the hatchlings are used to living rough,” Barricade tried to joke. Holy slag. They’d really gone all out. Where had they found the time, let alone the materials? It was almost unnervingly comfortable, enough of the familiar Decepticon formatting to the ship left intact for him to feel immediately at ease, but softened by Autobot touches like the couches and washracks. And sweet Primus the hatchlings would go nuts. They’d adore it.

“If I leave, how will it…will they be ok?” Barricade asked, his spark twisting inside with an emotion he couldn’t quite find a name for. The hatchling quarters were so wonderful, so perfect. They were everything he couldn’t have hoped to give them, not in a thousand vorns.

First Aid sighed. “It will be hard on them, to see you go. They’ve been through so much, and you’ve been their one source of stability. I don’t want you to feel trapped, though, Barricade, if you truly feel this is not your place. We will love them, care for them, protect them with our very sparks. They are very young, but…we will make sure they remember you. They will understand. Optimus had to leave us, too, for most of the time we were small. And communication forward to Cybertron is much easier than communication back. We’ll be able to send you updates.” 

“But you want me to stay. Why?” Barricade asked bluntly.

“You still don’t believe us, do you, about how brilliantly you’ve done,” First Aid said, looking at him a little sadly. “Cybertron needs you, yes, but so does Earth. So do they.”

“I will fail them,” Barricade said. It was all impossible. He could not tell anymore which way his spark was tugging him. “I’m not qualified, I can’t be what they’ll need me to be.” Someone with more wisdom, with more patience, who could teach them how to…be. There had been a time, long ago, when he had believed in things, thought of things beyond mere survival, but now…how could he guide them, hampered and twisted by the past as he was? He was as clueless as a freshly kindled newspark himself, in this strange new reality.

First Aid’s hand was warm on his shoulder. “You will fail them, we will fail them, they will fail us, but it will all be ok. We all have our flaws, Barricade.

Barricade snorted at that. “Right. You’ve got flaws.” Kid was an honest-to-fragging-goodness messenger of Primus and he thought he had flaws.

“I have barely lived. My spark has barely been tested, not as you, and so many others have been.” First Aid shook his head. “We will hurt one another terribly, we will shatter and mend a thousand times, over and over until we learn at last to love all the more deeply for it. Your imperfections and your scars, we need those as much as your determination and tenacity, your suspicions and skepticism, the tender core to your spark that you will never admit.” Barricade’s helm came up indignantly at that, and First Aid’s optics brightened slightly in his own gentle brand of challenge, daring him to deny it.

“I don’t know. I just…I don’t know,” Barricade said at last, clenching his fists, looking at Aid almost despairingly. “What should I do?” First Aid was a Prime, wasn’t he? Weren’t they supposed to have all the answers?

First Aid’s optic ridges knit in concern. “I don’t know either, Barricade. I can’t tell you what to choose, but…Perceptor told us something once, when we were hatchlings. Maybe it will help.”

“Does it have equations?” Barricade asked apprehensively. He had a halfway decent science background, but he’d seen some reports written by Perceptor.

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” First Aid laughed, sitting down on one of the sturdier climbing bars to look up at Barricade. “Luckily the details aren’t important. Perceptor told us he’d spent most of his Academy time tracing the essential math of the universe, to the underpinnings that weave the fabric of space-time together. He failed, of course. No one has ever been able to find the one unifying equation, not even Perceptor, but he claimed he found the echo of it, that he could draw some conclusions based on the shape of the answer he could not find.”

Barricade frowned. He really didn’t see what Perceptor’s Academy dissertation had to do with him. “According to all the evidence,” First Aid continued, “it seems to be written into the fundamental mathematics of the universe that not only is happiness possible, it is inevitable. So you see, whatever you choose, you really can’t go wrong.”

Barricade blinked at First Aid a moment, absorbing that, and then let out a short bark of laughter. “That is…really not helpful at all.”

“Oh dear, I’m sorry,” First Aid said, looking a little deflated. “Would you like to talk to Optimus instead?” he added hopefully.

“No, that’s all right,” Barricade said quickly. He was sure Optimus was pretty occupied, with Galvatron, and the spawning and all. He wanted to stay as far away from that business as possible. Away. Away from everything and everyone. Maybe then he could think. Or maybe he was just a coward, running away because he was too afraid to choose.

“Am I a prisoner?” he asked.

First Aid’s visor flickered in surprise at the question. “Of course not! If anything, I’m still your prisoner, you know. You never released me,” he said with a hint of a smile which faded as he studied Barricade. “It’s hard to think, isn’t it, when taking care of hatchlings,” he said with unsettling perception. “They are rather all-consuming of any other thought processes.”

“It wouldn’t be for long, just…a day….”

“As long as you need,” First Aid said firmly, standing. “We’ll miss you, but we’ll manage. Hoist is due to arrive in a few days, and Thundercracker’s going to need training if he wants to help with the new clutch, so we’ve got plenty of reinforcements. Hang on a klik…” First Aid sent a transmission, and shortly afterward Barricade’s spark froze in its casing as he was pinged by Prowl.

Barricade. You are free to travel the entirety of this planet with the exception of the following restricted or sensitive facilities: a list of locations followed. If you are in need of fuel or funds you may access the following resources and credit account: another list, locations of assorted human-Cybertronian bases and facilities now scattered over all seven continents, pass codes giving him access to a generous chunk of the standard local human currency, with instructions for conversion to the several other human currency formats on the planet. Our presence on this planet is no longer secret. You may reveal yourself at your own discretion; however, you will kindly refrain from damaging human-Cybertronian relations as detailed in the attached document. If you hurt anyone I will hunt you down. If anyone hurts you, I will hunt them down. Understood?

Understood! Sir!

“There,” First Aid said, his fingers gentle on Barricade’s arm again, as Barricade’s engine gradually stopped racing, running last scans to make sure everything was in order. He deactivated the medical monitoring access link. “All set.”

Barricade deactivated the reciprocal link, noticing as he did so that First Aid’s hands were no longer sending him pain signals, but the medic was shivering slightly, all over, in the grip of some strong emotion that the fading link couldn’t identify. Guilt assailed him. When had the kid last gotten a break himself?

First Aid squinted another smile at him, somehow catching the thought, and this time, in that smile, Barricade could totally see the Prime-thing. Power both implacable and infinitely yielding, kindness beyond all logic and reason, compassion deeper than time. It was kind of freaking him out. First Aid’s arms made a small movement as if to reach for Barricade and then stilled against his sides. “I’m ok. It’s all ok. Go.” Barricade turned abruptly to leave. He suspected if he lingered any longer he might end up hugged.

“Um. Thank you,” he said, without turning around. “For everything.” He transformed and drove away, picking a road at random.

Chapter Text

The stars were bright and softly gleaming overhead. First Aid watched them and trembled, letting the vast beauty and pain of the universe break over him in waves, until a warm large hand gripped his shoulder. He turned and pressed himself gratefully into Optimus Prime’s chestplates, basking in the warmth and comfort of that mighty spark. Optimus held him tightly until the shivering eased and his frame relaxed, and then for a long while after.

“Better?” First Aid nodded, but made no motion to move away. “I wish I could tell you it gets easier,” Optimus murmured. As he had done since he was a very small hatchling, First Aid’s finger components traced little paths along the front of Optimus’ chestplates, finding all the hidden scars beneath. Optimus knew all the shapes of pain, had learned to open again to wonder and joy. His own spark-deep scar where Optimus’ sword had pierced him ached softly, somewhere in his chest.

“Galvatron?” First Aid asked finally, smiling at the tangible thrum of joy from Optimus in response to the name.

“Resting, while Ratchet prods him some more. He’s taking it rather well, considering.”

“Which one? Ratchet? Or Galvatron?”

Optimus chuckled. “Galvatron. Ratchet is ‘in a bit of a state,’ I believe is the expression. You’re next, youngster; Ratchet put a target lock on you as soon as he realized you were in the vicinity.” First Aid only sighed and snuggled in closer.

“He’ll be back, Little One,” Optimus said. First Aid didn’t have to ask who he meant.

“He has so many paths, so many possibilities. He trusts himself so little.”

“You and your brothers have already corrupted him terribly,” Optimus said, smiling a little. “I have high hopes for that one. You like him very much, don’t you?”

First Aid ducked his helm. “Hm. I like many beings very much.”

“Indeed.” Optimus gave First Aid a few gentle thumps on his backplates and then loosened their embrace. “Come. Even if Barricade was not yet ready for them, Ratchet is in dire need of your hugs.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It was more than a day. More than a week. Closer to a month, and the green and heat of the local summer season was transitioning swiftly to fall before Barricade’s path finally brought him back, rolling up the familiar drive to the old barn that had sheltered him and the hatchlings. It was empty, he could tell, long before he reached it. They would have relocated the hatchlings by now. Of course. He should have realized.

The barn looked smaller than he remembered, so fragile compared to even the most temporary of structures on Cybertron. He had driven from one end of the continent to the other, from one salt-ocean shore to the next, then north to where roads ended in ice and snow and south through both desert and damp steaming tropics, and everywhere he had seen only Cybertron. Memories long buried, once too painful to access, had overlain everything. Cybertron before the war, gleaming, lit from within. Himself, before the war - who had he been? It was like getting to know a stranger.

A busload filled with raucous, singing humans passed him precariously on the narrow road and he remembered the energon bars of Nova Cronum, where he had caroused through his university days while still managing, miraculously, to keep up with his studies. He’d had friends then, he was astonished to remember, many friends. An easy comradeship, shared bonds of study and the close proximity of the student quarters. His first trip to Polyhex, minor and most junior scientific assistant to Sentinel Prime’s division, his transfer to Megatron and the discipline of the military division—a new sort of brotherhood there, born of shared danger and proud surety of purpose, and being packed together like a herd of sheepacrons in tiny ships’ holds.

In every sunrise he saw the triumphant return of a sun to Cybertron, the young Orion trailing Megatron and Sentinel like a joyful puppybot. In the teeming, exuberant plant and insect life of the south he saw the flourishing of the equatorial cybersystem, the early dawn flight of humming swarms of energon bees as native plantobots lifted delicate solar panel blossoms to the sun. In the crystal sharp winds of the north he remembered his time as military liaison at the solar power stations at Tagon Heights, the way the energy would sparkle and sing as it coursed through the generators. Starscream and his trine perched joyously on the heights, the light of the new sun outlining their silhouettes with fire. What new dawn arose on their ruined planet now? Barricade’s spark ached with loss and hope combined.

He avoided direct contact with the humans as much as possible, but he could not avoid the scars of upheaval, backlash from Cybertron’s abortive arrival: great gouges in the earth, crumbled human structures, roads broken and rerouted by earthquake and fire. A new line of volcanic hills and vents stretched across the center of the continent, quiescent now for the most part but occasionally steaming or burbling out a trickle of molten rock. The planet was healing, calming at a much faster pace than predicted, and doing so in suspiciously mindful fashion, according to both human and robot speculation on the subject, targeting areas of either ecological richness or high human population first. It wasn’t only this continent; the effects were being noticed planetwide. Barricade was starting to develop a theory on that score.

He’d rarely thought of the hatchlings, which had surprised him; keeping them alive had occupied all of his processing power for so long, but...they were in the best of hands. Of that he had no doubts, not any longer. He’d been left alone, as much time as he needed, as First Aid had promised. Not even a comm signal, although the driller, Bertha, had sniffed him out while he was exploring the now-mountainous terrain of Chicago. She’d been accompanied by a smallish Autobot, rover-scout model, who’d introduced himself as Beachcomber and then offered him a job assisting with geological survey and repair if his other options didn’t work out, and a few cubes of truly excellent high grade “for the road” (so that was where Blades had gotten it).

Barricade? Mostly left alone. Barricade acknowledged the tentative communications request from his new friend.

Yes?

What are you doing now?

Saying goodbye, I suppose, he answered.

You’re leaving me, too? The Cybertronian glyphs were simple, unadorned, with small sad modifiers that gave the question a wistful tone. When he’d received the first curious, timid transmission, he’d wondered at first if it was one of the hatchlings, except they wouldn’t be capable of long-range communications or even basic glyphs like this for a long time yet. Internet anomalies, geological anomalies, planets healing faster than expected - after a few conversations Barricade had a fairly firm idea who this new being might be, preposterous as it seemed (but after Galvatron, nothing could faze him anymore, he was pretty sure). The transmissions reminded him of Groove a little, with his sweet shy smile, occasionally obscure, communicating from another plane of thought where words didn’t quite do the job.

The Great Shining One left and then he came back, but he says he will leave again soon. You are going with him?

Barricade hesitated, but hadn’t he made his decision? He would make one last stop to say goodbye to the hatchlings, though, instead of slinking away, disappearing on them forever like a strutless coward. Running and hiding had kept him alive for a time, but he was done with it now. He was strong enough. Wasn’t he? His engine rumbled uneasily.

I have a chance to rebuild my home. I’ll come back someday, I promise.

There was no reply, although the transmission did not sign off. Barricade sighed, weary from his long journey, although the last signs of weakness in his frame had healed. He would recharge here and then set off for the Autobot base in the morning. As he transformed to enter the barn a gust of wind shook loose the ridiculously gaudy orange and red leaves from the tree above him and swept them down and around him in a bright whirlwind of color. He paused for a moment, caught by a strange wonder as the leaves brushed against his armor and rustled under his pedes.

I am rebuilding, too, for the humans and the trees and the kelp and tailless whip scorpions and everything in between. Even if they don’t know me yet, even if they would fear me. For them and for you and for all the lives here. When I awoke in Mission City I was too small, and I had no voice, and I was afraid, but the Great Shining One and the Prime and the Little Prime, they talked to me; they showed me how I can help. I am much bigger now, big enough to know my name. Would...would you like to know it?

Barricade nodded his helm, though he wasn’t certain how far the other’s sensors could reach. Bigger, indeed. The most recent “helpful geological anomaly” reports had been coming in from Indonesia and Australia. I’d be honored.

I only decided today; I haven’t told anyone else, yet. My name is Metroplex.

I like it. Metroplex. It suits you. A network, a connector, a complex interweaving of lives, like the long-lost cybersystems of home, like the even more intricate and fragile ecosystems of Earth.

Someday when you come back I will build you a home here too? You will still be my friend?

Barricade’s mouth quirked in a half smile. It seemed he’d developed a habit of acquiring allies in high places, so to speak. Two Primes, a gestalt, an Allspark-enhanced Lord High Protector, and now a baby city former. If anything like her long-silent counterparts on Cybertron, Metroplex would be more powerful than anything The Fallen might have dreamed up, and she was asking if they would be friends as endearingly as Starshine asking to be tossed one more time. His spark gave an unexpected pang at the memory.

I will always be your friend, Metroplex, he sent, tagged with gruff modifiers of affection and reassurance. The city former was scarcely older than the hatchlings, after all.

I will build you a nice home, someday. Not as beautiful as Cybertron, but still, it will be very nice.

~~~~~~~~

...the hatchlings were hungry again, Barricade could hear them, a chorus of pleading chirrups and beeps, small talons tapping at his armor. He opened a panel, sliced a line and lifted the first warm, squirming frame so that the energon could reach the eager mandibles. The energon flowed from him, a warm swift rush, wind buffeted and blew it away in a scattering of leaves, small stars, little sparks that flew and grew and swirled themselves into glittering galaxies. He felt no fear, as his life energy flowed from him, no waning or weakness, only wonder. They were his own little worlds, he had given them himself, he would keep them safe, he would set them free to build the universe....

Barricade awoke clutching a double handful of straw tenderly to his chestplates. He snorted and brushed himself off. Just when he thought he’d returned to a state of relative health and sanity, and now he was having weird recharge visions again. No Starscream this time. Starscream was...and here Barricade’s processor stalled out and informed him he probably really didn’t want to think too closely about where Starscream was right now.

There were no cows in the fields when Barricade went outside, to his regret. They must have been grazing on the other side of the field. Abandoned by grass converting organics, wasn’t that just his luck? With a sigh and a shrug he transformed and headed north, inwardly mocking himself for being so sentimental. And sentimental about more than that, apparently. This time, instead of being lost in memories as he drove, he was struck by beauty everywhere he looked, unexpected fondness for this dirty little mudball with its ever changing palette of vegetation and sky. It wasn’t all that bad, actually, when you weren’t starving and rusting apart at the seams and had a few friends on your side for good measure (including one that could probably turn the planet inside out if she so chose). He was glad it hadn’t been destroyed, although the verdict was still out on its unfortunate infestation of humans.

Barricade slowed as he made the final turn to the Autobot base, his spark pounding as he approached the force field. The urge to turn tail and drive away in the opposite direction was strong (taking Beachcomber up on that offer was sounding pretty good right now, he’d been a fairly decent science officer back in the day...), but at last he forced himself forward. The force field yielded to his passcode.

“Have you taken the road less traveled by?” Barricade unfolded from his alt mode and whirled around, to find Groove grinning down at him, perched on top of an unattached semi trailer that had been parked on the side of the road.

“I took a couple of roads, yes,” Barricade answered, fighting a smile. It was good to see Groove again, odd gangling kid that he was, and there was nothing in Groove’s expression to suggest he had bad news to give. The hatchlings were fine (not that he’d been worried).

“Thought you might show up today. Welcome back!” Groove swung himself down off the trailer and handed Barricade something. Vegetation, twigs and grasses of some sort, woven into an intricate circle. Groove squinted an impish grin at him again but gave no explanation before transforming into his cycle alt. Kid must have gotten bored or something; how long had he been out here waiting?

“Um. Just what I always wanted. Thanks.” Somehow it didn’t come out as sarcastic as he’d intended. Barricade folded the gift into his alt mode as he transformed. Groove kept companionably close as they headed toward the Retribution, driving next to Barricade on the wrong side of the road by local human laws, not that there was any oncoming traffic to worry about.

There were several large, thermal signatures up ahead. Cows, Barricade noted in surprise as he scanned them, and then scanned more carefully as they drew closer. Not just cows. His particular cows, grazing peacefully next to the newly installed fence along road. He finally sped up to catch back up to Groove.

“There’s a barn for them over the hill. Bitlets missed their cows! Mrs. Anderson is letting us borrow them; she must have gotten a very nice smooch from Optimus,” Groove giggled. “And, it just so happens her youngest daughter is the wife of one of our best military allies. She’s helping take care of them for us.”

“Is, uh…Galvatron?”

“Thirty healthy pods, successfully spawned and percolating away as of three days ago.” Groove did a happy little sideways skid. “Mudflap and Skids ended up sharing the same pod which is why there aren’t thirty-one. Galvatron’s been zonked out for a few days, but Optimus says he’s planning to leave for Cybertron tomorrow, so…”

“So there’s still time.” Barricade couldn’t decide if the sudden pulse of his spark was relief or disappointment.

“Yeah,” Groove said, his alt mode drooping a little. “You’re going with him then?”

Barricade couldn’t bring himself to answer yet. Of course he was going. Wasn’t he?

They transformed at the entrance to the Retribution. “Everyone’s out back,” Groove said, waving a hand for him to go ahead. The interior of the shuttle bore signs of recent occupation – they had to navigate through a scattering of colorful blinking balls and what looked like a small, bright pink-and-purple plastic vehicle which bore several talon nicks and scratches.

“Barbie’s Jammin’ Jeep,” Groove explained, as Barricade nudged it cautiously to the side. “Annabelle brought over some of her old toys. Shoulda seen the little sprockets pushing each other around in it,” he chuckled.

“Annabelle?”

“Sarah and Will’s daughter. Phyllis’s granddaughter. Don’t worry, they’re cool. We’re still trying to keep the kiddos out of the spotlight for as long as possible, but video feeds of Anna and the hatchlings playing might go a long way towards calming down the more nervous of the humans.”

They reached the rear hatchway. Barricade lurked at the opening as he did a quick assessment of the busy scene in front of him. It took a moment to figure out who was who; the hatchlings were a motley crew of different colors and shapes, often somewhat matched to the adult mech they were climbing on or closest to. Some of them had little antennae or wing or door-like protrusions, and was Squiggles sporting a horn in the middle of his little noseplate? Thundercracker was there, wearing a look of frozen apprehension; Gasket, wearing matching-blue colors and set of tiny, fluttering winglets, had discovered where his landing wheels tucked away in his root mode and was chewing away enthusiastically. First Aid laughed and went over to rescue him, while Starshine, Leeway, and Trajectory perched on his helm and shoulders and offered chirruping commentary.

“I don’t know why he does that. He isn’t suffering from any deficiencies. Here, bitlet, try this instead.” First Aid offered Gasket a length of braided copper metal, but the hatchling seemed to prefer Thundercracker’s tires.

Blades and Beachcomber—Barricade recognized the small, sturdy mech from their earlier meeting—were sitting in the grass with Barricade Jr., Noggin, Birdy Boo, Escape Velocity, Squiggles, and a human child of approximately the same size as the hatchlings. A taller adult human of the same light hair and skin coloring leaned comfortably against the helicopter’s knee, laughing and keeping a close eye on the proceedings, which seemed to involve grabbing handfuls of grass and sprinkling it over one another’s helms or hair, accompanied by lots of giggling and buzzing. Frenzy was leading Pingback, Ducky, and Toolkit in a game of chase across the climbing structures. A green tow truck—Hoist? It had to be Hoist, the mech from Wheeljack’s files—was teaching Bravespark and Fulcrum to hold and refuel from regular cubes. Bravespark was doing reasonably well, tipping the edge of the cube to his mandibles with only a little sloshing. Fulcrum, with a look of great concentration, was trying to lift his cube up to Hoist’s mouthparts.

“I’m not hungry, dear, but thank you,” Hoist said gently, but Fulcrum would not be satisfied until Hoist pretended to take a few noisy slurps.

They looked…they looked so happy. So healthy and well-cared for, their shifting colors were bright and shining, full of energy, more than they had ever had under the bare survival care which was all he’d been able to provide them. Hoist and Beachcomber had helped raise the Protectobot hatchlings; he knew from Wheeljack’s files his fourteen former charges could be in no better hands. They didn’t need him. They didn’t need him at all. He started to back away quietly, before they saw him. Saying goodbye had been a mistake. He’d leave them a datapad or something to read when they were older.

“Bear!”

Barricade suddenly found himself the focus of an ecstatic hatchling stampede as fourteen little frames scrambled, stumbled, and swarmed their way to him, all of them changing to match his black-and-white pattern as they went. He found himself laughing helplessly as they swarmed up his legs like a pack of cyber-monkeys. He was thoroughly patted and prodded and clung to, little talons tickling and clasping firmly on his armor like they would never let go again, their chirps and squeaks of his name sending warmth through his spark. He tried to pat as many as he could in return; they were absolutely quivering in their excitement and eagerness, transmitting simple glyphs of joy – just when had they learned to do that? He sat on the exit ramp of the Retribution, holding them all close. Happiness is inevitable, he thought. Oh Primus. It was if he’d gone into alt mode and transformed into a seeker or starship or some other entirely unexpected shape. He would never have foreseen this path for himself, not in a million vorns, but in that instant his choice was made.

“Missed me, did ya,” he murmured, patting someone’s aft where it was wedged tightly up against his neck. “Little Pit spawns.” He would tell them about Cybertron-that-was, the important things, the little things, the good and the bad. He would teach them to be strong, to fight for both worlds, Cybertron-that-could-be and the fledgling, awakening Earth with its teeming organic inhabitants. He had despised it, once, but somehow along the way it had also become his home, and, stranger yet, his friend.

Barricade bowed his helm over his noisy horde, making a silent vow. With his spark, with his frame, he would protect them. When the time came, he would let them go. He knew exactly what he was getting into this time, oh yes. Whatever happiness the universe did or did not hold for him, it didn’t mean the hatchlings weren’t going to break his spark into a million pieces, the lot of them. His processor quailed a bit, but his spark, wiser than he knew perhaps, forged ahead anyway. And this time…this time he would not be doing it alone.

He looked up to find First Aid and Blades both standing there, smiling at him fondly, with Thundercracker behind…also smiling, sort of a crooked half-smile, but still soppy as all get out. Thundercracker. Completely corrupted by Autobots. What was the planet coming to? He had to stay if for no other reason than to keep it from getting any worse; the poor hatchlings wouldn’t have a chance, otherwise. Of course, he might also be somewhat corrupted, he realized, sitting on the ground laughing and snuggling hatchlings as if...as if he were a newbuild in a pile of cyberkittens—gah!

He got hastily to his feet, scowling, or trying to. One corner of his mouthplates refused to cooperate, insisting on quirking upwards. He squinted hard with one optic to disguise it. First Aid had his hands clasped together tightly, doing that little rocking thing again. “Barricade, welcome…home?” he said, the question clear in his intonation and the hopeful tilt of his helm.

“Yeah, well…yeah,” Barricade responded gruffly, inelegantly. He’d meant it to sound firm and decisive but instead he just sounded sullen. Frenzy made a wild cackling leap from somewhere to land painfully against his helm.

“Agh! Fraggin’ glitch!” Barricade batted at his helm as the little hacker glomped him from above.

Barricade, once he’d gotten Frenzy subdued by squashing him with one hand, looked up to find First Aid bouncing and rocking towards him again, his optics and visor gleaming bright. He eyed the medic warily, leaning back a little.

Blades grinned at Barricade’s alarmed stance, laying a restraining hand on his brother’s shoulder. “It would make him very happy, you know.”

Barricade groaned and rolled his optics, bracing himself. “Fine, go ahead.”

Blades lifted his hand and First Aid made a small hatchling-squeak of delight, and leapt to engulf him in a hug, the little ones snuggled between them. The warmth and resonance of First Aid’s spark energy washed over him, unfettered, as strong as if he were basking full in the light of Earth’s steady golden sun. Barricade wondered if he’d been holding it back before, or maybe he was just paying better attention now? He felt his own spark swell with tenderness and a touch of awe, and fought back an unseemly desire to giggle. “My Prime,” he found himself murmuring.

Galvatron will be bummed, but Aid’ll need a Lord Protector someday, keep that in mind, Blades sent on tight beam, causing Barricade’s optics to widen.

The hatchlings hummed and cheeped and murmured, peering up at him with their optics bright, transmitting more of their little glyphs of joy. “Bear,” one crowed. “Fraggin’ glitch!” merrily sang another. Happiness is inevitable, Barricade thought again. Why had he been fighting it so hard? No more running. He was home. With a reluctant sigh and grumble and roll of his optics (because he had a reputation to maintain, slagitall) Barricade lifted his arms and returned the embrace.