Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The loss of Cybertronian life triggers a series of responses starting from the mechanical corpse to any nearby Cybertronians. First, a traumatic enough injury causes the spark to disconnect from the rest of the body. This happened instantly for the twisted, broken form of Cy Kill. A gaping blaster hole ripped its way through his chest plate, exposing his spark casing to the humid forest air. Next, the spark quickly burns through what energon it has access to left. Not able to get anymore, it is released and returns to the Allspark, where all are one. Sunstorm’s body convulses as it burns up through the last of it’s energon. Using it’s innermost energon, the spark chamber peels open like a flower in bloom. Ratchet watches quietly as Landmine and Waverider sparks discard the photonic crystals they were encased in and drift up, twisting and twinning together into the starry night. Their body’s hands locked in one final hold. Their metal losing luster and succumbing to aggressive depigmentation. Ratchet blocks out the roaring sobs of Gnashteeth, the purple eukarian stands a few paces back. Even further back was Prowl and Metalhawk in deep conversation. Metalhawk let his blue optics follow the two sparks circling the final dance before evaporation. 

“It is just the two of us left. We need reinforcements, Prowl.” Urges Metalhawk, a tall winged Autobot and leader of the Pretenders; an elusive group of formally five autobots with the ability to condense their robotic bodies into human shells as they defended the Blue Marble from the evil forces of the Decepticons. Cloudburst had died thousands of years ago. Landmine and Waverider just went down together one last time. Leaving themself and Gnashteeth as the only consistent Autobot presence upon Earth. 

“We are strung out far enough as is. You are lucky Ratchet and I were in this star system to access Deep Blue’s group and to check up on yours. And to sadly witness this tragedy.” Prowl retorts as his icy resolve dissolves and he glances mournfully at the bodies. 

“Besides, the pretender process is too risky to do on any more autobots. I am still surprised none of you had instant spark failure everytime you go from human shells to robot mode.” Pipes up Ratchet as he stood up from the lifeless autobots. 

“We go step by step, first human then suit then robot.” Explains Gnashteeth, a bit more confident in her voice as she walks away from the bodies of her fallen enemies and friends. Being from the jungle planet Eukaris, she transformed not into a vehicle but an animal. In her case, a metallic purple tyrannosaur flees the battlefield and dashes back into the forest. 

“Humans have been developing more advanced vehicles in the past few decades. Whoever you send can just scan a new alternative mode like you both have for your status check.” Metalhawk solves. They briefly transforms into their alt-mode, a blue and gold Kalinin K-4, and back to robot mode to demonstrate to the Iacon Police chief. 

“You have a point. I will see what I can do when we get back to Cybertron. You and Gnashteeth can hold yourself here for the foreseeable future, yes?” Accepts Prowl.

Metalhawk tweaked a servo and their voice goes down to a low whisper. “I do not know if you have the clearance to know why it is so important that the Autobots maintain a presence on Earth. But we have a duty to ensure that the rights and freedoms of all sentient beings are respected and defended. As per our founding documents, the Autonomous Robotic Edicts. Do you mean for the foreseeable future relative to us or them?” 

Prowl brought a digit up to his chin and looked down considerately. “I will discuss these matters with the Supreme Commander as soon as possible. You have my word that reinforcements will be here within a vorn or two.” He dedicated. 

Metalhawk stares back. “Fine. That is acceptable. At least we took down three Decepticons tonight.” 

“Two actually, this little guy is still clinging to his spark.” Ratchet corrects as he leans over a small, red cycle’con. The Decepticon lay still spilling red energon on the dewy grass of the forest clearing they stood in. His lower legs were a few feet away, slashed off by Gnashteeth’s jaws in battle. 

“I still function.” Utters the injured con as he rolled his belly up like a floundering fish.

“Easy there, ‘con. Hey you were the one to lead the Storm Seekers and Trackers here!” Exclaimed Ratchet, his voice both a mix of tending and repulse. 

“It is you. You were the one who led them here. Ransack is it? Where is your associate, Crumplezone?” Pries Metalhawk as they lean in over Ratchet. 

“Go easy on him, Metalhawk. His brain module is just cycles from offlining, his t-cog can’t function because his legs are a bust, and I am surprised his spark is still in it’s crystal and case.” Exclaimed Ratchet. 

“I’dn’t know the others were a following me. I wanted to get away from ‘em, Roadkill went crazy. I couldn’t convince Crumplezone to join me so I left the Trackers. I just want mercy.” Gasps Ransack, his green optics pleading. 

“If you are willing to undergo a trial back on Cybertron, we can grant you amnesty and repair you.” Prowl offers. 

“I’ll accept that Popobot.” Grunts Ransack as he grabs at his chest plate, spitting out red energon on himself. His optics flicker and his arms spasm. 

“Hold in there, ‘con.” Ratchet says as he grabs Ransack. Metalhawk comes in behind,  props the red cycle-former, and helps lift him up with Ratchet. Prowl taps at his holopad and summons their small scout ship, the Prerogative . The spacecraft decloaks itself and descends from the clouding sky above and into the forest clearing. Ratchet and Metalhawk carry Ransack’s passed out body into the ship’s bay. The medic opens up a CR chamber and puts Ransack propped up inside. “There, that and stasis lock will stabilize him until we get back to Cybertron.” Confirms Ratchet. 

“Excellent. I take it you two will be leaving now?” Asks Metalhawk as Prowl steps into the Prerogative. 

“Yes, I am afraid so. I will ensure personally that Ultra Magnus hears your request for reinforcements. Contrary to presumptions, I know why we cannot lose the Earth. In the meantime, we will take Ransack back for questioning, repairs, and perhaps a trial.” Prowl responds. 

“Alright, I will hold down here with Gnashteeth. Wherever she ran off to.” Affirms Metalhawk as the ship’s ramp closes and engines start humming up with bright light. As the Autobot vessel takes to the sky, Metalhawk collapses down their robot form into a battle suit and then further compresses into a human form before walking away. 

Chapter Text

“So, care to explain this? Dr. Hawk?” Asks Kelly, a demure woman currently hand waving around a half opened file in front of her coworker, one Dr. Marcus Hawk. Both of them personal confidants for G.B. Blackrock, CEO of Blackrock Enterprises. Kelly, his newly hired and perementally unlucky personal assistant and Dr. Hawk, his longtime Chief Scientific Advisor. 

“Just read the whole file, Kelly. It will explain it better than I can. Even better than Gale will as well.” Hawk writes off as he collapses back in his swivel chair. The man brings his hands to his face and groans as Kelly frantically flips and skims through the rest of the file. 

“Is your roommate a part of this as well? Does Mr. Blackrock know? Who is this Agent Fowler? Why am I involved?” Kelly shouts. 

“Of course I knew! Dr. Hawk has been advising my family and this company for generations. I’m proud to include you along with the goodwill his Autobots bring to Earth both as our defenders and through repurposing their technology.” Bursts G.B. Blackrock, a tall and well-tanned man compressed into a brilliant black suit, his squared off head finished by slicked hair, black mustache and sharp glasses.. 

“Agent Fowler is our government contact and representative. I do not know who they are, it changes every few decades for Gale and I. You are involved as “witness and carer”. You watch over Gale and I’s actions done in robot mode to protect the Earth from the Decepticons. We need that uniquely human perspective. In return, Blackrock Enterprises can have our disregarded technology and you get a bonus.” Hawk explains.  

“One alien’s trash is another earthling’s treasure.” Chims Blackrock. 

“I have been on Earth for 100,000 years. I consider myself an earthling.” Hawk corrects. 

“Why have you been here so long?” Asks Kelly, lifting an eyebrow.

“There have been Decepticons on Earth for a long time.” Hawk responds. 

“So, when do we get to meet your partner? This Gale Gnash Teeth person bot.” Asks Kelly as Blackrock turns down the lights and leads the trio towards the elevator. They slid down together through the slick building that dominated Sterling City. 

“Now I suppose. She says she’s on her way.” Dr. Hawk answers as they get off the elevator. He looks pensively for a moment before taping Blackrock’s shoulder. “Sir there may be some damage to your limousine. Apparently Gale thought crashing through a window would be an effective way to get into a moving vehicle.” 

“The more the merrier! Perhaps we could get better aquantiented over dinner at my mansion tonight. Hmm?” Blackrock proposes, his enthusiasm failing to be dampened. 

“Sure.” Kelly guesses with a groan. 

They stepped out onto the curbside as a pale green limousine slipped up in front of them. A chauffeur hopped out and opened the door for them. Blackrock nodded his thanks. 

One of the windows was rolled down with shattered edges poking up. Sitting in the seat closest was a muscular, sweaty woman wearing gym clothes and a short purple ponytail. “Hey losers.” She snorts. 

“Everyone, meet Gale Rucky. Otherwise known as Gnashteeth.” Announces Hawk as he gets in. Blackrock and Kelly sit across the two pretenders. 

“Is it weird being a car robot and driving in a car?” Kelly asks with a chuckle, looking to make conversation as the limo rolled onto the street. 

Gale laughs, “Neither of us turn into cars. Hawk turns into a slagging sick fighter jet. I am from Eukaris, all the bots there turn into beasts. I turn into a mechanical T.rex looking beast.”

"What's Eukaris?" Kelly asked. 

"One of Cybertron's colonies. It's a beautiful jungle planet. The people there take on beast modes instead of vehicle modes." Dr. Hawk informs. 

"Beautiful. I hope our kinds can have more positive exchanges like this in the future." Blackrock remarks with a beaming smile over such a trivial moment. 

“Of course, G.B. I like a little attention thrown my way…” Gale stops as she and Hawk stare at a procession of cars in the left lane beside them as they drive down a four lane street through the suburban downtown of Sterling City; an aggressive black and red striped lowdown sudan, a strapping red sports car closely guarded by a looming navy blue armored truck, and an ugly buggy the color of spilt oil. Hawk squints at the tinted windshields, no driver returns the harsh glance. An angular, purple badge replaces the hood emblem on each vehicle. 

Kelly looks out with a groan. "I swear red cars always follow me. I'm like cursed or something. You know, if you own a red car, your insurance goes up because red is considered an aggressive color?"

"That's why I went with mint. It's so calming." Remarks Blackrock. "But I suppose now isn't the time for small talk."

“Hawk, you want to go on them or should I?” Asks Gale, her voice sharp and serious as she unclips her seat belt. 

“No, stay in the car. They might not know it is us.” Hawk replies, eyeing the procession next to them. 

“Who are they?” Asks Kelly, annoyed.

“Trackers. They are Decepticon soldiers. They track down Autobots on the roads of populated planets and get rid of them. We need to lead them out of the city.” Hawk informs. 

“How can we lead them out of town if they don’t know that we are in the car?” Kelly asks. 

“Easy, I’ll go out and lure them away.” Gale scoffs as she goes to open the door. 

“No, we don’t need to draw attention to ourselves. Blackrock, keep us on track for your mansion. Gale act as defense should more come.” Asks Hawk. 

“Yes.” Confirms the woman, glancing at the Decepticons right outside the car. 

“Okay, I’ll get out of the car and lead the Trackers to somewhere else so we can have a standoff.” Hawk plans. 

“Good luck." Offers Blackrock while signaling to his driver to stay calm. 

"You don't want my luck. Break a leg." Kelly slumps back and huffs. 

“Agent Fowler should get in contact with you shortly. Answer any of their questions truthfully. Suit on!” Explains Hawk as he taps his wristwatch. His human shell explodes and is replaced by a mechanical suit as he grows to 8 feet tall. 

Kelly jumps back with surprise as the metal suited man gets up and situates himself in front of the door. 

The car races toward a bridge as they leave the suburbs for the mountains that surround the city. The limo changes lanes, edging the bridge railing and speeding in front the lead black and red con. 

Dr. Hawk leapt out of the car and dived to water below. 

"OH MY GOODNESS!" Screeches Kelly as Gale slams the door shut. 

Dr. Hawk dived down.. The suit gives way as a giant dark blue and gold robot. Metalhawk rockets up and transforms into a gleaming fighter jet. The autobot flies overhead of the Trackers, gleaming a red symbol on the underside of their wings. The sight of it causes the Trackers to merge off the bridge and towards the highway as Metalhawk lures them all away as the limo slinks onto a private back road towards the Blackrock estate. 

______________________________________________________________________________

Along the war torn, scorched streets of Iacon, lie a series of buildings huddled together as the Autobot Resistance’s Headquarters. Within one of these buildings, is the office of one Ultra Magnus. The mighty blue, white, and red mech suits upon his utilitarian desk, a neatly clean slab of polished metal upon which sit four polished plaques reading out his name and many titles; Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord, Supreme Commander of the Autobots,  and Overseer of the Wreckers. When going against the Decepticons, every bot had to play double duty. He reaches out to readjust the plaques and listen to a message that just sprung up before him. 

Tapping the red button on the holo-screen, Ultra Magnus listens to the message from Earth. “Hey, Mags. It’s me Gnashteeth. Sorry, Metalhawk can’t talk right now. Their distracting some Decepticreeps. Anyway, I am messaging you because we gotta renewed our deal with one of Earth’s governments and got a new contact and 'carer'. Both of us are fine. I recently got over an ACL injury from work. Props to Wheeljack for making these disguises so accurate that we get accurate human injuries that take months to heal…” Gnashteeth's message starts. Ultra Magnus’s optics glaze over as he listens to the pretender’s retelling of an injury at one of the pointless occupations she had to take while disguised on Earth. All the while he heard snickers and gasps from some other passenger in a vehicle judging by the rumble of rubber tires against the road. “Anyway, I just want to request one more time for some back up here. Talk to ya later, Gnashteeth out!” Her message concludes. 

“That is what I am trying to do.” Utters Ultra Magnus as he turns off the holo-screen and eyes the door. It slams open as Rattrap butts in. A tiny yet lanky mech drinking out of an oil can, he slowly saunters over to the seat opposite Magnus. 

“Why’d you call me, Mags?” Asks the gray and bronze cycle-bot as he sits down. He places the can on the desk, letting a few drops land on the desk. As he pulls back his arm, rust, flecks of chrome plating, and primer chips sprinkle off. “Uh, Magnus. You look like you’ll blow a gasket. Take a sip of oil. It’ll loosen those smile servos so you can take a joke.” Rattrap observes as he smirks, revealing two bucked teeth, one rusted over, the other chrome plated. 

Ultra Magnus fumes out slowly as he tightly grips the edge of his desk and looks down at Rattrap. “I have called you here because you are being reassigned to lead a new division of Autobots to Earth.” Ultra Magnus declares. 

“Oh. Cause I got prior experience there.” Realizes Rattrap as he caves in under Ultra Magnus’s knowing stare. Rattrap glances over at a meaty datapad, hard drive, and stamp, each embellished with and a part of earning one’s Autobot insignia. Not long ago, he traded the purple burned straight to his spark casing for the red stamp. 

“Yes. You will find the rest of the 54 Epsilon Division at docking bay 54. From there you will remain on Earth and take on new alternate modes that mimic vehicles made by the main terrestrial life on the planet, humans. You are to also defend the humans and planet from exploitation and destruction caused by the Decepticons. The Pretenders have identified at least two groups on the Earth. The Storm Seekers and a Tracker division…” Ultra Magnus starts before Rattrap lifts up a hand to shush the Supreme Commander. 

“Imma stop ya right there Mags. I already, sadly, know a lot of those ‘cons. No need to brief me any further. I’ll head on out. 54. Ya da, ya da, ya da.” Rattrap snarks. 

“Unicron is the Earth.” Ultra Magnus exclaims as Rattrap starts to get up. 

“What Unicorn? Unicron? Isn’t he some myth or swear? Giant monster eating planets or somethin’. I don’t know. I’ll ask your conjunx, Pyra.” Snorts Rattrap. 

“No. Unicron is real. Or at least all archaeological evidence supports that he or it existed and now forms Earth’s core. Thankfully, all the knowledge about it was stored here at Iacon and the Decepticons never copied the files on it. However, if the Decepticons were to ever find out that Unicron sleeps at the center of the Earth, they will surely use him to destroy the Earth and many other planets.” Explains Ultra Magnus as he pulls up graphs of seismic data from Earth and texts full of ancient words written in the Primal Vernacular flash across the holo-screen. 

“Huh. They never told me that. Does anyone else on my team know?” Asks Rattrap. 

“One member of your division is an archivist and historian. He knows but unless it is imperative to the integrity of your mission, you both are not to discuss or reveal this information in the company of the rest of your division.” Informs Magnus. 

“Kay.” Accepts Rattrap as he slurps down the last bit of his oil. He lazily throws the can away to the pristine floor and looks at Ultra Magnus. “Anything else, chief?” 

“No! You are dismissed, Rattrap.” Replies Ultra Magnus as Rattrap gives a brief salute and leaves his office. “Thankfully.” Magnus whispers. 

Rattrap enters the hallway and transforms into a rusty, half-track chopper looking thing. He bolts down the hallway and ducks around other bots as they meander about. The cycle exits the building and merges on a one-way street heading towards the Central Spaceport. He weaved around the larger truck and car formers and under any hovers. 

Out of the brilliant blue sky that slowly fades to a polluted yellow horizon, a giant structure towers above. Partially broken with hasty attached scaffolding ringing the tower, a doming sprawl of hangers and runways dominate the top third of the spaceport. Rattrap reaches the entrance and turns back into robot mode. He struts in and heads toward the reception desk past other bots on route to reassignment or as reinforcements. “Hey Cyberwarp. Ya know where docking bay 54 is?” Rattrap asks a stern looking teal receptionist. 

“54th floor. It’s below the main top port.” Cyberwarp reports, glaring down at the sneezy bot. 

“Thanks.” Rattrap says, then gives a cat call. He walks over towards a crowd around one of the many elevators. 

“Due to recent actions, the Left Beam elevator is now not functional. Please take the stares.” Announce Cyberwarp through the intercom. 

“Fine.” Growls Rattrap as he walks up the spiraling staircase all the way up to the 54 floor. Upon reaching the top, he grips down on the scaffolding as he looks down at the wartorn cityscape of Iacon. Wind whips at his plating. He clamps a hand over the silver gribbled plate loosely covering his otherwise exposed brain module. A rickety ramp braves out against the buffeting breeze and careless jetformers dashing by. 

“Hey.” Calls out a voice. Rattrap looks away from the edge and sees four other bots; a tiny tangerine cycle-bot, a lean magenta and orange mech with a flashy yellow spoiler on his back, a deathly thin black bot with a snake-like face and stance that unnerves Rattrap, and a tall, blue helicopter bot with one wicked yellow optic remaining on her scarred face. He eyes the stasis cuffs around her talon like hands. “I’m Hot Rod,” Introduces the magenta mech who Rattrap thinks must be some kinda racer type. “That’s Joyride,” he points at the other cycle-bot, she smiles happily. “This is Night Viper.” He flashes a look at the stealthy femme who shifts into a mechanical, dark cobra. “She’s from Eukaris. And that’s Whirl.” Hot Rod finishes as he glances respectfully to the looming bot. 

“Nice to meet ya guys.” Says Rattrap as he leans against the wall. “Do ya know when the other two will come?” 

“No. I came here first. I am really excited. First assignment of mine. I just graduated from the Iacon Autobot Academy!” Replies Joyride cheerfully, the two prongs on the side of her face spring up with excitement. 

“Okay. What’s the rest of yours story?” Asks Rattrap, looking to make small talk. 

“This is also my first assignment. I am from Eukaris. It is weird seeing so many buildings and cars everywhere. I am used to the jungles and beasts of my homeworld.” Night Viper recounts as she slithers over a sticking out steel rod to watch the bustling city below.

“You know there are trees on Earth right? Anyway, I have been stationed in the Sol system before. In the asteroid field. I was mostly meteor surfing. And doing daring tricks.” Hot Rod explains with a cocksure grin on his face and a gleam in his cyan optics. 

“I was a wrecker for three million years ‘til I got a bit too reckless for them. Still, wreck and rule!” Shouts Whirl. She punches her claws together, breaking the stasis cuffs. 

Rattrap goes to speak about himself when he jolts back from the runway as a white shuttlecraft with a bulky teal and red crawler transport on the underside sweeps closer. The shuttle spreads its wings in a magnificent flourish of teal steel feathers. A long plated neck and fanged, grinning maw erupt out of the cockpit. Four strong, clawed limbs fold out of the shuttle’s undercarriage as a whip-like tail lashes out from the back stabilizers. “Hello 54th Epsilon Division. Tis’ I, Sky Lynx of Devisiun. I shall happily take you all to the third planet of the Sol System. Now, is this everyone?” Inquires the bestial shuttle. 

“Ugh, no. We’re still waiting on one last bot. Unless any of ya are a historian.” Explains Rattrap as he looks around at the others. 

“I am not a nerd.” Dismisses Hot Rod.

“I did like my history classes at the Academy.” Pipes up Joyride. 

“I’ve probably destroyed more ruins and things of historical significance to get death wishes from many historians.” Whirl admits. 

Night Viper remains silent. 

“Okay, let's wait a bit longer.” Rattrap decides. 

______________________________________________________________________________

Elita One waits impatiently just outside of Kaon. She looks over the rusty plain of metal, the stretches to the scattering of warehouses, bunkers, and fortresses that make up the Decepticon Capitol. Smoky gray skies crisscrossed with Seeker chemtrails are pierced by Darkmount. A five mile high spiky structure which served as the dwelling for Cybertron’s own Emperor of Destruction. Or his secretary, whoever was in control this solar cycle. “Come on Orion. You ain’t got all day.” She whispers under her breath as she grips her laser rifle tightly. 

She looks up as a procession of tetrajets fly overhead. Bringing the rifle’s scope close to her optics, the purple-pink femme fires at a silver and black jet. The laser fire hit’s their wing triggering a mid-air transformation. The seeker falls to the ground and looks around for whoever shot at them, Elita One scoots around the pile of scrap to stay out of sight from the downed seeker. All the while she flashes back a look across the rusty meadow and spies the outline of a truck kicking up dust. The seeker also sees the approaching red and blue pickup. The black decepticon dashes up to the truck. Elita One stands up and walks away from the scrap pile. She raises up her rifle and takes another shot at the seeker, striking in between their wings. The autobot transforms into a strike bomber and rushes over toward the truck. 

“Need a lift?” She asks as the truck transforms into a tall, lanky mech with a crooked antenna on either side of his face. 

“Yeah, that would be nice.” Accepts Orion Pax as he grabs a hold of Elita’s wings. She rolls through the air and tosses Orion onto her back. 

“Did you get the files?” Elita asks.

“Yes.” Orion confirms as he flattens himself along Elita’s back. He felt around his internal compartments to make sure the Decepticon data was still there. 

“Good work.” Elita replies before hitting her engines into maximum burn. Shortly, Orion sees Iacon’s ruined cityscape against the starless sky, blocked out by debris and faulty shielding. Elita passes through the security measures and flies low through Iacon, hugging against the one-way streets until she reaches the Central Spaceport. “54th docking bay?” She asks.

“Yes.” Affirms Orion as Elita takes a steep, near vertical blast up the side of the tower. Orion scans around and sees a group of five other bots along with a beaming white beast standing on a crummy little side runway. Elita flies over to them and transforms, shaking Orion off. The truck-former takes out the hard drive and hands it to her before exchanging a few words of farewell. 

“Guess you, the historian?” Asks a scratchy voice.
Orion turns around and sees it came from a tiny, dirty bot standing in front of a few others. 

“Yes, I’m Orion Pax. I was a data archivist from Iacon’s Hall of Records. Apprenticed to Alpha Trion. Also do some espionage and data encryption on the side… and I guess I founded this whole Autobot movement.” Introduces Orion with a sheepish shrug of his smokestack shoulders. 

“You are the reason we are even fighting!” Cheers Whirl, throwing up a clawed fist in the air. 

“I heard all about you in my classes!” Exclaims Joyride, looking up to him with admiration. 

“Your messages have spread far, inspiring me all the way back on Eukaris.” Night Viper acknowledges with a respectful node.

“Can we please put the attention back on me? Now that every bot is here, we can depart for Earth.” Moans Sky Lynx as he transforms back into a shuttle and opens his cargo bay. 

“The bird cat’s right. Get inside.” Orders Rattrap as he heads in first. “Next stop, Earth." 

Chapter Text

Cascade Mountains, WA

         Somehow, they always ended up back in the forest. Towering pines and cedars block out the skies so upward onlookers can not pry in on them. The sprawling forest shields the sounds of mechanical mayhem and robotic battle cries from the ears of any astonished on hearers. But now all is silent. Metalhawk locks their optics upon Roadkill, a rangy black con with red highlights along his spiky features and antlered helm. Beside the Decepticon stand three other trackers. A red and silver mech impishly smiles up at Metalhawk while his companion looms over with his hands transformed into a hefty hammer and ax. Knockout and Breakdown, mad medic and his paranoid piece of work of a conjunx backing him up all the way. A slender, dark cycle-con roaches low to the ground, a flaming red bolt of energy primed on her bow. Flamewar’s stern glower gleams up with a sadistic smirk. They all remain still. Metalhawk stands still as well, their arms raised as two missiles point for Roadkill’s bumper chest. They all have long since expired any battle cries and quips. Just the stand off. Metalhawk feels the faint residual spark energy and spies a slight outcrop of metallic fingers poking above the ground from battles of long since past. They always end back up in the forest.
         “Only you.” Whispers Roadkill.
         “What?” Responds Metalhawk, letting his arms down.
         “Only you came. Only you care.” Roadkill continues, a laughing rumble piping up his exhaust and vents.
         “Gnashteeth and I proudly defend this planet from the likes of you together. Now leave.” Metalhawk threatens as they trade out missiles for a pair of golden shortswords.
         “Then where is she?” Flamewar spats with disgust.
         “Elsewhere.” Metalhawk answers briefly, ignoring the femme’s taunts.
         “See, she couldn’t be bothered.” Scoffs Knock-Out, tilting his head away.
         “Figures, she’s more beast than bot. The human skin fits her.” Breakdown follows up.
         “Why talk, Roadkill?” Metalhawk integrates, walking closer and bringing a sword point close to the lead tracker.
          Roadkill remains unimpressed and signals for the others to back away. “Because only you are deluded enough to not give up. The Autobot High Command doesn’t care enough to send you reinforcements. Whenever I need more Trackers, Shadow Striker just gives me them. Anytime a Seeker develops a quirk, they get sent down to the Storm Seekers here. I am only here because of your stubborn resistance to this dirtball. Gnashteeth seems not to care enough to come down here and busts herself up with boring human jobs. How disappointing.” Roadkill explains with a grin.
         Metalhawk lunges their sword down towards Roadkill’s spark chamber. The blade slices through the hood and bumper but the decepticon remains unfazed with a wicked smile crackling along his face. Flamewar blasts an energy bolt at the Autobots wings. Metalhawk staggers back against the pain as Knockout whips around beside them, transforming a slender red, clawed hand into a narrow scalpel. The red mech drove the scalpel into Metalhawk’s back, peeling away metal and cutting wires with glee. Breakdown hammers down on the pretender’s left arm, pulling and slamming it all the while. Flamewar struts around the autobot, her bow and arrows pointing up at their quivering face to strike if they even flinches.
         “It has been too long since we’ve dismantled an Autobot. The earthlings we run over can only sustain us for so long. Now how should we do this?” Purrs Roadkill as he pulls the shortsword from his chest. The golden blade drips with purple energon. Roadkill grasps the end in his hands and cleaves the blade in half. Taking the sharp point and disposing of the handle, Roadkill brings Metalhawk's own blade dangerously close to their cyan optics.
        “Let’s make this quick.” Grumbles Breakdown.
        “No, draw it out. Make 'em scream.” Shrills Flamewar.
        “We can force them into their shell and flay off the human skin. I have already identified the wires and neural relays necessary to make this happen.” Declares Knock Out.
        “No… too messy.” Growls Roadkill. “I get that thrill every time we slaughter one of Earth’s creatures. No, I want metal. Crushed in sheets with dents. Energon seeping through cracks. Oil leaking out of joints. The throb of your pulsating spark.”
        “You are going to let them go.” Calls out a voice from above.
        “What..” Gasps Roadkill as mighty claws press down on his shoulders, bringing the Lead Tracker to his knees. A white serpentine face bearing a toothy grin looms overhead as the Autobot shuttle, Sky Lynx, flourishes his wings. Around them all, more autobots emerged from the forest, weapons pointed at the ‘cons torturing one of their own.
        “You heard my magnificent, silky voice. Now release this poor Autobot fellow or my luscious passengers will spill your energon in three nanocycles.” Threatens Sky Lynx.
Metalhawk looks around as the Decepticons loosen their grip. They spy a few bots they recognizes; Hot Rod who they recall from when the daring bot was stationed with Deep Blue’s group elsewhere in the Solar System, Whirl the infamous ex-wrecker, Sky Lynx the vein shuttlecraft, and Orion Pax, founder of the Autobot Cause, his signature ion cannon pointing meekly at Breakdown. A few others he didn’t know joined in, a small orange cycle-bot with her best serious face, a skinny black Eukarian with twin glowing sickles pointed at Flamewar, and lastly a rusted up bot with bucked teeth.
        “Fine. We yield. But my Trackers still outnumber all of you and we’ll run you off the street!” Cries out Roadkill as he backs away from Metalhawk. He transforms down to his car mode and drives off, the other Trackers following along with their leader in retreat.
       “Decepticons, always retreatin.” Muses the short rusty bot.
Metalhawk staggers back. They look around at the new Autobots and nod in appreciation. “Thank you. I am blessed that Ultra Magnus hasn’t forgotten about us. Please introduce yourselves.”
       “Imma Rattrap. Leader of the 54th Epsilon Division to help youse in turnin the cons to slag and scrap.” Announces the bronze and gray bot, a mischievous look in his red optics. Metalhawk raises an eyebrow.
       “Whirl. Former Wrecker. Sorry but uh Springer had to dump me on you.” Says the one-eyed helicopter sheepishly.
       “I am Joyride! Super excited to meet you, Metalhawk!” Greets the tiny orange femme. She extends a hand which Metalhawk takes to give a grateful shake.
       “We met a few stellar cycles back. Good to be back in the Solar System.” Acknowledges Hot Rod as he leans against a tree carelessly.
       The dark serpentine femme eyes Metalhawk before converting into her snake mode. She slithers around, eyeing him directly with her cold amber gaze. Metalhawk remains still and calm, remembering a familiar response from Gnashteeth when they met all those stellar cycles ago. Eventually, the snake falls away and turns back into a bot. “I am Night Viper and I will exchange trust with you.” She whispers.
       “Ugh, can I leave this planet? The trees clip my wings and tail and the ground is making my claws dirty!” Groans Sky Lynx.
       “Nah, sadly we’re stuck with you Bird Cat.” Rattrap snorts as he points up at the shuttle.
       “Fine. I am Sky Lynx of Devisiun. Happy to make your acquaintance, Metalhawk of Archon.” Sky Lynx properly addresses.
       “My pleasure. And a pleasure to meet you all. Mostly Orion Pax. Your Autonomous Robotic Edict changed my life When I first read it all those stellar cycles ago…” Metalhawk trails off as they see the red and blue mech start blushing through his silver plated face.
       “I get that alot. I just want to be of good use here.” Orion tries to dismiss.
       “Understood.” Accepts Metalhawk as they back away from the Autobot founder.
       “So do ya gotta base of operations or what?” Asks Rattrap.
       “Both Gnashteeth and I rent out an apartment in our human alter egos. We are currently in a transfer between contracts with one of Earth’s governments so we do not have a place we can call a Head Quarters however I do know a place you could lodge. But firstly, have each of you acquired an Earth alt mode?” Asks Metalhawk, looking around.
       “I still kept mine from my previous mission here.” Scoffs Hot Rod.
       “Whirl and I took on new forms as soon as we entered the atmosphere. I took some liberties based on this image.” Sky Lynx replies, making a holo-screen appear before him with a Boeing 747 carrying a Space Shuttle.
       “I hear a highway not too far away, mind if Orange Julius, OP, and I take a look and do a transcan?” Asks Rattrap.
       “Go ahead.” Metalhawk accepts, arching an eyebrow at the cycle-bot’s excessive use of nicknames, wondering what he will brand the pretender with. The autobots follow Rattrap in the direction of the highway. Metalhawk felt optics on themself and looked down to see Night Viper looking at them and feeling a calm acceptance. “I know you will not change your beast mode.”
      “True. However, know that I will not let any being see me unless I wish to be seen.” Night Viper promises.
      “Did you do something between us? Some sort of mental link?” Asks Metalhawk, pointing from their head to hers.
      “Sadly yes. I have mild telepathic abilities. Back on Eukaris, I was a spy for the leaders of my tribe, the Scale Walkers. I hated what I did to others and so left to become a Fateweaver to help others. Other Fateweavers use their abilities to read someone’s personality and guess what choices they will make to help them predict the future. The bond is quickly broken normally but with me… I cannot control it and it will last until you are offlined.” Confesses the dark femme quietly, out of earshot for Whirl and Sky Lynx.
      “Intriguing. So you will read my emotions and not my thoughts?” Metalhawk asks.
      “Yes. You will also only hear the truth from me and I will hear the truth from you. I may know you better than you know yourself.” Night Viper confirms.
Before they continue, Metalhawk turns to see the others return. Rattrap as a rat chopper, Joyride as a bright orange dirt bike, and Orion Pax as a red 90s pick up truck with a blue bed.
      “Now where to?” Asks Rattrap.
      “I’ll give you all the coordinates but first…” Metalhawk pauses as they shrinks down to his human form. “Can you two generate holo matter avatars?” He points at Rattrap and Joyride.
      The two cycle-bots nod. “I haven’t had time to accessorize.” Whimpers Joyride, flashing out a generic humanoid form before her.
      “Tough luck kid. Race ya suckers!” Shouts Whirl as she turns into an attack helicopter and blasts through the canopy skyward.
      “Wait! They have not told us where we shall be lodging!” Cries out Sky Lynx as he compresses into what can only be called as the gaudy and flamboyant child of a jumbo jet and a space shuttle and takes to the air.
      “And there they go. Anyway, we will be going to Blackrock Mansion, a friend of mine’s house. He should have a large enough garage and will be delighted to meet you. He lives on 1000 Blackrock Way, in Sterling City, Washington State. Now, would anyone mind driving me there?” Explains the pretender, now known as Dr. Marcus Hawk.
      “Fly yourself there.” Dismisses Hot Rod.
      “Nah. Imma ya equal on this mission. I don't get to ride ya around places.” Rattrap retorts.
      “Sorry.” Joyride shakes her head.
       Hawk already feels rejection waving off Night Viper as she converts to her snake form and scans the forest for a quick route.
      “I will.” Orion Pax decides. They all transform into their new Earth modes and drive in the direction of the highway. Marcus Hawk looked up at the darkening sky and around for any more Trackers. Their trip goes smoothly as they come across a gray, modern manor standing out among the mountain outcrops and dense pine forest.
Going up to the door, Hawk signals for the rest of the Autobots to remain disguised. He huffs out a sigh of relief and knocks.
       “You made it.” Greets Blackrock as he comes up to the door. “The rest of the drive went peacefully. Dinner will be served soon."
       “Excellent. May I ask a favor of you? Recent development has occurred.” Affirms Hawk as the other Autobots transform behind him.
       A small smile appears beneath the businessman's mustache. “Anything for your friends. I’m glad they have finally came here.”
Kelly's Apartment, Sterling City
       Later that night in a single bedroom apartment in Sterling City, Kelly keels over on her couch from the “exciting” day she had. Or insane, maddening, bonkers, random day she just experienced. Curling up in sweat pants and an oversized Rear Axle t-shirt, a bowl of popcorn in hand, she turned on the TV to watch a movie. While scrolling through options, her phone rings with a strange number across the screen. Swiping left, she turns on the speaker phone.
      “Who is…” She starts as a garbled voice patches through.
      “You are Kelly, personal assistant to G.B. Blackrock.” The speaker confirms.
      “Yes? Who are you?” Kelly asks suspiciously.
      “Agent Fowler. Have you read the packet?” Answer the voice.
      “Yeah. You’re our government contact. What do you want?” Asks Kelly as she tosses some popcorn into her mouth.
      “You will give me regular reports. What can you report today?” Explains Fowler.
       “Got the packet. It got crazy. Some deception bots…” Iris reports.
       “Decepticons.” Fowler corrects.
       “Bad guys showed up and stalked us for a bit. Hawk went all metamorphic and turned into a jet. I think he...they fought with the other cars for a bit and…ahhh!” Kelly screams and trails off to look out her window. Two bizarre aircraft chasing each other, a blue attack helicopter, and a gigantic space shuttle thing. Each barring a red emblem Kelly had seen earlier in the day; glimmering on Metalhawk’s wings.
       “And?” Fowler presses.
       “More. More of the good ones came.” Kelly exclaims.

Chapter Text

There are perks to being a smaller bot; no need to be guzzling energon to maintain a giant frame, sneaking around, and fitting in among the small beings. Hence, Rattrap is able to comfortably stand in Mansion’s, while visible vast still short for most Cybertronians, garage. Immaculately clean and filled with several luxury vehicles; a vintage red convertible, two custom cars with dazzling paint jobs, a top of a line sports car. Three other Autobots could fit into the garage. Joyride walks around gawking at all the vehicles up on display. The garage felt more like a museum than a storage space. Orion Pax and Hot Rod remain in robot mode but awkwardly sitting and crouched together, eying each other with indifference as the human G.B. Blackrock converses with Dr. Marcus Hawk, alias of the pretender, Metalhawk. Sky Lynx sits on Whirl in the driveway, the ridiculous sight shielded away by the imposing trees wrapping around the property. 

Rattrap doesn’t bother eavesdropping on G.B. and Hawk’s conversation, just getting a knack from the human’s broad grins whenever he chances a glance at a Cybertronian like a protoform looking at paint jobs. As the night sky finally darkens to a deep black, Rattrap strolls up to the businessman and pretender. “So we gotta place to stay on this Marble?” Asks the cycle-bot. 

“Indeed we do. Mr. Blackrock will allow for you all to stay in his garage until a hanger can be constructed in a remote area.'' announces Dr. Hawk to cheers from the Autobots. 

“Yes, I will call a contractor in the morning.”  Blackrock exclaims. “I’m afraid I have to turn in. Please do not make too much of a racket. Dr. Hawk, feel free to stay the night, there are plenty of guest rooms.” With that, the businessman left the garage and retired to his quarters. 

“Take care. I think I might turn in soon. Anything you all…” Dr. Hawk stops as Whirl starts huffing in the driveway. 

“Get off me you arrogant Slag Lynx!” Shouts Whirl from underneath the shuttle. Sky Lynx presses his gleaming claws down harder as Whirl shifts into a helicopter and runs up her rotor blades, throwing off the white beast. She takes to the skies and springs out missiles and machine guns from the sides of her fuselage, all aimed at Sky Lynx. 

Rattrap lunges between the two opposing Autobots and whips out two hand grenades. “You two blast each other to slag and I’ll do the same to all of us!” He screams. 

“I don’t care!” Screeches Whirl. 

“No! You both will not destroy my gloriousness! I would be gone too soon!” Sky Lynx bemoans as he brings up his wings and claws to his face. 

Marcus takes a step forward and quickly transforms. “Stay back Metalhawk, they’re my bots, I’ll deal with ‘em.” Rattrap snaps back as he puts the grenades away and pulls out a fusion pistol and alternates from pointing at Whirl and Sky Lynx. 

“Fine, they are your division.” Metalhawk admits as they stand back. 

Rattrap flips his focus on Whirl as Night Viper leaps onto the helicopter, she coiled her serpentine body around the ex-wrecker, weighing her down and stopping her lightning quick rotters in their place. Together they fell down to the ground. Whirl transforms and staggers onto her digitigrade feet, glaring and snarling at the Eukarian. “You glitch!” Whirl curses as she grabs Night Viper close to her fanged head. 

“Let her go Whirl.” Commands Rattrap, aiming the pistol up at her remaining yellow eye. 

“Ugh.” Whirl groans as she drops Night Viper. “So I gotta get into the garage?” 

“Metalhawk, ya know of a space big enough for Whirlibird and birdcat?” Rattrap asks, eyeing the two flyers.  

“No. Atleast nowhere we have clearance for per Earth’s authorities.” Metalhawk dismisses. 

“Forget it! I’ll go find some cave to spend the night in!” Shouts Whirl as she turns into a helicopter, whips around, and flies off into the night. 

“I am not getting her again. I can tolerate a few deca-cycles recharging under the stars. Moonlight does wonders to the metal.” Laments Sky Lynx as he lies down underneath a cluster of giant trees. 

“I know that they are your bots but…” Metalhawk goes to offer. 

“Save your words, tin man. I’ll go after her. Joyride, Roddy, Pax? Any of you guys want to tag along?” Asks Rattrap pointing at the Autobots watching on. 

“I need to bring in and start converting some Earth tech into Cybertronian. Also, Metalhawk, could you gather any preexisting archives from your mission already?” Asks Orion Pax as he staggers out of the garage. 

“Where to begin? Do you want the condensed files or every mission report?” Asks Metalhawk. 

“Nerds. All of you. I'm with Sky Lynx. Need to get some shut optic.” Retorts Hot Rod as he transforms into a luxury sports car with a gaudy spoiler on the back, parks on the far end of the garage, and brings a door down before him. 

“I might just stay here with Orion and Hawk to help set up everything.” Joyride pipes up, eyeing the historian and pretender. 

“I will go.” Whispers Night Viper as she slithers over to Rattrap, still in beast mode. “Before I joined the Autobots, I hunted Eukaris in darkness. You will need my skill.” 

Just when Rattrap is about to, a maroon sports car rolls up. Rattrap senses a spark and Autobot Id beneath the lifeless Earth vehicle. The car parks. A tall, muscular woman glares up at the Autobots in recognition. “Sup newbies.” Greets Gale.

The pretender finally settles her gaze sharply upon Night Viper. The snake matching her. In a flash like lightning, she blasts out of her human shell and into her true beast mode. Everyone backs up as a large mechanical tyrannosaur steadies herself before the dark serpent. Their fellow Autobots remain quiet as the beast bots beckon each other on. Reptilian eyes look upon each other as they begin a slow, circling slither and step in ritual recognition. Mechanical coos and gentle hiss rumble through the air as the robotic saurians draw close and apart. Finally the two Eukarian femmes part and return to humanoid form. The pretender’s robot mode matched her human shell, a broad, powerful bot with gleaming, purple and black armor and one hand taken up by the boxy helm of her beast mode, a fusion cannon in place of a tongue behind a jail of steel teeth. Rattrap squirms in his substructure as she flashes him a savage smirk. “I’ll join the hunt.” She growls. 

______________________________________________________________________________

Whirl clung low to the canopy, not wanting to be sensed by any rudimentary human radar or lose her way as her sensors acclimated to Earth’s conditions. It would take a few solar cycles for her t-cog and substructure to fully cling to the surface level human disguise and even longer to understand the human limitations and faults of her alternate mode’s design. Still, in an effort to subscribe to human understanding, Whirl bothers to tilt her rotors forward and let her weaponry recede into her fuselage as she accelerates faster. Meaty down blasts rattle the spindly trees reflecting Whirl’s rattled mind. She couldn’t quite say why it was so rattled. 

The Cybertronian consciousness is far less  centralized than that of most Earthlings. Thought is scattered between; the spark’s desires and dreams, the encodings of the personality component whether by experiences, emotions or forced on by a shell program, the analysis of the brain module from one’s own sensors, the various onboard computers and processors that automated systems like transformation scheme, weapons targeting, or energon metabolizing, and the datatrax which logged anything and everything yet was not immune to tampering, whether due to a glitch or very deliberate. Parts could go offline, for repair (or due to disrepair) or to recharge when one did not have the time for a full system reboot. The effect could lead to daydream-like state as Whirl experienced now. Her higher level brain module and personality components shut down, leaving her spark pulsating with rage and reactionary processors keeping her in a locked on flight path. 

Early passions and propositions shattered like glass off a skyscraper and into the void of carnage. The legacy of an Autobot who craved destruction so much it made her too rough for the Wreckers. An angel of death. A one eyed femme more fatal then a Phase Sixer. Perhaps she needs to maintain her gruesome gusto. Maybe she was always a trouble maker. She’d rather saw off the needle-lined digits of any mnemosurgeon who dared probe into her datatrax and merely scratch the surface of demolition and butchery brought on by the ex-wrecker.

Whirl recalls the dream of a memory; she forced one needle through the scarred, missing optic and into her partially exposed brain module. Never did she choose the five back ports beneath the plating on the nape of her neck. Always through her missing optic. She saw a tiny white and black mech quivering as his conjunx, the mnemosurgeon had his arm yanked savagely forward into the realm of editing memories. 

Like a photoshopped photograph, Whirl views the glorious memory. Her lithe form drifts above a battlefield of bodies. The sparkless shells of her fallen comrades are outnumbered by the thousands of Decepticon carcasses. They spiral from nameless genericons, vehicons, and seekers through actual ‘cons Whirl bothers to remember that she offlined, and lastly still living titans such as Shadow Striker, Bludgeon, and Overlord. Whirl hovers over the body of a nameless Decepticon. One knee is drawn up while the other leg trails above the mad scientist’s dull cycloptic face. Her rotor blades arch out like tattered wings and her clawed right hand remains rested on her hip. Her left hand is lifted to her face so her remaining optic can observe the ultimate trophy. What lies in her hand changes like a recurring dream; sometimes the bucket headed helm of Megatron, whichever Wrecker she got into a tussle with earlier. Now, perched on her claws is a tiny Sky Lynx, only half of him though. The avian half while the “lynx” part is elsewhere. His white head is fixed upon her with his wings outstretched and tail twining down her forearm. The final detail worth mentioning is the dripping trail of purple-pink energon sourced at her missing optic. In this fake battle, she lost it to a sword slash from some Decepticon who now remains dead but in fact, she lost her optic long before she joined Wreckers. 

Among the Wrecker rumors' is what caused Whirl to lose her optic? Some say a nameless Decepticon gutted it out of her. Others, she was a gladiator and lost it in the Pits. Or it is an embarrassing story. Self-inflicted maybe? Whirl lets the truth elude her though it remains intact deep within her datatrax, unaffected by mnemosurgeon tampering. 

Four million years ago in the wealthy Cybertronian city of Polyhex stood a watch shop procured and managed by a careful femme by the designation of Whirl. With two alert, bright optics, and delicate fingers she would fashion up custom watches for the aristocrats of Cybertron’s Gilded Age. Her work could be found on the wrists of the Elite or she would repair the internal, circadian mechanisms within bots with skill and care becoming of the best medics. Alternatively, she sold hand-made alarm, analog, grandfather, cookoo, whatever clock you could imagine, she made it. 

Atleast, until the Seige of Polyhex. Brewing from the rusted, rundown city of Kaon but quickly spreading throughout Cybertron was a movement led by one’s definition of peace maintained through his tyranny. As an affiliate with the upper class, Whirl’s shop was raided. The careful gears that clicked pristinely grinded to a halt in every clock and in her mind. Her precise hands were butchered and replaced with crude claws. One optic was sliced away by the blade wielded by a ‘con high on circuit boosters. 

Whirl was left in the ruins of her shop and fled Cybertron once she regained consciousness. Fueled at first by vengeance and then a genuine zest for energonlust, she entered the ranks of the Wreckers, then a mercenary countermovement against the Decepticons who later aligned with the Autobots shortly after. 

She booted up her higher-level processing and pulled away from the dream. Whirl springs up further in the air and slows down her rotors, trying to quiet down as she happens upon a suspicious sight in the middle of the forest. A dirt road wiggles through the dense trees and steep hills, ending at a complex of rundown buildings, tents, and an abandoned gas stationed. From the air the compound takes an arrow shape all too familiar to the war-hardened Autobot; the Decepticon insignia. Whirl extends out her sensors and sees at least three decepticreeps down below. 

She scans around, making sure no Autobots are below or that Metalhawk or Sky Lynx won’t greet her in the sky. A small Tracker outpost ripe for the reckoning. Just how she liked to spend a night. 

Whirl shuts down her rotors and transforms as she free falls. She withdraws twin rotor blade swords and whispers, “Wreck and rule.”

______________________________________________________________________________

Rattrap silently walks behind Night Viper and the pretender, Gnashteeth. The two Eukarians stalk in beast mode before him as he looks up at the sky, wearing a face shield. A heads up display inside marks out Whirl’s energon trails. Night Viper and Gnashteeth follow along using their olfactory sense; the tyrannosaur sniffing the air every few astro-minutes, and the snake flicking out her forked tongue. 

What am I gonna do to her? Groans Rattrap. As leader he has to maintain discipline within his division. It was what slaggin Ultra Magnus commanded him to do! He also had Orion Pax, founder of the Autobots under him, he could at least try to be upstanding. But a quick look at Whirl’s Autopedia entry and it was evident she probably had broken every facet of the Tyrest Accord and Autobot Code. She had hundreds of infractions going back millions of stellar cycles when she was among the Wreckers, a group famous for saying frag it to the rules. Not that I am that moral either. 

Rattrap pulls up the face shield to catch a totally tasteful observation of his femme co-hunters. Night Viper despite being somewhat equally new to Earth as him took to the planet like a natural. Her serpentine form sneaking in and out of the shadows. Beneath her thin robot form was a powerful strength. The way how she grinded Whirl to a halt midair. Even in beast mode, the allure remained. Still, she seems closed off or bonded elsewhere. To her homeworld of Eukaris perhaps or to fellow beast femme, Gnashteeth? Their recognition ritual did seem oddly intimate. A rat coiled up with a snake. What a thought.

On to Gnashteeth… Pure terror grips Rattrap’s spark as he catches a flash of light reflecting off her massive jaws as she passes under a glint of moonlight. The ragged slice through steel, circuit, and substructure. Phantom pains on his lower legs… A blood red reptilian eye looks over her shoulder and back at Rattrap. 

His teeth rattle, nervously he flips down the face shield, quickened his pace, and hefts up his previously slack fusion rifle. As soon as she looks away, the face shield goes up again. 

Ignoring his initial averision towards the femme, he resumes his licentious observations... Hefty hydraulics power underneath thin foil upon her limber legs. Plating and purple scales lift up and down to let out vents of sparky air. Tangible heat peters off her body or maybe it was blush rising in Rattrap. Her predatory outline stands out attractively in the dim light that reached the forest floor. Her tail tapers out cleanly with spikes tipping the end. She holds herself with a knowing showmanship, freezing to sniff the air in just the right lighting and posturing herself with claws grazing grass. Still, she was a pretender, all that prowess still present in the flesh. Besides she had an entirely separate alternate identity tied up with humans. It would be a relationship not meant to be. That and the respectful terror he granted her. 

There are other femmes and some fine lookin mechs among us. When we find Whirl… nah, she won’t let me get a glimpse before I can imagine something good. That’s what the less virtuous holo-chips are for! Rattrap resolves as he formally commits to finding Whirl. 

Suddenly remorseful fear grabs at the cycle-bot as his sensors pick up on decepticon signals up ahead. A low rumbling echoes through the woods. Gnashteeth’s eyes widen. “Trackers. We are close to an outpost.” She snarls. 

“Yeah, I can see Whirl’s energon trail go over there. She’s crazy! Not lettin’ us know or callin’ for reinforcements or turning back!” Panics Rattrap. 

“I knew this was here and I have had to fight Decepticons alone for stellar cycles! If anything, I find it admirable for Whirl to rush in.” Gnashteeth retorts. 

“Ssshee ssstill needsss our help.” Night Viper hisses. 

“Right. Autobots, roll out!” Rallies Rattrap as he transforms into his chopper alternate mode. He easily rides ahead of the femmes. Gnashteeth sprints after with Night Viper sidewinding behind. 

The forest opens up with ancient trunks and tire tracks marking the grimy ground. The remains of a gutted town form the basis with cannibalized scout ships and tents connecting them, shielding the Tracker dwelling from aerial view. Shots of yellow and orange shatter through the building and trees, revealing Whirl’s tall outline as she strikes down two swords into the chest of a large, rotund green con. Other Tracker’s burst out of the explosions. A purple and yellow 50’s subcompact and an ugly offroading buggy race past Rattrap as he bolts into the compound. He hears a crash behind him as Gnashteeth whips her tail into the purple car, shattering the con’s windshield. 

“Gnashteeth! Night Viper! We gotta get to Whirl, not kill cons!” Rattrap orders over the sound of burning rubber and gunfire. 

The Eukarian snake nods as she goes into robot mode and slinks through the carnage and closer to Whirl. The ex-wrecker notices the approaching Eukarian. “Why are you here, snake?” Whirl grills. 

“You need to ssstop. Now issss not the time to dessstroy our enemies.” Night Viper reasons. 

“You can’t hold me back like before!” Shouts Whirl as she raises up a sword dripping with the energon of the massive green mech beneath her. 

“Whirl! We don’t attack our fellow Autobots! Keep it up like this and you’ll end up in prison, again.” Warns Rattrap as he rushes up to her and stands in front of Night Viper. His red optics flash over at the green ‘con. 

"Oh please! I can do prison escape.” Shrills Whirl. 

“Fine. What’s wrong Whirl?” Rattrap asks earnestly. The two Eukarians look at each other surprised. 

“Sky Lynx. That shiny slate of slag is so fragging annoying!” Growls Whirl.

“Yeah, yeah, he’s a pain in the tailpipe for us all. But he ain’t worth nearly killing Crumplezone over. So get off the big lug or els…” Rattrap pauses. “Before Roadkill comes!”

“The boss ain’t here, Autoboobs!” Mocks the lumbering mech as Whirl pulls the other sword out of his chest.

“Fine. But I will be back.” Whirl says with a scowl. Together the Autobots walk away from the Tracker compound and roll out. 

I’d be glad to never see this place again. Rattrap thinks, giving a forlorn final glance to Crumplezone as the mech gets to his clunky feet before riding into the night. 

______________________________________________________________________________

The sun steadily began to rise as Whirl touched down in a clearing a few hundred meters away from the mansion. She strode through the forest and then stood still. The trees, while organic in nature, managed to peirce the sky and tower far above her. A faint rim of yellow invades the deep blue night. The ground is soft and sunk in under heel-strut. She closes her one optic as a light breeze blows across her face, peeking through the creaks of her helm and tickles the pressure sensors atop her brain module. She fought against the craving to pull out her swords and strike into the chest plate of the bot approaching her as she felt footfalls of someone else approaching. 

“I do not mean to intrude. Just wanted to make sure everything is alright with you.” Metalhawk addresses her. 

"How honest do you want me to be, Metalhawk?" Whirl grints her teeth. 

"As honest as you can be. But not just to me but yourself as well." They challenge as they steps forth. 

"I've known I was not alright since the uprisings reached Polyhex. But instead of trying to rebuild, I revolted against them and the universe it seems. It's hard for me to act the role of a defender and not a destroyer." Whirl admits as she touches a tree trunk. Carefully she runs her claws against the grooves of the bark, aware for the first time in a long time of how easy it would be to impale it. 

"Alot of us understand that sentiment.” Metalhawk says briefly. 

“Are you uneased by me?” Whirl asks in a tone like a blade ran over ice. 

“Why would you presume that?” Metalhawk deflects. 

“Cause alot of bots are. I know why of course but ugh! This self reflection is stupid!” Whirl clutchs her helm and covers up her bad optic and holes. She kicks at the ground, disrupting the grass and undergrowth. 

Metalhawk shakes their head. “On the contrary, this discussion may be the first steps-” 

“You are not a fragging shrink! You’re an astrophysict or some scrap. I’ve heard this garbage from Impactor, Springer, Ultra Magnus, Ratchet, Rung, Ironhide, pretty much all of the Wreckers, several Decepticons during battle, maybe every bot I’ve met since the War startedhas tried to get through to me. But they can’t!” Whirl shakes her head and trembles. 

Metalhawk pauses. They bite the edge of their mouth plate, a human habit they picked up, in thought. “I am sorry that I cannot be of much help for you right now.” They decides to say before turning around. 

“Let me flip the tables before you leave me.” Shouts Whirl. 

“Yes?” Metalhawk turns back, perplexed. 

“You are a bot half-assing two things, being a human and being an Autobot. You seem so attuned to this idea that Earth is special. But it isn't. There are millions of under-developed planets teeming with potential. I should know, I razed thousands of them down to cinders. You should whole-ass being one thing before sticking your tailpipe into my business.” Whirl explains. 

Metalhawk smiles. “The reason why I still have my robot mode is the same reason you still haven’t gotten a replacement optic. We can’t fully let go of the past lest we don’t know who we could be in the future. We are transforming constantly, not just between modes but between moments. Yet there will be a little bit of kibble from the past on us.” 

“You’ve lost more of your mind than me stranded here, haven’t you?” Whirl questions. 

Chapter Text

Something is rummaging through the mansion. Now it returns to where it emerged from. It walks down the stairs and turns to see through gigantic blue optics a large orange shape at the other end of the garage. Curious, it hurries over to the other side passing Hot Rod who remains parked in vehicle mode and the cycle-bots Joyride and Rattrap. The orange autobot also is in her alt-mode as a dirt bike, leaning on her kick stand while Rattrap lies down spread eagle on the concrete floor. 

The intruder couldn’t help watching them while recharging. Not only did they bring alien tech, they were composed of it. So much delicious metal and power. A resource called Energon, a material that fueled and made up part of their bodies. As ubiquitous and essential as water and carbon was for life on Earth. It reached the end of his five car garage. Orion Pax “slept” in his pick up truck alternate mode while above, coiled along the ceiling is the snake like Night Viper. It looks around the corner near Orion. 

Large geometric computers run from the floor to ceiling. Cobs, dials, and levers decorate a low sloping indent up to a massive recess. The alien computers hum like sizzling bacon, the prospect of unearthly hard drives running software from worlds away delicious to the skittish creature. 

It crouches low and finds a series of peculiar ports. A massive maw unhinges from the intruder’s tiny body. It jumps up on spindly legs and plunges its sharp teeth at the port. Instantly, the port conforms to the perfect size and shape as a single tooth. The biter is shocked back, almost bumping into the truck transformer behind it. An arrowhead shape rises above glowing purple from beneath before closing once again on the creature’s top jaw. The port turns back to it’s alien shape. 

The creature gets up and hurries out of the garage. It sprints through the minimalistic style mansion, toward the front door, unseen but in step with the various house and grounds keepers G.B. Blackrock had under his employ. It races across the lawn and into the forest just as Mr. Blackrock leaves with a chauffeur and bodyguard for the day.

______________________________________________________________________________

Joyride wakes up from her recharge with a delightful rev up of her earthly replicated engines and a cheerful spin around the garage. The dirt bike transforms into her slender robot mode and looks over the computers she helped to install last night. Well, she helped get into the small places and supervised. First they needed to wake up Sky Lynx enough to get him to open up his cargo bay, position the computers in just the right way, and then link them all together. 

Her optics are drawn to a series of outlets towards the beginning of computers. One of the smallest outlets keeps fluctuating from its normal shape and a deep, tapered cone shape. Curious, she presses a digit into the port, her finger tip conforming to fit the unfamiliar outlet, that of a sharp tooth. She winces as she willingly exchanges electricity and information with the computer. But it is empty, nothing to interface and her own onboard computers require voice activation to share her own datatrax with it. Neither does the Deceptiwall go up to her shock. 

The Autobots were little more than a resistance group. Joyride had the privilege to be proto-formed in Iacon and learned from the prestigious Iacon Academy. She never directly saw the hardships others witnessed on the frontlines but shared the pain in her spark whenever she read and wrote up reports or felt shockwaves vibrate her flickering holo-screens during late nights in her dorm. A lot of the Autobots' technology and resources were either old or stolen from the Decepticons. That was the case for the computers the 54 Epsilon Division brought. The Deceptiwall is a viral firewall installed onto all ‘con computers. It infected other machine’s hardware and software if they connected. In normal computers, it fed any information into the Impetus, a vast Decepticon archive housed within Darkmount. If it infected an Autobot, their personality component opened up to more negative aspects. A bot would become aggressive, grapple with darker impulsives, go insane, or blackout. Physical changes came with it too; optics turned red, paintjobs took on darker hues, spikes and chains, allowing rust to spread, any attempt to look tough and edgy stuck. There was no cure so eventually the bot would be compelled to offline themselves or join the Decepticons. 

Joyride takes a step back and spots footprints in between the dust bunny tracing back to the door inside. Metalhawk was off to get old archives collected by the Pretenders over their time on Earth. Gnasth had her human dwelling and occupation to be at. So it couldn’t have been the pretenders. Joyride had sensed no organic life signatures while she recharged. She looked down at the tooth replica at her fingertip. Oh no!
“Orion, wake up!” Whispers Joyride as she gets close to the Autobot founder. 

His engine revs with life and headlights flicker. “What is it, Joyride?” Asks the historian. 

“I think a scraplet may have activated the deceptiwall on the first computer!” Exclaims Joyride. 

Orion’s headlights brighten with alarm and he starts to transform. Sitting down with his head bowed he looks down at the input outlets and panics as the small port changes into a usb port. “Do you know where it went?” He asks. 

“No.” Confesses Joyride. 

“We have to find it as soon as possible. We have no idea how the Deceptiwall will react to Earth’s technology.” Orders Orion Pax. “It couldn’t have gotten far. It’s on an unfamiliar planet and the outlets only remember a shape for a few astro-minutes.” 

Joyride nods before looking around at the inanimate cars in the garage. “Maybe it could have latched itself onto Mr. Blackrock’s car. I did hear it’s engine starting just before I woke up.”

“Perhaps.” Orion searches through the World Wide Web for news reports matching the description of scraplet infestation. Nothing. They still had time. 

“I found the address for Mr. Blackrock’s building.” Says Joyride. 

Orion goes to speak when Hot Rod blasts his engines and shears off smoke from his exhaust pipes. The sports car-former drives out the garage and transforms, stretching out his arms and strutting a few poses. “Gonna get some morning sun rays and explore the roads. Care to join me?” Hot Rod extends the offer. 

“No. We will do it by ourselves sometime.” Says a flustered Orion Pax.

“Computer stuff?” Asks Hot Rod, showing some concern. 

“Yeah.” Replies Orion. 

“Can you two handle it or…?” Offers Hot Rod. 

“Yes.” Assures Joyride. 

“‘Kay, see ya bots latter. Let me know if you run into any cons.” Hot Rod saunters off towards the road, transforms, and rolls out. 

Joyride and Orion let their smiles falter into panic. “What’s the address?” Asks Orion. 

“Yes. 31 Upper Way, Sterling City.” Reports Joyride. 

“Excellent. Now let’s transform and roll out!” Declares Orion as he leaves the garage and transforms. 

“Wait! I haven’t customized my holo-matter avatar yet!” Shouts Joyride. 

Orion’s wheels grind to a halt. “We don’t have much time.” He fumes. 

“Wouldn’t it be weird for the humans to see a motorcycle with no rider though?” Joyride points out. In order to further disguise themselves as vehicles, Autobots could project holographic avatars made out of holomatter. It normally appeared as a basic, dark suited humanoid that clung to the handlebars or steering wheel of the Autobot, only manifesting when necessary. But some bots saw it more as an extension of themselves, something worthy of self expression. They could be customized to reflect the Autobot’s expression or blend in with local life forms. 

“Fine, get some cables and get into my bed.” Accepts Orion as he lowers his tailgate. 

Joyride nods and dashes back into the garage. She finds some bungee cords and climbs up into the pick-up bed. She half transforms to strap herself in and sets herself upright on the bed. 

“Ready?” Asks Orion.

“Let’s roll out!” Joyride calls out. 

______________________________________________________________________________

Blackrock’s green limousine slides off the private roads of his estate and onto the highway. The businessman is locked in conversation with a department head of his about the new government contract. “I cannot tell you that yet, Joshua. The exact details of the contract elude me at the moment as well. It's all still developing, transforming you could say between our needs and their needs.” The CEO waffles. 

“But who is the ‘they’ in this contract? All I know is some mysterious third party and an unnamed division. Is it NASA and some other tech company? Is it the military? Do you want us to start manufacturing weapons now, Blackrock? I need something because now I have nothing!” Urges Joshua Joyce, Director of Kinetic Solutions, a subsidiary under Blackrock Enterprises that focused on machinery and technology. It had the most work from the Cybertronian technology that the Autobots would be providing by disecting, reengineering, and repurposing it for the human market.

“I’ll budge with you. The government division is currently small but focused on intelligence and military operations. We will not be manufacturing weapons for them.” Blackrock says as he massages his temple in preparation for a mindstorm of questions from Joyce.

“What about the third party? Is it another company? A start-up? A small nation? A resistance group?” Pesters Joyce. 

Blackrock closes his eyes to think. He feels something squirming through chassis of the limousine. “Joyce, I’ll call you back. Currently having some car troubles.” Blackrock hastily hangs up on him. “Horatio! Pull over! Something doesn’t feel right!”

The chauffer nods without much thought and pulls over to the side of the road. “Everything alright, sir? The limo seems to be running smoothly.” Horatio comments. 

Blackrock drops down to his knees and looks underneath the limousine. Two gigantic blue eyes stare back at him. “It appears we have a stowaway.” The CEO reports. “Charlie, stand on guard.” The bodyguard, a broad-shouldered blond, nods and flips out a pistol and aims it the chassis. Blackrock moves back a few paces and takes out his phone again. “Dr. Hawk, I am in the middle of a dire situation.” 

______________________________________________________________________________

Orion Pax had driven on roads across the cosmos. He never liked the idea of leading the Autobots despite founding the movement. He always preferred being the humble historian from Iacon’s Hall of Records. But he couldn’t continue when the Decepticons rose up. Orion admits that the old system on Cybertron was not perfect. A philosophy called Functionism governed all aspects of Cybertronian life. A transformer’s occupation and social standing was dictated and decided by the alternate mode. Functionism proposed order by keeping down a person’s own liberty and self-decided destiny. Orion himself was deemed a dock worker and worked as one for hundreds of stellar cycles but his spark yearned for the mythical more that resides at every sentient species core regardless of place in the universe. By day he worked his mudflap off at the docks but by night he studied all he could about Cybertron’s history in secret. Until it was uncovered. Orion was brought before some members of the Senate and High Council of Worlds. He caught the attention of Alpha Trion, one of the first transformers created and a member of the Thirteen Primes. Trion pardoned Orion and took him on as an apprentice. 

Not long into his apprenticeship, the Decepticons rose up. Alpha Trion fled Cybertron while Orion was forced to rewrite history. And scribe Starscream’s personal memoirs only for the Air Commander to rewrite them himself. Hateful of the deceptions he was pulling, Orion Pax took a stand and wrote the Autonomous Robotic Edict, a comprehensive and length text that chronicled the entirety of Cybertronian from several first person account courtesy of secret trips to Vector Sigma and with the help of Alpha Trion until the old Prime was killed personally by Megatron. In his dying moments, Trion gave Pax the Matrix of Leadership. Through the shadows of Iacon, Pax left with the Matrix and his edict. And the rest is left to history…

Orion weaves with the turns of the road. He pushes onward about as fast as he can as per the human laws. Wouldn’t want to raise suspicion from any human authorities or Trackers. Joyride kept down in his bed.

As a member of a species who could transform into mostly vehicles, it was natural for Orion to have some appreciation for a chassis the same way humans admire other bodies. So to see it go under appreciated ruffled up some deep seated offense that came commonplace across an organic dominated universe. Still, Orion never liked to let his vehicle mode dominate his identity as it used to dictate one’s destiny under the ferrous fist of Functionism. Other bots, like Hot Rod, love the automotive side of their existence. For as much as Orion Pax tries to push the Autonomous Robotic Organism explanation for the Autobot name, it always is misinterpreted as Automobile Robot. 

Orion almost transforms as he feels wheels grinding on his bed. “Metalhawk is here!” Screams Joyride through his inter-autobot radio. 

“Scrap! Sorry I was deep in thought.” Apologies Orion as he breaks and observes Metalhawk cut down the road and rapidly transform down into his pretender shell. 

“Are you two on your way to Blackrock to deal with the scraplet?” Dr. Hawk asks as he approaches Orion’s door.

“Yes. We noticed it upon waking up from our recharge. It downloaded the Deceptiwall onto itself.” Orion informs.

“Blackrock is aware of it. The scraplet latched onto his limousine and is now eating it. Luckily it was an older vehicle with no computers in it. The infection should not be allowed to spread.” Dr. Hawk warns. “Cybertronian technology is used to energon exposure. Earth’s is not. Our bodies are made out of a rarified, energon alloy that has life given properties. Our living metal can convert regular metal into living metal when exposed to energon. The deceptiwall has code that can convert electricity into energon and back again. It is possible that the infection could turn Earth’s technology into Decepticon mutants.” 

Joyride goes silent for a long while. Orion starts off  down the road. The road streaks upward and then down. Downhill along the roadside is a crumple of half-eaten wreckage and three humans huddled behind a tree trunk while the scraplet gorges itself. Blackrock steps out from behind the tree and waves the Autobots over. Orion goes to park while Marcus jumps out and runs over. 

“Over here!” He shouts, waving his arms and stomping his foot. 

The scraplet glowers at the pretender and scans it. It fails to sense the Autobot underneath the shell of human flesh; instead it locks on Orion, attracted to a larger, energon rich meal. 

Joyride stuck out an arm and aims at the scuttling scraplet. A blast of coolent hits and rapidly freezes the scraplet. Dr. Hawk runs over to it, picks up the scraplet and takes a look at it. A blinking Decepticon insignia appears on its top jaw, small bumps disturbing it’s metal flesh. He carries it over to the truck bed. 

“We got here just in time, it would have started budding. Offline it and then debug it’s circuitry. Orion, stay here, we may need a ride.” Whispers Dr. Hawk as he hands the scraplet off to Joyride. She whips out a small pistol blaster and shoots the scraplet straight through it’s tiny body. Its eyes go dark and jaw snaps shut. 

Dr. Hawk turns around and strides back toward G.B. Blackrock. “Thank you for coming so swiftly to our aid. I don’t suppose you could give me a ride to work?” The businessman thanks.

“Of course. And I will do my best to explain everything.” Dr. Hawk walks with the humans toward Orion. 

“Excellent.” Blackrock says as a groundskeeper vehicle pulls up as well to pick Charlie and Horatio up. “Charlie, Horatio, thank you for sticking with me and remaining calm during this incident. Luckily, none of us were hurt. However, due to the nature of it, I will require you both to sign an NDA. Upon completing that, you two can take the rest of the week off and I will see about giving you both a generous, hazard pay bonus.” 

The chauffeur and bodyguard nod in agreement and get onto the groundskeeper vehicle and head back towards the mansion.

Blackrock sighs. “I guess I falsely presumed that your friends wouldn’t be carrying any stowaways with them. How did it get here?”

Joyride wearily gets out of Orion’s bed. “We’re just a resistance force. Most of our tech, our computers are reclaimed, outmoded models from the Decepticons. So, a lot of them have viruses and parasites like this scraplet from the ‘Cons. We do have ways of debugging them beforehand but the scraplet bited into an outlet beforehand.” She explains, holding the creature’s motionless, shot-through carcass. 

“It must have put itself in stasis and hid inside one of the computers until it awakened.” Surmises Dr. Hawk. 

“Perhaps. Just keep the property damage to my own property at a minimum please.” Pleads Blackrock. 

“Of course, sir. Joyride, can please ensure that all of the computers have been debugged. Despite their protests, I know Hot Rod and Rattrap should know how to do it. Orion, do you mind driving us to work?” Dr. Hawk asks. 

“Not a problem.” The truck-former swings open his doors. 

Joyride transforms and dashes into the forest.  

The two men get inside and buckle up. “Orion Pax is it? I have heard of your infamy from Dr. Hawk. I am delighted to make your acquaintance.” Blackrock greets. 

“Same here.” Orion replies as he concentrates on driving. “How far along are you in archiving your mission logs?” 

“I did some last night. I’m archiving by region rather than chronologically for ease of travel. The pretenders and I did alot of traveling around the Earth. I’ve gotten most of North America and northeastern Asia logged. I should hopefully have it done within a week, under a deca-cycle.” Updates Dr. Hawk. 

“Do you want some time off to do this?” Offers Blackrock. 

“Actually, yes.” Accepts Dr. Hawk. 

“I’ll grant it to you starting tomorrow. But today there are importent things we need to discuss. I want your input on some ideas on how Cybertronian tech could be used to benefit humanity. Many under me only seem to regard it as a new innovation to be in commodified. I don’t doubt the revenue streams that could be generated but due to the confidentiality necessary for our deal, I need to do so carefully. I know your species is one that has had it’s own problems of acquainting personhood as the same as being a function or a tool. I don’t want to misuse what can be so easily seen by my people as just a computer, just a car, etc. I believe that you, Dr. Hawk could help me come up with a proposal that will please my middlemen and investors, be useful to the average person of Earth, yet respectful towards Cybertronians.” Blackrock explains. 

Dr. Hawk nods but before he can speak, Orion interjects. “If I may offer my perspective?”

“Of course, as founder of the Autobot Movement, your input is invaluable as well.” Blackrock leans back in his seat and looks out the window as they cross the bridge that connects the surrounding mountainous forests to the sprawling city. 

“The only things I and a large majority of Cybertronians would find disrespectful would be the creation of bio-weopons to use against us and of mockeries. Long before the Autobots were organized, or the Decepticons came into power, or even functionism became the prevailing political ideology on Cybertron, our people were forced into slavehood by invaders who repurposed and defiled our creator, Primus, into a factory to manufacture and serve in their efforts to conquer the universe. They robbed us of the very source of our personhood and connection to Primus, our sparks. It’s hard for atleast us Autobots to look upon something clearly made with Cybertronian flesh, the living metal we are composed of and fueled by Energon yet lacking a spark…” Orion trails off. 

“Sort of like the uncanny valley effect. Like how you’d react to a zombie or an animatronic.” Dr. Hawk continues. 

“An understandable concern. The only situation we would need to make anti-cybertronian weaponry would be should the Decepticons declare war against us however, conventional weaponry seems to do the trick.” Blackrock remarks. 

Orion slows down a bit. 

“Gale volunteered to get blown to scrap a few decivorns back. That and they’ve done tests on living metal samples I’ve provided. No need to be worried.” Dr. Hawk reassures the red Autobot.

“Anyway. I believe the applications of cybertronian technology will be on a far smaller scale then reengineering your biology as well. I’ll bring up the application of it for wearable technologies, perhaps having something easily transforms from a bracelet to a smart phone or more efficient and smaller microchips. Not quite quantum computing but another step forward.” Assures Blackrock as Orion navigates through the city streets and pulls up infront of the building. 

Chapter Text

Rifts rumble through the air, revealing the amassing crowd. Gale smiles as she stalks out into the bright purple and red lights that streak across the Sterling City Event Center. She flips back her greasy hair with pride as she walks up to the ring. She jumps up to the top rope and cries out. The light splutters as she waves out her arms and hops off the rope and down onto the canvas. The pretender circles the ring, folding her arms. She slowly took off the leather straps studded with purple and red spikes that cover her muscular legs and forearms and yanked out a dinky black crown from her hair, throwing them to her audience as the music died down. Eerie silence envelopes the arena. Gale closes her red-contact covered eyes and waits for the silence to break. Here under the flashing lights, cheering crowd, and loud music she could come alive! Back on Eukaris, stealth in hunting was a skill highly valued. As Gnashteeth, she could be quiet and focused, as the hunt for Whirl a few weeks ago proved. But her main passion was in direct combat. Being out in the open, letting loose. 

Record screeching and the soft pads of a man’s careful steps  disturbs the silence. Gale turns around to face the far end of the event center where she entered from. A short bald man in a black suit steps out, microphone in hand as the crowd stares at him intently. 

“Ladies and Gentleman. I, Cyrus Rhodes, give you my client. A master of massacre. A supervisor of slaughter. Possessor of the Sterling City Intergender Champion! Switchblade!” Announces the man in a deep voice. 

Scraping and scratching sound clatter out of the speakers as the lights splutter on and off. A large muscular man saunters down toward the ring. A large black black hangs around his abs, proudly on display. His dark eyes glow beneath long, stringy brown hair each time the lights shine out. Upon reaching the ring, Switchblade springs onto the canvas and before taking off the coveted championship belt and handing it to Cyrus at ringside. Switchblade stares back at Gale without saying a word as his music dies down. 

The lights focus on the manager as he smiles beside the ring. People lean in their seats to hear his words. “Good evening. It has been a long night. But now for the main event, for the Sterling City Intergender Championship. The winner will be able to stay and the loser shall be sent into exile. The defendant is Switchblade, sir, any words?” Introduces Cyrus. 

The man grabs the microphone. “Yeah, I do. When I came to Sterling City, I immediately won this belt! And I have defended it ever since against amazing men and women. Each would have been worthy. But all of whom I have broken regardless. Gale. You have been here all this time and yet, you have not even challenged for the championship. How do I know you are worthy of it?” Questions Switchblade, a knowing look in his dark eyes.

Gale smirks as she takes the microphone. “It takes a lot of tension and a spark for me to strike. The tension was always there for me. The spark came when Killswitch just layed down in this ring instead of fighting you last week. Of course, your brother would just let you walk over him. I am worthy of this belt because you are not.” Spat the pretender.

“Hypocrite! If you consider me not worthy then you are not either!” Declares Switchblade. 

“There you go. A battle of worthiness is for the Sterling City Intergender Championship. Additionally, the winner shall become my new client. As such, I can not aid my current client, Switchblade.” Concludes Cyrus as he walks away from the ring and sits behind a table. A bell rings out the overhead speakers. 

Switchblade ducks down and juts up, pushing at Gale’s chest. She reels back and spreads out her arms before clapping back at him. The man remains unfazed and kicks and clashes with her, summoning loud cheers from the crowd. Gale retreats toward the ropes, flattening against and grabbing them with her fingers as she flips over onto the ground. Switchblade spins around the ring, following Gale with his dark, hateful gaze as she races around the ring. 

She leaps onto a corner post and dives headfirst into Switchblade, bashing into his shoulder. His hands swivel around to shove her off his chest. Gale crept low and burst up, pushing away her opponent as she rushed by, giving a back kick across his face as she retreated. He grabs at her leg, pulls her toward him and does an elbow drop across her legs. The skin bruises around the hit. Gale winces in pain as she spins around and gives a kick to Swtchblade’s face. The kick doesn’t connect, Gale slaps her thigh to fool the audience. Switchblade softens his expression before he backs up to the edge of the ring and whispers to Cyrus. 

The battered woman roars out, stomping around the ring and gathering a response from the crowd. She climbs onto the ropes on the far end as Switchblade runs over, grinding his teeth. Gale perches above the man and jeers at him. The crowd’s cheers elevate in intensity as Gale leaps up, arms spread back. Her left foot catches on Switchblade’s nose, she kicks down , pushing Switchblade to the ground. She brought her booted foot right to the edge of his throat. He splutters and panics beneath her grasp. 

A referee leaps under the ropes and into the rings, hitting the mat for the three succinct seconds before forcing the woman away from Switchblade. Cyrus jumps into the ring, he swings out his microphone. “We have a winner and the new Sterling City Intergender Champion! Gale Rucky!” Figaro declares as he offers the black belt to the woman. She smiles as she takes it and lifts it up. Switchblade slinks away from the ring in the dark. 

“I am proud to win this belt. I have been beaten and bruised to get this belt and I will do so again and again to retain it. Switchblade cannot claim what I achieved today!” Announces Gale. Cheers follow her as she quickly leaves the ring.

The lights dull down and the crowd silences into murmurs as the wrestler walks back on the ramps. She turns her head to smile at the crowd and raises up her new belt high above her head. She frowns as she sees two unusual people standing up in the crowd. A short woman smiles back at her with a broad grin she expects to see from a serial killer. Her orange pigtails bounce up and down like an idle animation and she gives off a faint blue glow. Next to her stands a tall ‘man’ in dark brown sweat pants and shirt. Awkward edges clunk out of his sides. His face reflects back a silver gleam from the dim lights as red optics shine out. He shrugs his shoulders at Gale’s scornful ‘what were you two thinking’ glare. 

She rushes backstage and into the women’s locker room. She showers off and puts on her civilian clothing, high waisted dark jeans, a dark purple tank top, a leather jacket, and some knee high boots. She grabs her duffle bag and hurries out, only giving brisk thanks to congratulating wrestlers. 

As she exits the locker room, she runs into Cyrus. “Hello my new Champion.” Says the man with a smile on his face. 

“Cyrus, some personal stuff came up. Can I go?” Gale asks.

“Sadly no. You still have to promo after the main event. Gemini Ginger is going to lose her Women's Championship to Blue Rose. Blue’s gonna sneak out the ring and Gemini will be left devastated by her loss. You’ll step out, raise the Intergender Championship high above and set up a feud between you two. Is everything alright? You’ve been absent from a lot of practices over the past few weeks and your ring work is getting sloppy. You’ve been cutting it short at our weekly events too. It can’t just be a personal problem or trouble with family, is it?” Pries Cyrus. 

Gale sighs. She can’t keep the secret from him forever. He is her manager (at least for now in storyline) and one of the main writers for Sterling City Wrestling Federation, a large independent pro wrestling promotion that dominates the North West. He had been a wrestler when he was younger before age and injury drove him into retirement. She had even trained him in her earlier life. The top part of a pretender shell degrades over the course of 70 or so years, mimicking the human aging process while keeping the pretender further disguised. Their human form changed as desired when the shell’s reset while the size remained more or less the same. In the modern age, their vital records changed with every “death”. As such, Gale and Marcus had lived seemingly hundreds of different human identities over the past hundred thousand years. In her last life, Thunderbolt was known as Ashla Hurst, a blonde bombshell, war vet, and female wrestling pioneer before ‘dying’ at the age of 87. Now she is Gale Rucky. 

The reason for all her recent absences is increased Decepticon activity. It’s been a few weeks since the new exaltation arrived led by Rattrap two weeks ago. With more Autobots, the Decepticons had gotten bolder. Trackers flooded the streets while Seeker sightings increased. Gnashteeth went from being the least called bot into duty (due to her animalistic alt mode being hard to hide) to being sent on missions seemingly around the clock. 

Gale gives Cyrus a hard look and takes a file out of her duffle bag. She hands it over to Cyrus. “Is it okay then if I enter through the audience? I just need to check on something. I won’t leave the building. Might give out a few autographs.” Gale dismisses. She’d deal with Marcus’s backlash later on. 

“Are these medical documents? If there are injuries that were caused in the ring we can cover that!” Asks Cyrus as he eyes her with concern.

“No. Just read them later. Then call me if you have any questions…” Gale stops as she approaches a poster hung up in a hallway. She walks up to the poster for a closer look. A smiling robotic face dominates the right half of the poster. Gale exhales with surprise at the sight of the Storm Seekers, an elite squadron of mutant Seekers each of whom have some sort of special power. The smiling face belongs to Jetstorm, their sardonic and heavily modified leader who literally floats above everyone. His helm balloons out into a blue aerodynamic point while yellow and red gradients spike out. To the side of Jetstorm’s visage is the alternate mode of the other four Storm Seekers. A grey bomber known as Storm Surge who drops blunt truth bombs, missiles, and heavy banks of rain. Up high Nova Storm dances by the sun, in real life she is protected by thick plating so she can fly just above a star’s superheated plasma. Lower on the poster, the green Acid Storm dumps acid rain. Gale grimaces as she sees a blue tomcat rush through the middle of the poster, sparks trailing behind Ion Storm. Interspaced with the blatant Seekers is the words Jetsetters, Auditions for a New Reality Robotics Game Show start June 15th! Be There! 

“Cyrus, do you know anything about this?” Gale calls out. 

“Oh just some auditions for a new game show they’ll be filming here over the summer. Don’t worry. From what I know it won’t interfere with the Pay-Per-Views we have scheduled here. Supposedly the show will have five giant animatronic robots as the host and judges for the show. Pretty ambitious. But I guess you can go.” Cyrus explains.

“Ambitious indeed.” Whispers Gale, the dread evident in her voice. She looks down at Cyrus, gives an anxious grin and scampers off. 

Gale stubbles through the rest of the backstage area. Through the maze of props, stagehands, wrestlers, rigging, and conference rooms, the pretender maneuvers her way towards the front of the arena. She quickens through a cleared back way until she runs onto something jutting out. Gale falls on her face as her hips and legs snag over cloth. She pulls herself off the jutting edge and collapses onto the ground. As she gets up her eyes widen with horror as the cloth falls off a blue wing, a purple insignia brazen across the alien metal. 

Gale staggers to her feet and throws her duffle bag to the side, almost about to transform. She stares at the covered Seeker with extreme prejudice. She knows that sky blue paint anywhere. Ion Storm. She can almost hear the Seeker’s cackling voice and lightning torments. Gale stops as she sees a lanky stagehand toddle over to her. “Oo, sorry you tripped on this.” He apologies as he covers up the wing and gives an earnest grin. 

“Move that thing.” Growls Gale.

“Sorry but I can’t. I need a whole crew to move this magnificent piece of machinery. Apparently it can go from a functional fighter jet to an animatronic, AI driven giant android!” Gushes the stagehand. 

“Then I’ll move it.” Snarls the wrestler as she reaches her arms up and pushes at Ion Storm’s wing. 

“Hey, you aren’t authorized to do that!” Shouts the stagehand. 

Gale shot him a hard glare like Medusa. She pushes Ion Storm a few more feet before standing back and trying to open her mind a little. Cybertronians, as mechanical beings, are more capable of direct mental communication than most. Not straight up telepathy but through plug in interfacing, radios, cortical psychic patches, and more supernatural methods like City Speaking, Fate Weaving, and mnemosurgery; Cybertronians had more complicated, innate, and intimate communications that surpassed the humans' often verbal conversations. Still, Gale wasn’t that well versed in any of it. She barely used her radio transmitter; she came from Eukaris in a culture where actions spoke louder than words; her pretender shell blocks out radio signals, and the Autobots and Decepticons refused to interface due to millions of stellar cycles at war. So verbal it is.

The stagehand shirks away as Gale walks up to Ion Storm’s cockpit. She lifts up the cloth and whispers, “Whatever you are planning, I will find out. When I do I will tear off your landing gears, pluck off your wings, leave you utterly unrecognizable you Starscream clone! And recycle your energon into myself.” Gale puts her hand against the glass and scrapes down with her fingernail. 

She turns her back, half expecting the Decepticon to speak or transform into robot mode to no avail. The wrestler gives up and flips out her phone, checking the time. It is 9:30p.m, the show ends at 10:00p.m. The final match between Gemini and Blue Rose is already underway. Gale pockets away her phone and sprints through the rest of the backstage area and out into the mostly vacant front lobby of the event center. 

She runs along the alphabetized entrances to the setting until she reaches rows P through Q. She rushes down the stairs and onto the lowest level. She spots the poorly disguised Rattrap and Joyride instantly. People stare at mismatched Autobots and do not sit by them despite having seats in the third row. Gale inserts herself next to them as they both have their optics fixed on the battling wrestlers in the ring. 

Rattrap is in robot mode, his kibble and pipes poking beneath XXL sweatpant and shirt that cling to his otherwise lanky form. He reeks of motor oil, rotting waste, and grease. Joyride shows off her holomatter avatar, a petite pale woman with bright orange hair styled in pigtails. Her eyes shine a bright cyan like her actual optics. The avatar wears an orange tank top, high-waisted mini skirt, and tangerine sneakers. It is a decent disguise if she wasn’t translucent, Gale can see the chair through Joyride’s skirt and legs. Holomatter avatars can range from being a massless hologram to being made of hard light and able to interact with objects. It all depended on the avatar’s use and how much power the Autobot has. But never should it be non corporal and glowing!

“Great costumes guys. Yes. ” Mocks Gale. 

Joyride’s face yawns back with dull surprise. “Gnashteeth, I mean Gale, you're here!” Exclaims Joyride. 

“What do ya want me to do then?” Asks Rattrap. 

“Everyone is watching you two. Joyride turn down the brightness and turns up the solidity. Rattrap, you are not even trying.” Critics Gale. 

Joyride’s avatar visibly shrinks before gaining a tactile, human-like appearance. Rattrap shrugs. “My holomatter generator fell off on the way here.” He snorts.

“It fell off?” Gale raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, it happens.” Rattrap retorts. 

“Then stay outside next time. Anyway we got into trouble because there were Storm Seekers in the building.” Gale is cut short by a bell ringing as Blue Rose pins Gemini. Gale gets up as the crowd screams to life at the cheer. In the distance she can hear Rattrap and Joyride gasp in disbelief. 

Gale smiles as the lights signal her out as she approaches the padded barriers and with ease she saunters to the ring side. A devastated Gemini Ginger stares at her, she is a toned tan woman with dyed orange hair. Gale pulls the Intergender Championship belt high above her head as her music plays out. 

Chapter Text

Backroads of Mount St. Hilary

“Hey, I’m getting on my sunrise drive!” Declares Hot Rod as he blasts down a backroad. He clings low to the scraped up pavement as it wildly swings along the tight corners of the mountain side. He effortlessly stays in his lane without losing speed as he curves into and out of the undulating bends. He always seeks ways to show off the driving skills he picked up doing illegal street racing back in the Decepticon controlled city of Nyon. Back when he was just a young turbo revvin punk. Until one night when he entered a race while hopped up on nucleon and circuit boosters. He was trapped in vehicle mode (bad for a course that involved parkour) and his brain module was on fire. He blasted up a falling apart overpass and fell to the ground. He then drove nearly half way across Cybertron till he got to Iacon and was taken in by the Autobots who he ended up joining when he regained a more responsible state of mind. 

Further behind him races Joyride with a static holomatter riding in place of a human biker. The cycle-bot takes a more irregular path, weaving between the two narrow, opposing lanes, turns off the shoulder and drives straight into the brush. Only for her to jump back onto the road, taking the time to make her holomatter avatar emote excitement. 

“You seem better at manipulating your avatar.” Observes Night Viper as she springs onto the road to sprint alongside her fellow Autobots. The serpentine femme had been slittering in beast mode along the mountain side. Her dark metal plating blending in well among the craggy rocks and shadows of the pine forest. When no humans drove along the road, she jumped up and made up the distance between herself and the others on foot. 

“Thanks, Gnashteeth said I should work on my solidity and immersion into the natural world. Do either of you two have avatars?” Asks Joyride as she blasts forward, taking the lead. 

Hot Rod pushes forward, maintaining his top spot. He rolls down his driver side window and flickers on his holomatter. He had kept the same avatar since he first visited Earth in the 1980s; a young man wearing an orange vest and sleeveless denim jacket over a t-shirt with a brazen red Autobot insignia in the middle and acid-washed jeans, his tousled chestnut hair is held back by a sweat band. “Yeah, I’ve had this one for a while.” He says. 

“I cannot generate a holomatter avatar. I never got a hologen. We do not need them on Eukarisssss.” Explains Night Viper. 

Suddenly they hear a siren ringing as blue and red light dance around the stone at an upcoming turn. Hot Rod slows down and rolls up his window. Night Viper transforms into her serpentine beast mode and slithers up a tree, coiling back and forth branches in the dark canopy.
“Joyride! You’re not wearing a helmet!” He calls out as the orange dirt bike settles back behind him. 

“What’s a helmet?” She asks. 

“It’s a thing humans wear on their head to protect their brain modules. You need one to legally ride a motorcycle.” Explains Hot Rod as the police car comes into sight. 

Joyride produces a large sombrero upon her avatar’s head. “Will this work?” She asks. 

Hot Rod nearly transforms at the hilarious sight. “No.” He warns but it’s too late as the police car drives past, does a u-turn and chases after Joyride. The orange cycle-bot pulls to the side of the road and her avatar gets off the bike. Hot Rod laughs all the way through Joyride’s blustered excuses for the sombrero and lack of motorcycle license. Through the trees he can see Night Viper’s disapproving glower. “I didn’t know she would generate a sombrero!” He shouts, getting a confused stare from the police officer further down the road. 

Joyride’s avatar starts flickering out as she gets more flustered. The officer backs away as Joyride drives away, throwing an adhesive ticket onto her rear fender before resuming their patrol down the road. She catches up to Hot Rod and hovers by his bumper. 

“Ugh. What was I thinking! Massive oversight on my end.” She groans. 

“Yeah, I’m sorry too, I should have been quicker in pointing that out.” Hot Rod adds. 

“Quick of wheel doesss not mean quick of mind.” Night Viper remarks.

Hot Rod goes to retort when a blue and gold twin-engine jet flies in close by them. “Keep it down. I see the Storm Seekers.” Interrupts Metalhawk. 

“I ssssensssse them assss well.” Night Viper agrees as she pokes out her gently sloping face from the tree line. 

Hot Rod looks down at the valley below and beyond. A large dark cloud forms down in the valley, pelts of rain streaming off the front. As it lurches ever closer he can make out the shape of a giant grey and black interceptor jet, rain falling off the back of his wings. Hot Rod recognizes the massive Seeker as Storm Surge. Beside him flies a highly experimental jet with forward sweeping wings decorated in a dazzling yellow and red gradient all the way up to slender blue fuselage, Jet Storm. 

The Blackrock Building

“So, I just heard from Metalhawk that they’ve found the Storm Seekers and Joyride got tickets for driving without a valid license and a helmet.” Reports Gale. 

Kelly sits with her at Blackrock Building’s kitchen bar. Their breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast lie out before them. G.B. Blackrock sits a few seats away reading the paper. 

“You know Hawk and I have amassed quite a sizable fortune by ourselves over the past couple of thousand years. We’ll pay for it.” Gale suggests. 

“Why didn’t you mention this when my limousine got half-eaten?” Blackrock jokes with a musing smile. 

“Must have been my unluckiness. It’s transfered to you, sir.” Kelly remarks sullenly. 

“Are you really that unlucky? I’ve never seen you in any unlucky situations.” Pries Gale. 

Kelly shrugs. “It mostly happens off page and through implied reference. What were you robots in disguise doing in 2001?” 

“Metalhawk worked for the government as a physicist and scientific advisor. Our last contact was a guy named Captain Fanzone. Uh he hated us so much but was loyal to the end. He retired last year. I got to relax in a nursing home.” Recalls Gale.

“Why were you in a nursing home?” Kelly asks. 

“I’m 4.3 million years old! Why shouldn’t I be in a nursing home at this age?” Gale snaps back.  

“We’re all deserving of having a rest every now and again. However, I have a meeting to attend to, Kelly, I’ll need you with me.”  Blackrock reasons as he stands up and disregards the paper. 

“Alright! Give me a moment to finish my eggs!” Kelly shouts back as she scarfs down what remains on her plate. 

“Oh! I need to message Ultra Magnus, he’s the Supreme Commander of the Autobots. He needs us to update him every few weeks.” Realizes Gale. 

“Alright. We’ll give you privacy.” Blackrock preens his suits and walks out of the cafeteria. Kelly hastily follows him. 

Gale takes out a flat object the shape of the autobot insignia and she taps the center of it. A pentagon shaped hologram zooms above it. 

A face materialized across the holo-screen. A bot with a silver face and white and black helm stares back, the slightest bit of amused resentment in his dark blue optics as he realizes he’ll be discussing things with Gale. “Hello Prowl. What’s Mags up to? How’s homebase doing?” She greets. 

“Currently Ultra Magnus is engaged with Wreakers on Regulon Four. Iacon is on lockdown order due to bombings perpetrated by Lugnut and several Conehead Seekers.” Reveals Prowl. He blips off the holo-screen and is replaced by mugshots of a heavyset cycloptic face and four identical except in color pinheads. 

“What countermeasures will you engage, officer?” Gale asks slyly. 

“Don’t humor me. The Aerialbots are engaged with the Decepticons. However, the airspace around Iacon might not be safe. I could reroute some Autobots to gauge your performance on Earth if your divisions are not able to come.” Prowl answers. 

“Nah, we should be able to swing it.” Gale leans back in her chair. 

“How are things fairing for the Autobots on Earth? Have the reinforcements you so commonly request helped?” Asks Prowl with an air of dismissiveness towards the pretender’s ethusiasm. 

“They have but with more Autobots it means more Decepticon activity but we will bear through it.” Admits Gale. 

“Hmm, well I am needed elsewhere. If you would like, I can patch you up with someone else.” Offers Prowl.

“Is Wheeljack available? I want to…” Asks Gale. 

“Sing his praises? No, he is not available. On duty elsewhere anyway.” Prowl interjects before cutting off into static. 

“Fragging prick.” Gale snarls as she snatches the transmitter and stalks off.

Valleys around Mount St. Hilary

Being forged on the Jungle Planet, Night Viper naturally takes the lead of the Autobots as they descend off road and into the forested mountain valley. She slithers quickly around in her snake form. Over boulders, tangling roots, and down sloping draws, the Eukarian follows Metalhawk. Their sleek shadow hovers over them and canopy. Slowly they fly in the direction of Storm Seekers who circle further down the valley like vast predatory birds. Behind Night Viper, Joyride zips between the tree trunks. Hot Rod trudges on in the back. 

The Storm Seekers fly in tighter and tighter circles. They spiral down beneath the treeline and into some distant meadow. Night Viper hurries her pace into a sweeping sidewind as Metalhawk’s engines flare up. The mental link and close proximity between the two Autobots made them move in tandem. A near singular entity with both a deep understanding of the Earth and desire to protect it no matter the cost. In the recent weeks since she unintentionally linked them, Night Viper did everything she could to avoid Metalhawk. Not out of malice but to avoid slipping into the realm of sameness, where two became one. Even if that meant going on long, distant missions; having to endure Sky Lynx’s constant, self-aggrandising monologues or rattling in Orion’s truck bed as he recounted the entirity Cybertronian history. Metalhawk is also aware of this link, feeling it’s uncomfortable uniformity and mental melding. Luckily, their pretender shell blocks out most radio coms and telepathic signals. So they remains as Dr. Marcus Hawk in her presence. 

But that's not an option as the Autobots approach a brightly lit forest clearing. Metalhawk descends from the sky while Night Viper takes a step into the light. Joyride bursts through the trees and transforms mid air to land a few paces behind. Hot Rod postures and points his exhaust pipes at the Storm Seekers. 

Storm Surge dwarfs his two comrades; he maintains the classic Seeker look with engine intake shoulders, cockpit chest, and wings around the back. Yet his form looms long and tapering in swathes of dark greys like the gloomy skies he summons. Nova Storm loiters beside the giant mech. She is a more standard seeker yet with bright, noxious yellow plating thick in depth as well as proportion. Her red optics dazzle with lazy jest. 

Jetstorm quickly separates and takes center stage from them as he hovers toward Metalhawk. He easily has the most unique look for any Seeker Night Viper has ever seen. His plating shifts from a brilliant blue to gradients of red, yellow and teal. He walks on no legs but floats on a strut of air vents and exhaust fumes along a hinged heaping of tail fin. Upon broad shoulders, his wings streak up and out. His arms end not in hands but wide wrists tipped with three threatening talons. His helm sweeps out in radiating flaps. His faceplate flips down to reveal a cocksure grin. “It's been a while, Metalhawk. I thought you were a great flier or were you just pretending?” Jokes Jetstorm. 

“Great joke, sir!” Cheers Nova Storm in a nasally voice. 

“Oh, do you all want an autograph cursory of the soon to be biggest stars in human history? The host and two of the judges of Jetsetters! Earth’s soon to be the greatest reality home makeover game show!” Decides Jetstorm. 

“Hardly.” Growls Hot Rod as he takes a step forward. 

“Oh right! You finally have some new friends! I was getting tired of your beast’s bites.” Observes Jetstorm. 

“It will save me on yellow paint!” Cackles Nova Storm. Night Viper eyes the Decepticon and sees scratch marks and dents along her thick plating. 

“I’d be happy to give you a reason to put on more primer!” Joyride quips as she whips out two double-barrel pistols and gives them a whirl in her hands. 

“So we have a sweet little two-wheeler. And who’s this? Another car! More red and orange Autobot cars! Ugh that's what I need. Another road hog. Just turn them into runways.” Jetstorm complains as he floats over Joyride and Hot Rod. 

As the lead Seeker comes up to Night Viper, she takes out her short scythes and glowers at him. “What do we have here? Another pet for you?” Jetstorm asks as he looks down at Night Viper. 

“Leave her be.” Metalhawk orders. 

“Oh please speak my dear. I want to hear those drawn out sibilant sounds. A snake among planes.” Urges Jetstorm as he gets uncomfortably close to Night Viper. She remains silent but raises her scythes to shield her face. 

“Come any clossser and I will ssssplit your sssspark casssing.” She threatens in a low, hushed hiss. 

“What did you say?” Asks Nova Storm as she comes up to her leader. Storm Surge steps forth and looms over as the Seekers close in on the serpentine Autobot. She backs up to the treeline, the Seekers pushing in on her like rabid hungry dogs. Hot Rod and Joyride pester Storm Surge’s feet, firing bullets and torrents of flame only for the massive ‘con to sweep it away with the brush of his hand. Metalhawk frantically tries to reason with Jetstorm but fails as he rises above and points his null rays at the Autobot leader. 

Night Viper scrapes her scythes down on Jetstorm’s winged shoulder, energon spilling over. She transforms into a serpent and falls to the ground. She lunges for Nova Storm’s thickly-plated thighs. Between her mid thigh plating and her hips is exposed, smooth lining. Night Viper sinks her fangs into it as she wraps her long, coiling body around the Seeker’s limbs, torso, and trembling wings. Her cyber-venom is a spark destabilizer. In mild bites and doses, it weakens the spark casing while the spark expels more radiation into the body’ into the substructure, causing bodily convulsions followed by mild spark core meltdown, resulting in emergency stasis lock. Usually resting in a CR Chamber will quickly restore a transformer’s body from the cyber-venom in mild dosage. But Night Viper holds on as the cyber-venom accumulates around and dissolves the Seeker’s spark casing. Nova Storm’s body shudders and ratchets in unnatural ways. The more she struggles, the tighter Night Viper constricts. 

Around her, she hears Hot Rod and Joyride send fire and bullets at Storm Surge as he rains down attacks upon them. Jetstorm and Metalhawk streak around in the sky, alternating between close dogfights in robot mode and long range sniping and missile launches. 

Nova Storm makes one final attempt to transform but Night Viper’s twisting tail prevents her panels and limbs from reshaping into her combat jet vehicle mode. Crackles of energy erupt out of her shifting parts before fizzling out flat and lifeless. Night Viper loosen her grip as she feels blue light glimmer off from Nova Storm’s rising spark and onto her black metal. She slithers off of the Seeker’s corpse and into the darkness of the forest. 

Pretenders Residence

Gale enters the pretenders apartment after a long day of providing her ‘importent input’ to Blackrock, updating Prowl, and training at the gym. She stoops down her duffle bag onto a pile of files left over from Marcus and Orion’s rifling. To her right is a small kitchen, she goes in and grabs an energy drink out of the fridge. She jugs down a huge gulp before returning it to the fridge and locks the front and balcony door. The wrestler goes into the bathroom to take a shower. 

A half-hour later, Gale steps out of the bathroom and jumps back at the sight of Marcus sitting on the couch, quietly reading a book about astrophysics. “How did you get in? I locked the front and balcony door.” Asks Gale. 

“I smashed through the window.” Marcus responds simply, not looking away from his book. 

“Why did you do that?” Scoffs the wrestler. 

“I did what you do.” Dismisses the physicist. 

“Which is what?” Varsha snaps.

“Smash through the window.” Marcus replies. 

Varsha looks into Marcus’s room and sees shards of glass spilled across the floor in front of the open, shattered window. “I don’t always smash through windows. When I do it is for dramatic effect. Anyway, you have to clean it all up and replace it.” Varsha orders. 

A replacement sheet of glass shudders up and a robotic vacuum activates. “Already on it. I blame you for being a bad influence on me.” Marcus snickers. 

“You are older than me by like a million years!” Shouts Varsha. “Anyway, I talked with Prowl today. Apparently Iacon’s under alot of bombings but it shouldn’t effect our trip. I’m thinking you go with some of the 54th Epsilon division. Maybe Sky Lynx flies and we see who wants to go back to Cybertron?” 

“Yes, that sounds adequate. I’ll discuss it over with Rattrap.” Agrees Marcus. 

“So how did the hunt go today? Did you get any clear answers from Jetstorm?” Varsha asks. 

Marcus looks away. “Things kinda got out of hand. Night Viper offlined Nova Storm.” He reports. 

“Huh. Did your bond have anything to do with it?” She asks, aware of the mental link Night Viper had accidentally set up between them. 

“Sort of. She was in control. I just chased Jetstorm through the skies like a bot possessed.” Marcus admits. 

“Hmm.” Gale leans in the archway to the kitchen with her gatorade in hand. Before she can follow up, the door knocks. She turns around and opens it. “Oh, hi boss.” She greets Cyrus Rhodes as he holds the file in his hands. 

“May I come in?” He tenderly asks. 

“Sure. Over there on the couch is my roommate, Dr. Marcus Hawk.” Varsha Introduces. 

“Salutations. I’ll give you two some space.” Marcus gives Gale a scornful look. He gets off the couch and walks over to the balcony door, struggles to open it, unlocks it, then watches the sunset wistfully outside. 

“So, any new gossip from the event center?” She asks. 

“Yes, that Jetsetter game show, it’s auditions were canceled. One of the animatronics was destroyed in transit. Or so I thought. What do you know,Gnashteeth?” Inquires the announcer. 

Gale smirks. “So you read it? And do you believe it?” 

“It explains your kayfabe backstory, your absences, and why you always do the original version of the spinning crane leg kick no matter how much it injured you. You were the one who invented it.” Reasons Cyrus. 

“Thanks for understanding.” She relaxes a bit. 

“Sorry, I am running late for another thing. Perhaps we can talk later at dinner or something. Farewell.” He interrupts politely before hurring out the door. 

“Sure.” Affirms Gale bittersweetly. Marcus opens up the balcony door and steps back in. “Please don’t lecture me on this. I gave you the same scathing looks when you told P.B. Blackrock almost a vorn ago.” 

“Actually, I’m surprised you haven’t told Rhodes sooner. At the start of our mission, Cloudburst thought you wouldn’t be able to keep it a secret to any humans.” Muses Marcus. 

“Yeah, I bet he was waiting to broadcast my fumbling back to everyone on Cybertron.” Gale reminisces. “He was such a fragging gossip. But a good guy. He would have loved to see humans develop social media.” 

“They all would have loved to see what the humans have become.” Marcus wipes a tear away from his cheek. 

“Have you been getting that feeling lately that our mission might be over? Atleast soon?” Gale asks. 

“Why? Did Prowl mention that being a possibility?” Marcus arches an eyebrow. 

“No. Our conversation was very brief.” Gale shakes her head. “I ask because you seem like you have your head in the clouds, literally. You’ve scarcely been here, always out with the other bots or engaged with ‘cons. You’ve made me go in and listen to Blackrock’s product ideas to see if they're ‘respectful’ or not to us. I’ve had to update Mags twice now! You used to never have me do the updates.” 

Marcus looks away. “You are right. Whirl told me something about not half-assing something. I’ve thought about it and I’d rather…” 

“You’re taking advice from Whirl?” Scoffs Gale. 

“She’s been getting better.” Marcus corrects. 

“Just because the earth isn’t up in flames yet….” She stops herself before saying something she’ll regret. “You’re kind of half-assing our mission by following her advice. Even if our mission is at it’s end, you need to give it your all, both in the shell and out of it.” 

Marcus walks into the kitchen. He opens up the dishwasher and begins to put them away. “I’ll do your chores for the next week. I’ve been half-assing those as well.” 

“Pfft, you should do them for the next stellar cycle.” Gale laughs. “But in all seriousness, what do you think will happen next to us and this mission? The humans seem to have a good handle on things, and don't really see why they need us to babysitter for them anymore.” 

Marcus froze up a bit. “Please do not blow up in my face but there is something about this mission that only I, Rattrap, and Orion know about. Ultra Magnus told me only to ever tell the others if the mission depended on it…” 

“Unicron is sleeping in the Earth’s core.” Gale states. 

“How do you know?” Marcus’s lip quivers. 

“Cloudburst found out almost immediately upon us arriving on earth. You are really bad at encrypting stuff. I’m surprised the Decepticons haven’t found out.” Gale explains. 

Marcus just blinks at her and drops a plate back into the sink, sending a fountain of soapy water onto him. 

“Don’t worry, they haven’t confirmed it.” Gale hurriedly continues. 

“I know. Only the archives in Iacon have the complete datatraxs necessary to deduce Unicron’s location. Orion made sure of that. And neither the Storm Seekers or Trackers have sensitive enough sensors to detect Unicron at this moment. It’s not in their interest unless Megatron tells them. And by that point…” Marcus elaborates. 

“The King Buckethead would probably arrive personally on the Nemesis to investigate. We’d all need to all relocate on Earth just to defend it. I bet the humans would go nuclear in the progress.” Gale speculates forlornly. 

“We can’t let it happen.” Marcus affirms. 

“Did Fanzone or does Fowler know?” Gale grabs the file and rummages through it. The file given to them lists the Autobot’s mission on Earth; to provide protection and guide humanity to the stars while remaining as non-interfering as possible. It details many unexplained instances from prehistory as the doings of Decepticon attempts to destroy the human race in its infancy. These events stop though somewhere within the Industrial Revolution. The text attributes this to the Decepticon’s conscious efforts to remain hidden and deceptive. Finally the file mentions what might happen if the Decepticons ever get more bold, some of which were already happening like more frequent sightings that needed Autobots to be spread thin across the globe.

“It’s not in the file. I’ve alluded to Unicron’s presence as a possible geoweopon to Fanzone in the past. I’d expect Fowler to only know what Fanzone left behind.” Marcus shakes his head as he resumes washing the dishes. 

“Have you talked to Fowler yet? So far, she just seems to be keeping in contact with Kelly.” Gale asks. 

“I didn’t even know Fowler was a woman.” Says Marcus. 

“So you’re oblivious too. I only know that because Kelly likes the sound of Fowler’s voice. I think she wants to get lucky with Fowler, if you know what I mean.” Gale jokes. 

Chapter Text

A dark car slices along crowded city streets. The bright neon lights and fireworks dance across the glossy black paint and silver accents. No onlookers can peer into the tinted windshield and windows but if they could they would be met with no driver. Not that it was a concern for the car. It weaves in and out of the two right lanes, purposefully and closely cutting off other drivers to an angered cacophony of blaring horns and sirens. The driverless car is an older model, dating back to the mid sixties yet still fresh as the day as if it just rolled out of the factory. It alternates between speeding by and driving straight through red lights. Before the police catch on, the car takes a hard turn onto another street and dashes onto another road. Massive resort casinos dominate the left side with shiny signs and long driveways. The car turns in and saunters up the roundabout around a dazzling fountain. It parks along the side of the fountain and out of the way of charter buses, limousines, and luxury cars. 

A few people scoff as they walk by the car and into the casino, saying how the car belongs at a small town summer car show and not in front of Sin City’s biggest casinos. The car rumbles its disapproval as it scans the exiting patrons for possible targets. Perhaps someone looking for a ride. Perhaps someone young and frail, perfect for crushing. Perhaps someone who can scream. 

A young man exits out of the casino in a large crowd only to be singled out as his peers separate and leave on different buses, limousines, or head for their hotel rooms. He struts out lopsided into the street like a Velocitronian racer drunk on engex. The car juts forth to catch his dangling arm. It flicks open it’s front passenger door to allow him inside. “Woah, thanks dude.” He utters as he stumbles into the unfamiliar vehicle. The door slams shut behind him. The car rolls out of the parking spot and through the rest of the roundabout. Before the car can exit, a shining, spiraling portal appears. The car drives straight through, the shimmering and spinning greens and blues looking inconspicuous among the flashing lights of resorts, rides, and restaurants. 

The Groundbridge portal opens up, transporting the car and drunken passenger into another location hundreds of miles away. The car rumbles down a dusty road. Gone are the sleek, smooth streets and constant gleam of the city. Rickety wood and wire fences run parallel with the road. The dark horizon spans a near full 180 degrees, only closed in by the endless plains and the road. Gentle stars cast very little light on the road. The car hungrily chases a coyote off the road, eager to feel the crunch of fur and blood smear across it’s tire. The animal scampers under the fence to a chorus of mumbling moos that rise into manure scented air. 

“Ugh, it smells like a barn in here. Must’ve been the eggs or something.” Mutters the man. 

The car drives through a new Groundbride, displeased with the destination and goes onto one more fitting for butchery. 

Sleet and hailstones hammer down on the car’s hood, roof, and trunk. The car skids and slides along the curving mountain road. The cliffs below and beyond shouded in distant darkness. The car’s wheels spiral and growl for purchase against the slippery, invisible black ice. The car reaches its zenith as it crashes against the guard rail, without which the vehicle and occupant would perish. The drunken man inside rattles around aimlessly as he babbles utter nonsense. The car’s right front wheel brushes against the posts of the rail, catching between them. The car rushes forth and to the side, spinning through the curve and tumbling on its side. 

The door swings open, knocking the man out onto the icy street. The car shifts, paneling coming unplugged and condensing. Wheels and doors unlock and tuck into the chest, the windshield shattering and being reabsorbed into the legs. A dark antlered helm coated in red glares down upon its passenger. 

The man stares in vapid disbelief upon the Decepticon. Roadkill, leader of the Trackers, takes a step forward and kneels in front of the man. A sadistic scowl graces his silvery-face as his taloned hand lurches toward the man. He strikes forth, his long fingers skewer the man through the chest. The human shutters and shouts as he dies of shock. Blood gurgles out of the drunk’s mouth and into Roadkill’s joint. Roadkill flicks the man off to the cliff below. The wind whips his body as it crashes against the rocks and bare trees. 

“A pity. I like it when they scream.” Roadkill bemoans with a scoff. 

“Why do you bother killing humans when there are more Autobots to offline? Oh right your love for gore. Guess you have a bloodlust.” Snarks someone behind him. 

Roadkill growls a bit as he spins on his heel struts to face Jetstorm. “What do you want, Jetstorm?” Asks the Tracker bluntly. 

“Notice anything different?” Asks Jetstorm as he takes off his faceplate to give a weak grin. 

Roadkill looks up and down the Seeker’s heavily modified body. Jetstorm’s vents flare open and close like the ragged breathing of a hunted, wild animal. His hovering is uneven, sending torrents of hot air and melting the ice beneath him. Frozen rain scatters across his dented plating. “You look like you need a good recharge and spend a vorn in a CR Chamber. Also you lost that fan girl of yours.” Roadkill remarks.

“A little snake offlined her. These Autobot rebels are out of control! All the points that my team had earned and suddenly the Autobots climbed tenfold from a bonus round! I need a combo breaker! And I think you do too.” Jetstorm explains quickly. 

“I do not need to align my Trackers and I with your band of mutants. I just need to ask Lady Shadow Stalker for reinforcements and she gives me a squadron of elite and loyal Trackers. It's only when a Seeker develops a fault does Lord Starscream bother to send them down to you.” Refuses Roadkill.

“Pffft! We still outnumber the Autobots! But we haven’t put a dent into them. They are on the road, flying in the skies, sneaking through this dirtball’s forests and crushing us! It is unfair! It is unbalanced! We need to put a stop to it! I don’t care if I was sent here because I choose to be an individual but I still have a duty to the Decepticon Cause. You have that same duty! Our forces have that same duty! Please align yourself with me! I will submit to you!” Pleads Jetstorm. His legless strut hinges beneath him as he grips the ice with his sharp fingers. 

Roadkill scoffs at him. “I don’t accept your theatrics both as my equal or my sycophant.” The begging reminded the tracker all too much of the dynamic between Emperor Megatron and his Air Commander, the base for which all Seekers derived from. It was a dynamic that only led to trechery through pity.  

“What have you accomplished without me? You and your Trackers have been on Earth for 100,000 years and what have you done to snuff out the humans? Nothing! We could have destroyed all of them in the African cradle but now they are reaching their little fleshy hands into the sky!” Jetstorm monologues. He gets up and flies over the edge. A torrent of missiles blast from his shoulder pods. They fly down to the forests below. Upon hitting the ground, each blows up in a bright fireball, making the cold night seem like a shining day. The trees catch fire, the pluming flames climbing up the cliff sides. 

Roadkill scrambles down the rocky side. His cloven hooves and heeled struts land on the burning undergrowth as his vents fill with ash and smoke. “What are you doing?” He shouts as Jetstorm hovers down beside him. 

“What, this?” He says joyfully with the wave of his hand. “This is just a small sight of what we could accomplish, together.”
Roadkill lunges at the Seeker and clamps his hand around Jetstorm’s mouth. “This will get us all exterminated by humans! We are to stay hidden. Just like the Autobots! Robots in disguise.” 

Jetstorm flusters up and puts his hands before him. “Why compare us to Autobots? I don’t mind revicing the attention of the humans. They are no match for us.” Denies Jetstorm. 

“I have developed a personal affection towards this planet but the Decepticon Cause comes first. Peace through tyranny. Tyranny through deception. We can best do this to the humans if we stay hidden. Your attempts to manipulate mankind is your downfall. It is what got Nova Storm killed. Not Autobot luck. Our mission is to diminish the Autobot Resistance. You need to commit yourself to that before I consider an alliance between our factions.” Declares Roadkill as he turns to scale the cliffside back up to the road. 

“Roadkill, wait.” Jetstorm calls out as he flies alongside the climbing Tracker. “I have a plan.” 

“All you have been doing is planning.” Groans Roadkill as he saunters onto the slick road. 

“True. But this time it is worth listening to. This plan will take the Autobots out into the open.” Proposes Jetstorm.

“What is it, Jetstorm? I get tired of all of your proposals and plans.” Bemoans Roadkill as he turns toward the dramatic Seeker. 

“The Autobots have commonly been sighted around the property of the billionaire and CEO, G.B. Blackrock. Additionally, a subsidiary of Blackrock Enterprises, KSI has begun development of a series of wearable and transformable technologies for use as personal devices. Many of these proposals resemble descriptions of Cybertronian devices like data-cyclinders, cortical psychic patches, and even groundbridges.” Jetstorm explains as he flashes a few press statements upon a hologram. 

“Perhaps, this is more than a coincidence but how can we exploit it in our favor?” Questions Asks Roadkill, intrigued by Jetstorm’s thorough seriousness about anything. 

Jetstorm flashes photos of a square-jawed bald man wearing large glasses. “This is Joshua Joyce, director of KSI. He has expressed an interest in weapons manufacture however G.B. Blackrock keeps dismissing his plans. I believe there is resentment there and we can fulfill Joyce’s ideas. Through my failed endeavor to get Jetsetters on the air, I made acquaintances among the humans. I made connections with people who can help us get close to Joshua Joyce.” Jetstorm continues. 

“You didn’t show up to them in your robot mode?” Roadkill inquires. 

“No, I wouldn’t go against protocol, not without good cover-” He starts. 

“Yes, animatronics are outstanding cover.” Roadkill remarks. 

“You had the Groundbridge generator installed. I had the holomatter avatar generator. I propose we confront Joshua Joyce and allow him to create weaponry based on Decepticon technology. It’s far more valuable to him than what scraps the Autobots can provide. There is know way he’d refuse.” Jetstorm explains. 

“And what’s in it for us?” Roadkill inquires. 

“Soft power. The Autobots have the advantage over us because they have integrated themselves among humanity. They have their trust. We need to gain that trust and do what we do. Tyranny through Deception. Peace through Tyranny.” Jetstorm lectures. “I’ve tried in the past to acquire soft power but now, together, we can do something transformative for the Earth and humanity!” 

“And what if Joyce rejects our proposal?” Grunts Roadkill. 

“I don’t see why he would. If he does end up getting antsy, I could always set my holomater avatar to resemble him and play out the rest of the role.” Jetstorm muses. 

“And what would my Tracker’s role be? This all seems like stuff you can do by yourself.” Roadkill asks. 

Jetstorm freezes a bit. “Why do you doubt my plans? It’s brilliant!” 

“You got one of your own killed and your recent bid for ‘soft power’ was found out before it could be enacted. I have reasons to be skeptical.” Roadkill retorts as he scratches against the icy road. 

“I need your Tracker’s stealth.” Jetstorm points at the black car-former. 

“Or you could bother to keep your speakers shut for more than an astro-minute.” Snaps Roadkill. 

Jetstorm hovers for a moment in silence. “Fine. I’ll do it myself. However, if I can get Joyce on our side, you will help me.” He proposes. 

“That’s a pretty big if. And you didn’t say the magic words.” Roadkill says with a smile. 

“Will you help me?” Grunts Jetstorm as he dips down. 

“You have yourself a deal.” Roadkill confirms as he transforms and slides down the mountainside and into the mist and smoke below. 

Chapter Text

White wings fringed with blue metal feathers slice through skies as dark as the flier is wondrous. A long neck descends out of the white and gold striped fuselage, beaming power radiating beneath the thick plating. Clawed limbs grab at the air below as a tail whips behind in the wind. Sky Lynx’s gilded smile raises high above into the sky as Orion Pax falls out of his cargo bay. 

“Sky Lynx! Warn me next time!” Shouts the Autobot as he tumbles through the air. A blue and gold jet, almost as dazzling in the air as Sky Lynx himself, dives down underneath the falling founder of the Autobots. Orion snatches the delta wing of the plane as they spin around, flipping him onto their back. “Thanks, Metalhawk.” Orion thanks as the pretender lowers him gracefully to the ground. 

“Sorry, but I wanted more gleaming white edges to shine when the sun comes up.” Retorts Sky Lynx as he further splits into his two halves, a muscular, mechanical lynx and a slender archeopteryx. Each form sharing the same mind and spark, split between them, yet each large enough to be a mount for most Cybertronians. If they could handle that much fabulousness. 

“Ugh, as though we can handle more of you.” Bemoans Rattrap as he crawls out Sky Lynx’s golden lion head. The robotic cat reels back in disgust as the cycle-bot steps out onto the grass. Flecks of rust dredge the ground, utterly ruining the silky blades and twinkling dewdrops. Sky Lynx shrinks away onto a spot untarnished in the moonlit meadow they stood in. 

“I need more surface area to soak up the sunrays.” Chortles Sky Lynx.

“Uh, the sun won’t be up for a couple more hours! What are ya, a solar panel?” Questions Rattrap incredulously. 

“Well, someone around here needs to keep up appearances since our leader clearly will not. Plus, it will take a while for me to find the right pose. If not, I know a cosmetics surgeon among the Trackers who shares my passions. I believe you know him too, Rattrap.” Sky Lynx pries. The shuttle-bot could be in two places at once, of course he found out somehow. 

“Enough chatter, we have work to do.” Says Metalhawk as they land, transforms, and sets Orion down next to them. 

“Yes, what work do we have to do?” Asks Orion as he looks up to Metalhawk. 

“Look over there.” Says Metalhawk as they point in the direction of a large radio tower rising above the soft rolling windswept fields. “ Gnashteeth and I installed it about a century ago. It helps receive and sort through undercover human radio signals of interest. Now, we need to replace it to sense 5G signals. Sky Lynx, could you hand us the parts in box one?” 

Sky Lynx’s bird half shakes his left wing, a crate falls out of his shoulder pit and rattles against the ground, the lid opens and rods spill out. He grabs one large, thick rod with his foot and hands it over to Metalhawk. “Would this due?” He asks.

“Yes, I suppose. Orion, organize the rods by size. Rattrap go get the wiring in order. Sky Lynx, have your lion component begin constructing the new radio tower. Your archeopteryx component can help me dismantle our current tower, top to bottom.” Orders Metalhawk as they leap into the air. 

Sky Lynx’s parts go their separate ways, the lion lying down in the grass as he watches the red and blue Autobot take rods out of the box and put them in order from largest to smallest, gradually forming large piles. The archeopteryx rises into the night sky and joins Metalhawk at the top of the tower. Metalhawk carefully pulls panels off and unplugs the wires. They grab at the top antenna, pulls it out of the rod, and hands it over to Sky Lynx who takes hold of it in a taloned foot. Gradually, the two of them moved down the old tower. Metalhawk would delicately unconnect the wires and stash them away in their subspace pockets then hand over the thickening and lengthening rods of steel it felt like. Whenever Sky Lynx could hold no more, by that point he held several in his beaked mouth, grasped by his feet, and coiled around his skinny tail, he flew back to the ground to set the beams and rods down. “What will we use these old beams for?” Asks Sky Lynx as he flies back up. 

“We will reuse them for something. I have a few storage units we can put them in until then.” Suggests Metalhawk as Sky Lynx flies up beside them. 

Sky Lynx looks over his beating wings at the distant horizon. Just swaying grass as far as the eye can see. A sliver of sun sends streaks of yellow among the deep blue, starry sky. Down below, his lion half and Orion Pax construct the base for the second radio tour. Rattrap assists, doing the wire work. Sky Lynx gives a weak huff in defeat. 

“Everything alright, Sky Lynx?” Asks Metalhawk. 

Both halves of the Autobot look back at them with a scowl. “Yes. I am just not used to doing this much manual labor. But, I will manage.” Admits Sky Lynx as he reaches the same height in the air column as Metalhawk. 

“But you work your tail off flying Autobots from one side of the galaxy to the next. I have seen you depleted of energon blasting your way through Decepticon blockades with no complaints.” Counters Orion Pax as he erects another rod on the new base. 

“Manual labor and fulfilling my designation are different things. And I am not complaining. If you want me to complain, I will.” Dismisses Sky Lynx with a flick of his airfoil tipped tail. Without warning, the Autobot shuttle erupts into a series of complaints, “Why must I be split into? I am doing twice the work of everyone else. It isn’t fair! My claws are scratched and my wings feel sprained. We do not have a medic here. How will I ever recoat the electronic paint job? Or perhaps I should go with electrum? I already have it on my accents…” 

“Enough already! I see it shining up your big metal cranium chamber! It’s the only thing that's ah keepin me from blasting it through to your brain module!” Snaps Rattrap. 

“My apologies. See? Are you all glad with how modest I am?” Sky Lynx asks. 

“Might as well rename you Commander Modesty.” Mumbles Rattrap. 

“You are skilled in many areas, Sky Lynx. But now, get back to work.” Metalhawk orders as they hand him a steel beam. Sky Lynx takes and carries the beam. Gradually, the two flying bots float down to the ground and sort the base into the size ranked piles. Sky Lynx’s graceful, serpentine neck turns to look at the gleaming helm of its counterpart who sat in the dew soaked grass. The two halves rotated around each other before merging into Sky Lynx’s full form. Behind on the horizon, the sun burst forth into the retreating darkness. Heralds of pink, purple, and yellow clouds streak around the sky with the newborn sun rays. The glow highlights against the white panels, dancing by the blue feathering, and contrast next to his golden armor. Sky Lynx spreads out his wings and closes his optics hidden behind a windshield visor to soak up the rays and let everyone bask in his handsomeness and greatness. He opens his optics and expects to see the other three bots gaze upon him with astonishment and see Sky Lynx for who he truly is, a miraculous embodiment of Primus defined attractiveness. 

They all didn’t even give him a glance. Orion Pax and Metalhawk talk by sorted out rods, deciding which can be used for finishing the radio tower and what can be disregarded. Rattrap stands off slurping on an unmarked can. Sky Lynx scrambles over to the leader of the 54th Epsilon Division and looms over him. “What can I do for ya, Commander Modesty?” Asks Rattrap. 

“Did you see it?” Asks Sky Lynx as he lowers his long, beaklike head to Rattrap’s optic level, his lower jaw tickled by the swaying grasses. 

“See what?” Mumbles Rattrap as he stands up with a creak and a groan. He stumbles over to the half-way completed radio tour. He pockets away the empty can into his subspace compartments and shakes himself to full alertness. 

“Nothing. Disregard it.” Dismisses Sky Lynx as Rattrap starts pulling off little chips of red paint from his forearms. 

“Yo, Metalhawk, you want us to get a start on finishing this thing?” Rattrap hollers. 

Metalhawk looks over at the two mechs and nods. “Sky Lynx can set them in place. Rattrap, you do the wiring. Use only the new rods. Orion and I are going to transport the old rods to a storage unit in a nearby human town.” Orion drops down and transforms into his truck alternate mode. Metalhawk lowers rods and beams into Orion’s bed, gradually filling it up. Once it was full, Metalhawk adopted their human shell and identity as Marcus Hawk. He gets up into Orion Pax, the truck squirms with slight disgust as he harbors a passenger even if it was one who he knew and respected. 

Sky Lynx knew the feeling well. He had been a shuttler since he was forged. Of course for him the process wasn’t as simple as letting smaller bots come inside your alt-mode. It involved mass shifting himself large enough for everyone to sit comfortably as well as maintain an earthly disguise. His solution is a half jumbo jet half space shuttle alternate mode. Oh but it pained him to not be able to split apart into shuttle and land crawler like his natural forms. He looks longingly as Orion Pax drives away. 

“What ya doing, getting all emotional? Bring me up to the top and let's finish this thing before they get back.” Snaps Rattrap. 

Sky Lynx turns his long neck towards the rusty cycle-bot and extends out a single tarnished talon. Rattrap grabs it and is pulled up to the midway point of the new radio tower. Sky Lynx recalls the plans for the previous tower and claims rods of equal size to order in each corner. Rattrap goes in and connects the wires together as Sky Lynx constructs the next layer. As the sun and Sky Lynx fly higher into the sky, he spies Orion Pax driving back towards them. The truck parks and lets his pretender passenger position more rods into the bed before driving back. 

“Huh, couldn’t even bother with us. Like we were scrap metal.” Gruffs Rattrap as he gets back to work soldering a red wire with the blue wire. 

Sky Lynx huffs out his vents with frustration as he slots a beam into the one beneath it, together they connect in a loud thud. 

“Takin it personally, Sky Lynx?” Asks Rattrap, looking up at him with a bit of concern in his red optics. 

“Sometimes, I wonder what I did to end up in this lot of life. Where the thousands of vorns slip through your digits like motes of sand.” Sky Lynx bemoans. 

“Ya wanna talk about it?” Rattrap asks. 

“Why indulge me into conversation, He Who Gives the Nicknames?” Sky Lynx questions as he waits for the bronze autobot to finish up at the wiring. The shuttler looks down at the remaining rods, only a few more levels remain, perhaps they will get done before Orion and Metalhawk get back again. 

“We’ve never really talked about our pasts before. A bot like you must have a history.” Observes Rattrap with rare sincerity. 

“How do you think a bot such as myself arises?” Asks Sky Lynx as he shifts his wings. 

Rattrap looks up at Sky Lynx, exasperated. “No, I don’t know. Where did ya come from? What planet were you forged on?” 

Sky Lynx stiffens a bit indignantly. “You know where I am from. I told you the day we first met. Just before we departed Cybertron for this planet. I am from Devisiun, the Combination Planet, Colony of Nexus Prime.” 

A knowing look crosses Rattrap’s face. “But you're like a reverse combiner, you split apart…” He starts. 

“And recombine. Under the light of the Binary Stars, our sparks mutate, allowing us to combine. Some siblings form two halves of one alternate mode. Others live separate lives until five or six individuals come in contact and form a mighty gestalt. Two alternate modes will form a singular robot mode. Or in my case, I can split apart in both robot and vehicle mode. The possibilities are endless.” Explains Sky Lynx as he finishes constructing the outline for the radio tour. 

“Then a how did you end up with the beasty bits?” Asks Rattrap.

Sky Lynx gives the cycle-bot a sharp look. Millions of stellar-cycles of a Cybertron controlled by Functionism had caused near universal damnation of nonstandard-formers. They were beneath the Disposable Class of those who turned into say a memory stick of audio-cassette because at least they had been of use at sometime. Even on the Jungle Beast planet of Eukaris, those who did not fit into the four tribes of Scale, Fur, Wave, and Cloud Walkers or talents as a Fateweaver, were ostracized outcasts. This was the fate of many Fuzors. Other bots had beast-like robot modes, both humanoid and not, while still having vehicular or “useful” alternate modes. “Some bots are just forged like this, Rattrap.” Sky Lynx reminds him, looking up and down his crusted, rusty frame. 

“Yeah, I guess but surely there’s a story about yours?” Pries Rattrap as he scurries up to the tippy top of the tower.

“My original body was destroyed in battle against the Decepticons, as part of their first siege. But my spark is exceptionally strong and was able to be transplanted into a new protoform. I was reforged. My spark was hardened with such a primal, bestial rage that it has been reflected in my present, magnificent form.” Sky Lynx explains in a half lie, tinting his visor and keeping his sharklike mouth shut. 

Rattrap doesn’t pry though and instead finishes all the wiring. “Done. I get the feeling too. Of switching bodies. Not as extreme as yours but when your spark’s on the line, the reforge does things to you. Did you change your designation? I did.” Rattrap relates as he steps toward the edge and reaches out for Sky Lynx’s talon. The shuttlecraft takes him and lowers the tiny bot to the ground. 

Before he reaches the grassy ground, Sky Lynx feels himself sucked back to that fateful battle, the Decepticon’s Siege on Polyhex. The skies above the City-State alight with bombs and blaster fire. Stars streaked out by Seekers and the cityscape leveled by Devastator's destruction. Before his current designation, Sky Lynx flew low against the Rust Sea, his colors were white and red then, if his wings beat up flecks of the shifting sheets, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was rescuing and evacuating as many innocent citizens as he could across the Sea and to Iacon. He sustained hit after hit, strain as he masshifted to his limits to accommodate as many bots as he could, flung his engines at full blast to go back and forth, and biting back stasis lock. Until he stopped, empty of load as he hovered staring down the barrel of a Seeker he had once thought was his best friend, amica who could have become his conjunx. The null ray was pointed at him and beyond that the snickering face of a sellout Air Commander who traded their friendship for a seat as Megatron’s second in command secretary. His paralyzed body plummeted to the crashing waves and was swept back to shore, spark still in case and recovered by medics. He was brought to a medical facility on Devisiun and reforged, taking up the moniker, Sky Lynx. He kept the same prefix. “Yes, I did.” Sky Lynx admits, landing softly in the grass as he looks out to see Orion Pax and Hawk returning. 

“Care to tell me?” Asks Rattrap cheekily. 

“Only if you tell me yours.” Replies Sky Lynx. Rattrap stops dead, his face starts leaking lubricants, droplets dripping down his neck. 

Orion Pax approaches them, lets  Dr. Hawk out who immediately discards his pretender shell, and transforms. 

“Glad to see you two finished. Sky Lynx, I know you have done a ton of work today but I need you to transport us and the rest of the rods back to Sterling City.” Says Metalhawk. 

“Of course.” Says Sky Lynx as he drops down and collapses into his shuttle-jumbo jet alternate mode. Rattrap and Orion file inside carrying the remaining rods. 

Sky Lynx closes up his cargo ramp and takes off, not before his landing gears beat and stain grass along the rubber. Metalhawk joins his side in the skies. He drifts higher and higher into the stratosphere. He reigns back his speed, not wanting to seem even more suspicious to the human air traffic control towers. Though by holding back it will take them longer as they fly from the continent of Europe back to Western North America. 

By night, Sky Lynx is flying over the Atlantic Ocean. Above and several wing lengths away Metalhawk cuts through the air silently as escort. Inside Sky Lynx, Rattrap sleeps haphazardly in the pilot's seat while Orion mulls over the historical inaccuracy on some holo-vid. Sky Lynx looks upwards at the shooting star streak across like fire in the sky. I wonder if this is where it will rest. I wonder if you will finally embrace your destiny, Orion.

Chapter Text

“So, he tells me how he’s been purposefully half-assing shit, says how he’ll try and not force all the human stuff on to me. And then last night, they flew out for Europe just to repair an old signal interceptor tower of ours. They can be impossible sometimes.” Gale groans as she and Kelly lay upon the lounge chairs of Sterling Spa and Lounge. 

“Both ‘em and Blackrock. He’s a good guy but he has me go into every meeting with him and always asks for my input even when I don’t give a damn about half the stuff he does.” Kelly complains as she lifts up a foot from the bath at the end of the chair. Still not too pruny, yet. “Do you think Marcus is getting restless?”

“Maybe. It's so unlike him though. He’s always calling me the restless one.” Gale mumbles. 

“I mean, are you two getting tired of being on Earth?” Kelly looks over at the pretender. A towel is wrapped around her muscular body, her bob cut pulled back into a short ponytail, a rare look of thought upon her chiseled face. 

“Our mission isn’t over and the others aren’t replacements, just reinforcements.” Gale deflects, still trying to reason something out. Kelly just watches her. “I’m not tired of Earth. Recently, I kind of told my boss about the mission. I’m too invested now to walk away but Marcus…” 

Kelly leans back. “Let it all out.” 

Gale gets flustered. “It’s a bit of a heavy topic.” 

“Spill.” Kelly says. 

“I thought the point of going to the spa was for the both of us to relax.” Gale gets onto her side and stares at the woman. 

“It is. I already letted out my stuff. Now it's your turn.” Kelly pushes. 

“I’m not ready anymore.” Gale admits. 

“Fine. Last week, I rented a SUV to do some off-roading and then it exploded.” Kelly says. 

Gale rose up in her seat and looked at her. “That’s it?”

“Yep. I have a very good insurance policy.” Kelly goes on. 

“But how did it blow up? Why do all your cars blow up?” Gale questions half-heartedly. 

“It just happens.” Kelly shrugs. 

“But why don’t we ever see this happen?” Asks Gale.

“Hush. Knock on wood and pray it doesn’t happen. I don’t need you foreshadowing the worst.” Kelly silences her as she knocks her knuckles against a wooden stool beside her. 

Gale glares at her and does the same. “I don’t want to make baseless speculation about Marcus right now. It’s something between us and not for your tea time drama. I’m only getting more stressed trying to think of something I’m willing to share with you.” 

“And that's fine. You’re allowed to keep things private and say hey, we’re going to put a pin in that.” Kelly smiles. 

Gale’s face softens and she turns away. The two women carry through the end of their treatment without much back and forth. 

______________________________________________________________________________

“Wait up! I have the keys.” Kelly calls out as she scrambles after Gale. The pretender stops beside her small red convertible, a small Autobot insignia placed on the trunk. Underneath, droves of duct tape keep it together. Kelly stands haggardly beside her car and clicks the key, unlocking it and lowering down the cover so that the taller woman could fit in comfortably. Gale sits in the passenger seat and Kelly takes up the driver's seat. 

Kelly backs up and leaves the spa parking lot. “Do you want me to just drop you off at your apartment or…” Kelly offers. 

Gale stiffens up in her seat as she turns around to look behind the car. A large orange pick up truck grinds up behind them, looming over their convertible. Gale quickly raises up the canvas and crouches down. A giant armored vehicle accompanied by a red sports car closed in on Kelly’s left. A black motorcycle with a flaming paint job cuts them off on the ride as a blue mid-engine sudan slips back to stay in front of them. Not too far overhead, a red harrier jet and dark blue attack helicopter circle around. 

“WHAT DO I DO?” Kelly shouts as her hands remain locked onto the steering wheel. She fights with the gas pedal and brakes to keep a safe amount of distance between herself and the surrounding Trackers. 

“How the frag did they find us?” Gale gasps as she looks around. Her eyes narrow at the sight of the Autobot sticker. “Why do you have that on your car!” 

“I thought it was cute. Plus go team!” Chuckles Kelly through the stranglehold of panic. 

“Why would you do something so stupid!? It's an easy way for the Trackers to identify us.” Gale shouts. 

“Then why do you all have it on your chests? It's like having your last name tattooed onto your forehead!” Dismisses Kelly as she gesticulates wildly. The orange truck behind them rams into her convertible. Gale instinctively transforms into her mechanical suit, the halfway point between the pretender shell and the human underneath. The outline of a face pokes out underneath a dark helmet while her body is covered by purple metal yet lacks the kibble of her alt mode. She drops down beneath the eyeline of the window. 

Gale looks behind and points at each of the cons, identifying and counting them. “Jasper, Breakdown, Knockout, Shatter, Dropkick, Flamewar, and Counterpunch. Great, they got some pairs in them.” 

“You two need to get off the road. That way you can escalate this without putting lives or your identities at risk.” A voice talks to them through Kelly’s car radio. 

“Fowler? Are you remotely driving my car?” Asks Kelly, recognizing the voice. 

“So we finally met.” Grunts Gale as the orange ‘con behind them gives them another fender bender. 

“Yes. You seemed to be incapasitated with panic. Gale, you’re capable of dealing with this many Decepticons, right?” Confirms the agent as she remotely drives the car into the right lane an off-ramp comes up. 

“Yes but this ain’t the best circumstance for me. I need to be able to fully transform.” Gale confirms. 

“Understood. Hang on tight.” The agent sends the car into a sharp right onto the off-ramp. The orange pick-up, armored vehicle, and red sports-car race after Kelly’s car. The blue Tracker and cycle-con fail to merge in time and continue down the main road. The black motorcycle does a wheelie in frustration and spouts out flame from her exhaust pipe. The harrier and helicopter burst back up into the sky to survey before departing, their flight modes too conspicuous at such a low altitude. 

Kelly’s car whips up the ramp and takes a hard left at the stop sign up top, cutting in front of oncoming traffic and forcing the Trackers to stop their pursuit, if only for a moment. Kelly grips her steering wheel tightly and tries to move along with Fowler’s remote actions. Perhaps an attempt to play hero? Gale raises an eyebrow. The convertible speeds downhill into a small suburb and blasts straight through a roundabout, leaping the curb without a care. Gale jolts up in her seat and unclips her seat belt, ready to leap out as soon as they have enough cover. 

The Trackers resume their chase. The orange truck, Jasper, leads the way. Breakdown and Knockout follow behind her, the red sports-car falling behind as the chase party advanced over rougher roads. Machine guns and rocket launches spring up along the roofs, hood and doors of their alt modes. “Oh shit!” Kelly screams out as she takes a look back before ducking down and curling up on her seat. “They won’t shoot, right?” 

“Not if we can get them back into the open.” Gale states. Fowler sends Kelly’s car down a backroad just alongside the highway. Upon the main road, the blue sudan, Counterpunch keeps pace within them while the cycle’con, Flamewar, lunges for the shoulder. She partly transforms and aims a short spear at Kelly’s car. 

Jasper flicks a machine gun over at Flamewar. The black femme draws back her weopon and hopes back on the highway. Counterpunch drives alongside to keep the scene hidden and keep her in line. The Decepticon Trackers pull away their weapons and back off a bit from Kelly’s car. 

“Why did they do that?” Kelly asks, pulling her hands away from her fearful face. 

“The RID Treaty. It’s one of the few treaties between Decepticons and Autobots that both sides recognize and uphold. It state’s that Cybertronian combat must be done in secret if it takes place outside of the former Council of World’s territories.” Gale explains. “It’s why they're still in vehicle mode and why I haven’t fully transformed yet. Fowler, slow down. I’m going to get out.” 

Kelly’s car speeds up rapidly and takes a sharp turn up onto a driveway. Gale jumps out of the car and rushes into the woods. 

______________________________________________________________________________

Gale blasts out of her human shell and straight into her beast mode. A 12 meter long beast covered in purple and black sheet metal and bronze spikes bursts where a human sized shell once stood. Gnashteeth wriggles, the spikes and armor plating on her back locking down so as to not rattle as she stalks alongside the car chase. Her red optics target Jasper as the Trackers rumble on the backroad. The Eukarian set off in a hasty prowl. 

The highway curves away and up as it goes into the mountain pass. The car chase continues on to rougher roads. Gnashteeth keeps up with it and is quiet, save for one radio transmission. “Currently engaged with Trackers, In a remote area just a few kliks away from where I-90 enters the pass. Back-up would be appreciated.” 

The sounds of rumbling tires and stressed engines are replaced by the characteristic ‘TSCHE-CHU-CHU-CHU-TSCHE’ as Kelly’s car stops and the three Trackers get up. Knockout is the smallest, a lean, handsome mech with shining red and silver paint. He looks up gleefully at his partner, Breakdown, a broad-shouldered, navy blue ‘con with his hefty forearms transformed into gigantic war hammers. Jasper drives in front of Kelly’s car, the woman inside is nowhere to be seen, perhaps curled up on the floor of the car.

Jasper transforms. The front hood and fender slam down to form calves and feet. Truck doors extend out and fold to reveal red-striped arms. Her truck bed folds in and crumples up to make a solid torso. The windshield shatters and collapses around her exposed head, the light shining through makes it glow yellow, like a wild blond mane. 

Knockout turns one hand into a scalpel and plunges it straight through the Autobot sticker on Kelly’s car, puncturing the already caved in trunk. Jasper frowns with the realization. “So, it’s just a human. Is this how low they’ve stooped? Pathetic!” Jasper growls.

“Still worth a tear apart.” Breakdown observes. 

“You two can have it. This isn’t worth my time.” Huffs Jasper as she goes to leave the two Conjunx Endurae. 

Gnashteeth springs out of the shrubbery and lashes out her tail, swinging it in the direction of Kelly’s car. Knockout ducks down while Breakdown hammar’s her tail away. Jasper rushes forth and holds Gnashteeth’s jaws open before she can crunch the Tracker in half. “Come to this thing’s defense, huh!” Yells Jasper as she punches down at the Eukarian’s lower jaw. 

Gnashteeth fires out a laser pulse from her jaws and transforms into robot mode. The pulse continues as the tyrannosaur head comes down and out as the end of her right arm. Her legs straighten out into those expected for a humanoid while the lengthy tail narrows into a bladed chain whip. 

Knockout panics and scrambles down to his car mode as the laser pulse fires his way. Breakdown turns a war hammer into a shield and deflects it up to a tree, cutting it down and landing it on to Gnashteeth’s shoulder. She grinds her teeth as she processes how to proceed. Thousands of years fighting these ‘cons, often horribly outnumbered like now, gave her plenty of data as to what to expect. Jasper is close and prefers an honorable bout of fist-cuffs and partially-transformed charges. She hasn’t breaken out her crash helmet or spark extractor, yet. Knockout parks several meters away, optics possibly on Kelly’s car should Fowler make a move. Otherwise, he normally weaves in and out of the battle, scalpel as hand to plunge and dissect you where you stand. I can easily get him out of the way, except for Breakdown. The navy-blue con exclusively used his war-hammers and heavy blaster shots. He still possesses Velciotronian speed despite his huge frame. I’ve already lost the advantage of stealth. Perhaps, diplomacy?

Making up her mind for her, Kelly’s car starts up and swerves around the cybertronians, charging down the street. Knockout begins to chase after her. “Knockout! Leave it be. We have a beast to slay!” Orders Jasper as she postures in front of Gnashteeth with a smirk on her faceplate. Her wild ‘hair’ collapses down and reforms as a golden crash helmet. She slams down her head. 

Gnashteeth easily catches it in her left hand, the bladed whip retracted. “So predictable.” She yawns. 

Breakdown rushes down his hammer. Gnashteeth grabs it with her beast mode jaws. Knockout lurches out with his scalpel. She just kicks him aside and vents out in frustration. “You all speak about being ferocious, attacking Autobots without mercy and yet here you are at my mercy. Yes! Don’t you ever get bored of it?”

Jasper struggles underneath Gnashteeth’s grip and looks away. Breakdown swaps out the war-hammer for an open hand and stares down at it, gasping. Knockout stands up and frowns slightly. “Don’t answer her. It’s just another ploy at our spark-strings.” Jasper rumbles. 

Gnashteeth grimaces and cackles. “Yes! You catch on so well, Cheeto Puff!” She headbutts the orange Tracker with her own buckethead of a helm. Jasper punches at the Autobot’s chest plate and swings her legs around, trying to shake free. Breakdown bashes his hammers onto her back, causing her to stagger forth and drop Jasper. Gnashteeth staggers back, bracing herself as Jasper and Breakdown hammer down together repeatedly, their hits targeting the paneling over her joints, trying to dent them in a way to prevent her from transforming. Or even shrinking into my shell. 

She extends out the blade whip from her left forearm and lashes it out at Knockout. “Watch the paint job!” Shrieks the red’con as a barb strikes the fenders resting over his chestplate. Breakdown briefly breaks his concentration to make sure his partner is alright. Gnashteeth lurches away from the onslaught and fires out a laser pulse at Jasper, it grazes her shoulder. She continues to fire, pushing the orange Decepticon back up against the tree line. Jasper drops down and partially transforms, large tires replace her feet as exhaust pipes pop out and her plates lock together along her upper body. 

Jasper goes for a charge, bashing towards Gnashteeth like a doped up quarterback. Breakdown and Knockout posture behind them, blocking any escape. 

Jasper connects with the tyrannosaur helm, pushing past the wide gap and missing the giant serrated teeth. Gnashteeth fires out, the pulses failing to injure thanks to Jasper’s visor and crash helmet. The jaws struggle to slam shut, motors rumbling as even her teeth fail to puncture through Jasper’s thick plating. The Decepticon chuckles as she pries apart the beast’s jaws and throws Gnashteeth back. The saurian Autobot staggers and fully transforms into her beast mode, relocating her strength to her hydraulics. 

“Going in for another charge? You’re just as predictable as you claim we are!” Yells Jasper as she braces for the attack. 

Gnashteeth shakes her large head slowly and circles around the Trackers. Breakdown lifts up his hammers while Knockout eyes the situation with a pout on his silver face, paint chips freckled over his panels. “Trying to escape?” He calls out. The dinosaurian Bot roars back and dives her jaws down on him. Her jaws envelop half of the car-former and begin to crunch down. Breakdown retracts his hammers and places his hands on her lower jaw, trying to pry them apart. 

“Breakdown! Now’s not the time to get sentimental! We can repair him after we beat her tailpipe up her skid plate!” Jasper shouts as she rampages in, slamming her crash helmet onto Gnashteeth’s shoulder. The tyrannosaur whips her tail forth, the tip elongating out into a bladed whip that catches Jasper’s optic, hitting right underneath the visor. 

Breakdown splits his priorities and tears into Gnashteeth’s faceplating. She exerts enough force to keep Breakdown from tearing her jaws apart but his digits dig in deeply. Her onboard computers had yet to start screeching in her ear about how stasis lock is imminent but the dents on her body may prevent her from shrinking down into her pretender shell. I got stuff to do as a human!  

Knockout squirms, pinched between her rows of teeth. She hasn’t yet plunged an entire tooth into him. I have no qualms about killing him. I mean, I’ll feel bad for Breakdown, because of their conjunxs but also their ‘Cons. She sympathizes with the enemy for only so long. But maybe Knockout has some more use by keeping him alive. She crunches down, serrations piercing and slicing up his chestplate. 

“Knockout!” Breakdown shouts out and punches Gnashteeth’s chin. A few bronze sheets tumble down. Jasper bashes her helmet down onto the tyrannosaur’s body, broadening the dents. “Let him go!” Gnashteeth dulls the pain sensors all over her body and locks up more joints and servos, helping diminish Jasper’s further inflictions at the cost of her reaction and response time. 

Gnashteeth keeps crunching down. Knockout kicks his legs against the tip of her snout. One of his arms is pinned against his crushed torso while the other frantically slices into the roof of her mouth. He sticks his head back down her gullet. 

“Radio communication request from Decepticon signal. Designation: Knockout.” Reports her onboard computer. He finally wants to bargain. 

Gnashteeth opens up her jaws and drops Knockout. The ‘con is crushed like a tin can. Rows of puncture marks run down his chest and back, his spark casing visible through some deep slices. Breakdown rushes down and embraces his conjunx as energon pools out of Knockout’s mouth and wounds. Jasper looks at them and retracts her crash helmet, a splintery mane of shards shining as the sun begins to set. She pulls out a spark extractor. For me or for him? Not wanting to find out, Gnashteeth swipes her tail at Jasper as she lumbers away, joints stiff and uneasy. The orange Tracker stumbles a bit and turns around only to find the tyrannosaur gone. 

Gnashteeth puts on a burst of speed and sprints out into the forest. Once out of sight of the ‘cons, she begins a series of diagnosis programs and radio transmission. “The Trackers have been dealt with. One was critically injured. I have sustained injuries that while not life threatening may have impacted my ability to transform into robot mode or my pretender shell. Please prep a CR Chamber for me.” She reports. 

“Great! I wasted a detour then. I think Sky Lynx will be back soon, he has a chamber installed inside him.” Hot Rod replies immediately. 

“I thought you were supposed to be fast!” Gnashteeth retorts. 

“Earth isn’t the best place for me to show off my speed! Plus you have all these traffic laws and enforcement. It’s like a tire cramp on my style.” He complains. 

“Cybertron has laws too.” Gnashteeth counters as she waits for her diagnosis to come back, the last bit of the load is always the longest. 

“Had laws.” Hot Rod reminds her. 

“Don’t let Mags know you said that.” Gnashteeth says before signing off. “Alright, Computer, what’s the diagnosis?”

“Major damage sustained on external plating. While no internal systems were damaged, the plating now is arranged in a way that would make transformation or shell collapsible dangerous. CR Chamber treatment is recommended.” Her onboard reports. 

“Do a temporary reshape to allow for emergency transformation and greater mobility.” Gnashteeth orders. 

“Doing so will speed up the metabolism of Energon…” The computer trails off. 

“Do it.” Gnashteeth growls. The dents along her body fracture apart and slide past another, allowing for her motors to move unrestricted temporarily. She breaks into a gallop and heads vaguely in the direction of Blackrock Manor, hoping that Sky Lynx will be waiting there on the outskirts of the billionaire’s property. She hangs close to the highway while remaining out of sight. She joins back up with the backroad and walks along it before ducking back into the forest. But she pauses.

Parked up ahead is Kelly’s car: the trunk and back fenders are caved in, streaks of scratched off paint, and partially deflated tires. Gnashteeth zooms her optics in on the interior of the car. Kelly is sitting upright in her seat and laughing. Her head bangs back with a hearty chuckle. The car didn’t rumble with the bass of the radio nor did she have a phone in hand. Maybe she got lucky. Good for her. 

Chapter Text

Blackrock Building

“Are you thinking about taking flight for another mission? We do have a helicopter pad installed on the roof, you know.” Remarks Mr. Blackrock as he observes Dr. Marcus Hawk stares out at the setting sun through the floor to ceiling windows on the top floor, where their offices are located. 

“I don’t turn into a vtol jet. But you are right, I have another mission. We need to inspect and harvest from an Energon Mine in the Arctic Cordillera.” Dr. Hawk reports. 

“You don’t have locations closer?” Blackrock asks. 

“They’ve either been exhausted or are too close to residential areas for us to work. Although, Rattrap could probably excavate them.” Dr. Hawk explains as he takes a few steps away from the glass and takes out his phone. He scrolls through an app that details air traffic on his upcoming route. It appears clear. 

“What about the Decepticons? Have you had any trouble with them regarding the Energon mines?” Blackrock inquires. 

“No. The Trackers received regular shipments of Energon and weaponry from the larger Decepticon war machine. They are satisfied. The Storm Seekers receive less support. They are made up of Outliers and Outmodes from a large clone caste. They’re individuality comes at the cost of their resources.

“Technically, we don’t need that much Energon to live. It’s like sugar water to us. At the bare minimum, most organic life on Earth needs oxygen, glucose, and water to perform cellular respiration. But you can also metabolize other sugars, fats, and proteins. And you still need various vitamins, minerals, and amino acids as well. We can metabolize Energon in its crystalized or liquified forms. But we also can get energy from gasoline, jet fuel, various ores or scrap tech. Even organic hydrocarbons.” Dr. Hawk lectures a bit before refraining. 

Blackrock smiles beneath his slick mustache. “I am sure Cybertronian cooking is delicious, if I could even eat it without getting electrocuted. Do you miss it?” 

Dr. Hawk blinks before frowning slightly. “I don’t know.” He blurts as he hears the beeps of onboard diagnostics, a reminder of the strain placed on his substructure as it dealt with the constant mass shifting needed to compress his robot mode into the human shell. “I feel like my warranty has expired.” He laughs out. 

Blackrock blinks but softens his expression, trying to understand his friend’s predicament. “You are only 6 million years old. You’ve told me that you are still quite young for your race.” 

Marcus looks down to his phone and scrolls through immediate plane tickets. I need to cut down on my flight time. The less strain I put on myself transforming from pretender to robot, the better, right? “I’m not the person I was 4 million years ago. None of us are. It puts strain on the spark and substructure.” 

Mr. Blackrock nods and places a hand on Marcus’s shoulder before patting him on the back. “I understand. I best let you get going then.” 

Marcus took a step forward and nods, running a hand through his hair. It’s a bit too long. Oh right, I missed my appointment because of work. Or I missed work because of a mission. Doesn’t matter… “I'll try to be back in time for Tuesday’s meeting!” Dr. Hawk shouts as he breaks into a sprint for the elevator. 

Small Airport, Northern Canada

Marcus shivers as he exits the regional airport. His carry on bag rests alongside him. He unzips the bag and pulls out an overcoat and pulls it over his suit. He flips out his phone and taps into a GPS app. About 200 miles northwest to where the mine is located. He walks and looks around the small northern town he found himself in. 

There wasn’t much cover for him to transform behind. Aside from a stunted air traffic control tower, none of the town’s buildings strayed above two stories high. A small shopping strip welcomes newcomers across from the airport. Warehouses crowd around a river that cuts through the cold valley. Opposite the warehouse district, were a few dozen houses, small with thick walls and steep roofs. I guess I’ll do the least conspicuous option. 

Marcus turns a corner and walks between the airport and control tower. He dashes towards the fence blocking off a now mostly empty runway. At the far end, the plane he just got off is being refueled while a few personal planes taxi towards the hangers. Marcus flings his bag over the fence and drops onto his hands with legs back, ready to leap. 

“Suit on.” He begrudgingly commands. The pretender suit does well to block transmissions from ‘cons but also ‘bots including his own, necessitating the use of a verbal activation code. He jumps over the fence as his human clothing and flesh is subsumed by the gleam of gold and blue metal. He lands atop his bag, grabs it, opens up a compartment on his thigh, and shoves it into his subspace pockets. He sprints out into the open and then quickly transforms directly into vehicle mode. 

A dark blue fighter jet skids over the runway. 

“Ouch.” Metalhawk audibly grunts before popping their landing gears out. 

Several workers rush out onto the runway to investigate the mysterious aircraft. Metalhawk whirls their engines to life and taxis away from the shouting workers. Their ailerons flicker as they flip between diagnostic reports about the failing state of their joints. They accelerate quickly down the vacant runway and lift off. 

“Look who’s has their nose cone skyward. Where are ya?” Pries Rattrap over radio transmission. 

“A little under 400 kilometers away. How about you?” Metalhawk replies, continuing to climb. 

“The founding father and me are about 32 kliks away from the coordinates you gave us for the energon mine. Orion has some of my explosives should we need to do a bit of exploration. Whirl is onroute with us as well.”  Rattrap reports. 

“That shouldn’t be necessary, the mine is pretty well carved out. But I’ll keep an optic out for Whirl.” Metalhawk signs off as they level out in the air. Clouds swirl beneath them while the bleak landscape streaks into a blur of gray. Along the northern rim of the horizon, a sliver of blue water expands out into the Arctic Ocean. 

Metalhawk begins to descend, slicing back down into the cloud layer and shakes with turbulence. 

Upon exiting the cloud layer, Metalhawk notices a blue attack helicopter cutting through the sky ahead of them, still high above the service ceiling for its make and model. Metalhawk banks towards it. “Whirl. Pleasure to see you joining us.” Metalhawk radios out. 

The former Wrecker rocks back in surprise. “Oh, it’s you. I’ll pose the question again. Why are you still half-assing shit?” Whirl asks curtly. 

Metalhawk coasts alongside her. “Because it's what my mission demands.” 

“I was never one for following the mission. But I guess for a stickler to the rules like you, that makes sense.” Whirl bemoans as she dips in altitude. 

Far below, a red pickup truck and disheveled motorcycle travel along a dirt trail that weaves through the increasingly mountainous terrain.  The two fliers descend until they hover only a few hundred feet above the ground-based Autobots. “Yay, you two caught up.” Rattrap bemoans as he speeds ahead of them. 

“Greetings.” Orion calls up. 

Metalhawk goes to greet but instead targets something up ahead. A brightly colored hot air balloon floats above the sweeping tundra hills, as conspicuous as a rubber ducky in a tsunami. Metalhawk speeds up ahead of the rest of the Autobots. The balloon suddenly reacts and dips below the crest of the hill. Metalhawk pauses before doubling back. 

Energon Mines Underneath Mountains

“They’re here! The Autobots are here! We gotta evacuate!” Calls out a distressed hot-air balloon. It billows down into the Energon crystal-lined walls of the mine and almost falls onto the cold, hard floor before sputtering around into a stout robot mode. A long face rises above the wicker basket as the burner pushes down and splits into two legs. The brightly-colored envelope collapses in and over the basket body; a string of metal wires maintain a loose pair of arms, sort of like a poncho. 

“Settle down, Balloon. If ‘con’s arrive, Matrix and I will frag them with pleasure. But I’ve worked with the ‘bots on Earth and we have nothing to worry about.” Devcon dismisses as he steps out from behind a crystal. He is a rangy blue and silver mech with a head-mounted laser cannon looming above his dazzling grin. 

A broad-shouldered dark green mech walks up to Devcon and Balloon. Two others accompany him, a red dog-like mechanimal named Frisket and a black Targetmaster bluntly named Gun. “Still, they might not be pleased that we’ve taken over one of their mines.” Matrix observes. 

Devcon shrugs. “Metalhawk is the understanding type. I can just frame it as us taking the goods before giving a service.” 

“I wouldn’t mind.” Matrix looks away thoughtfully, his golden targeting optic settles at the entrance end of the mine. 

“The Pretender’s have backup. A new exaltation of Autobots arrived a few lunar cycles ago. I doubt they’ll require your services again. I agree with Balloon. We should evacuate. Not just the mine, but also the Earth.” The final member of their rogue’s gallery, Lapse stalks out of the further mine depths. She’s a slender sky blue femme with long wings on her back. She swishes around a swirl of water between her hands. 

“Ah frag. Balloon, how many Autobot’s did you see?” Devcon brings up a digit in thought. 

“Four. Metalhawk, a helicopter-bot, a red truck, and some smudge on wheels.” Balloon reports. 

“We outnumber them.” Matrix remarks, looking back to Devcon.

Lapse drops her water dramatically and crosses her arms. “Balloon and I are non-combatants.” 

“We equal them then. I’ve seen your power though, you could cleave a mountain in half if you wanted to.” Matrix points to his mini-con companions, Frisket and Gun. 

“Knock it off you two. I doubt it will come to that. Again, Metalhawk is sensible. They’ll let us make it up to them.” Devcon narrows his optics. 

Balloon shakes his head wearily. 

“We came here to escape the War, not align ourselves with those who wish to escalate it.” Lapse proclaims. 

“Not me. I came here for opportunity and freedom. And I am still very much aligned with the Autobots.” Devcon says as he points to a small red insignia on his forearms signally that at some point he had to endure the long process of Autobrand under the needlessly intense and studious gaze of Ultra Magnus. 

“Only when they pay you to. The Great War will leave Cybertron inhospitable!” Lapse snaps. 

“As the Edict says, “Freedom is the right of all Sentient Beings”. In my case, the freedom to not give a scrap half of the time. And with you the freedom to be a floozy. Cybertron’s half rusted sure but ‘bots and ‘cons still live and fight over it. If you wanted to, you could just terraform it afterwards.” Devcon chortles. 

“I don’t want to get caught up in another war. I pay you to protect us, not spit out Autobot jargon.” Lapse flings a sliver of ice at Devcon, purposefully letting it miss. She stomps away with Balloon following her. 

Devcon relaxes a bit. “Do you think I stepped out of bounds?” He asks Matrix. 

Matrix gives another shrug and rests against a giant energon crystal. A layer of ice covers all the crystals, placed by Lapse to shield the Energon radiation the unrarified crystals produced. Without it, they all would short out after a few minutes exposure in robot mode. 

Matrix rests a hand on Frisket and strokes the dog-like beast. “She pays you to protect her. She can pay you to shut up. Also she’s not the only one with baggage from the Great War.” 

Devcon takes on a stern look as he hears the sounds of peds stomping over ice and crystal. “I’ll be professional now.”

The exaltation of Autobots arrives. Metalhawk and a very small, ugly cycle-bot lead them. A large one-eyed femme looms behind with a bored look on her scratched and dented in face-plate. Devcon recognizes her as Whirl, a destructive ex-wrecker who’s carnage is infamous galaxy wide. Has Metalhawk been disciplining her or something? Devcon almost gasped in astonishment when he recognizes the red and blue truck-bot with them. Is that Orion Pax? 

“You’didn’t tell me there were Mercenaries on Earth.” Grumbles the rodent-like bot. 

Devcon goes to snap something back. Be professional. 

“Actually, Devcon is an Autobot. He’s protecting this group of non-aligned Cybertronians.” Metalhawk corrects as they offer a knowing smile to Devcon. 

“Metalhawk’s right. I’ve been doing business here in the Sol System for several stellar cycles. That over there is Matrix, he’s a bit of a bounty hunter just laying low with me. And then the others are being reclusive. They're less than thrilled that you all are here.” Devcon tries to spin. 

“Technically you shouldn’t be here. You're not authorized to be in this mine.” Spits the ugly motorcycle. 

“Ease off, Rattrap. There are more than enough Energon crystals to go around. Although I may call upon you for a favor, Devcon.” Metalhawk narrows their optics. 

“Of course.” Devcon says with a grin. 

Matrix looks over at him mildly impressed. 

“There better not be any conflicts of interests with youse.” Rattrap echos with a shifty glower. 

“I see you finally got those reinforcements you wanted.” Devcon observes. 

“Yes. I’m accompanied by some members of the 54th Epsilon Division.” Metalhawk confirms. “Rattrap, Whirl and Orion Pax.” 

Matrix jolts up in surprise and Balloon even waddles out of the shadows. The icy coating on the crystals grows thicker and Devcon hears the splash of water from Lapse. Whirl gives a brief acknowledgement while Orion Pax shyly waves. 

“Yeah, I’m Rattrap. The leader.” The small bot struts around, sending flecks of paint and rust about. 

Devcon and other unaligned Cybertronians ignore the walking scrapheap and pay attention to Orion Pax. He is not a visually impressive or commanding ‘bot, kinda rangy and dingy with crooked antennae coming off the sides of his youthful silver face. Lapse comes back into view and stalks around the Autobots. After a few moments of tense silence, she sneers, “What is he doing here if not to bring the Earth into war?” 

Orion quivers a bit. “Hey! Says the lady hiding in our Energon mine!” Rattrap rushes up to the blue terraformer, drawing a pistol and waving it around. Devcon tracks the tiny Autobot with his head-mounted cannon. Contractually, he’s paid to defend Lapse and Balloon from anything, including the Autobots. But it's always fun to see her get chewed out. 

“Rattrap, I can handle this.” Orion steps over and rests a hand on Rattrap’s shoulder, gently pulling him back. “Why don’t you and Whirl start dislodging some of the crystals.” 

“Hey! I’m the boss! You had your chance…” Rattrap spins around. 

“It’s a good idea. Orion and I will negotiate with them.” Metalhawk interjects. 

Rattrap vents and stomps off. “Come on, propeller hat.” He and Whirl walk back to the start of the tunnel.

Lapse glowers down at Orion. “Speak your piece. If you need us out, we’ll leave without a fight.”

“You were a terraformer at some point, correct?” Orion inquires. 

Lapse softens a bit. “Yes. It was a highly respected position. I traveled the galaxy and I’ve helped carve and craft bits of all of the Colonies. Until the Golden Age ended.” 

“If it’s not too personal, how old are you?” Orion asks. 

“It's been 50 million stellar cycles since I came online.” Lapse says blankly. 

“You don’t look at it! Must be a lot of reformatting!” Hollars Rattrap. 

“Shut up, Rattrap.” Orion Pax moans before returning his attention. “Then do you have a problem  with us or the events that caused us to act…”

Lapse cuts him off. “Stop. I’m a powerful Outlier with the ability to control water. My abilities are highly desired, even by you perhaps. I’ve been tricked enough into using my powers for something I don’t believe in. Not again. Please leave us be.” 

Orion gulps but nods. Metalhawk frowns slightly before leaving her to slink back into the shadows.  Whirl and Rattrap rejoin the two Autobots. Whirl holds several large crystals in a sling around her arms. “I finally got to blow something up!” She says, grinning. 

“Well, glad you got something out of it. And I think we have all we came for.” Says Metalhawk, turning to look back at them. 

“Now wait just a minute, what are we going to do about them?” Rattrap scowls as he points vaguely in the direction of the non-aligned Cybertronians. Devcon vents out, unsure if he’ll have to blast this cycle-bot into rust. 

Metalhawk shrugs. “Nothing I suppose.” 

“Phft! Fine! Buncha yellowbellies.” Shrills Rattrap as he saunters away with the other two Autobots. 

Devcon takes a few steps up and offers out a hand. Metalhawk takes it. “You have my word that we won’t be here forever and will only take what we need.” Devcon assures. 

“I know.” Metalhawk nods. 

“Also, before you go, we’ve all taken note of the increase in Decepticon attacks. If you ever find yourselves need a few extra bots to get you out of a pinch, let me know. I’ll bring Matrix with me.” Devcon offers. “Will that make us even?”

Metalhawk smiles. “How long have you all been here in our mine?” 

Devcon smirks. “About 5 lunar cycles. What? Are you going to charge us 1 bail out for every lunar cycle we stay in your cave?”
“No. Just help us out two times. At any time.” Metalhawk orders. 

“Alright. Here’s my card, it has my com signature and ship id on it should you need it. But please don’t let the higher ups know. I don’t need another ‘Join the Wreckers’ psa stuffing up my inbox.” Devcon takes out a metal business card with cyberglyphics denoting his name, rank, intention, and other such identifiers. He hands it to Metalhawk. 

“Thanks. I’ll let you know.” Metalhawk then drops down and swiftly transforms into their jet-mode and blasts out of the cavern. 

Chapter Text

Streets of Sterling City

Cyrus grips the handles of his 60's maroon muscle car as Gale steers through a sharp right turn and doesn't let off the brakes. The side mirrors come dangerously close to rail guards as the car clings tight to the shoulder. Out the driver's side windows, evergreen forest and rolling hills break up to the urban sprawl, both halves click in like a jigsaw with the blue sky as the sun drifts downward. The car swings through the turn and rushes downhill as the backroad comes to a sudden end. Cyrus jerks forth as the car comes to a stop sign. To the left, cars stream off the highway on an exit ramp. Gale switches on the blinker and waits for a large enough gap to slip in to go right. Cyrus's breath exits his body as the car lunges right in front of a rumbling 18 wheeler. The car dashes away from the truck's huffing vents and further downtown.

Cyrus slumps in his seat as Gale slows the car down back to the speed limit. He turns to face her and gasps, "When did you learn to drive?”

"1886. Year after the automobile was invented. Gosh, Landmine, he was one of the other pretenders, 'till he died, was so excited! Wish he could have lived long enough to see some of the stuff you humans made." Says Gale happily with a bittersweet note at the end.

"Yeah, I remember you, as Ashley Storm, you always drove in this car. And then I went and bought it at auction years later. And now you’re driving it again." Exclaims Cyrus.

"You need to get better at small talk. I can see why all of your promos are scripted by someone else." Snarks Gale. They pass into Downtown Sterling City. Apartment buildings and shop fronts huddle in a twist beneath the roaring overpass and towering skyscrapers. 

"It is a slim ability only some people have to grab a mic and go out there week in and week out cutting promos. It's like ripping out your own heart, you can only do it so many times before the only thing you're shouting is "I'm gonna kick your ass!" to your opponents." Counters Cyrus as the car comes into the parking lot of a luxury apartment. Gale parks it and steps out.

Waiting for them on the sidewalk stands Marcus Hawk. Cyrus had met Gale's roommate and fellow pretender before in sparse, awkward encounters. He was always perplexed why a physicist and wrestler would be roommates. There was no romantic or familiar connection between them beyond friendship and professional obligation. But now it sort of made more sense. "Dr. Hawk." Cyrus greets as he extends a hand to Marcus.

"Cyrus Rhodes. Pleasure to see you again." Says Marcus as he takes the promoter's hand. The physicist's eyes then scour around the parking lot, looking for something.

"So do you two know who else will be joining us with Kelly?" Asks Cyrus as he looks around.

"Our government contact, Agent Fowler. But we've never met or even talked to them. Only Kelly has, a few weeks back when Gale got injured in an attack. And the leader of the 54th Epsilon Division. They are the other group of Autobots on Earth who we closely work with. Rattrap should be here. Gale, check the alley way." Marcus explains.

"Swear I want to cut off his tires sometimes." Gale says with a groan as she walks to the end of the apartment block and down into the alleyway.

Cyrus winces as he hears Gale shout out, "What do you mean it's not working?"

"It keeps rattling out during transformation. Duct tape just can't handle it. I'll get it properly reinstalled when we head over to Cybertron in a bit." Complains a gruff, raspy voice with a slight metallic twang. 

"Well, how about I slice you open and find a place for it myself!" Gale yells before giving herself a breather. "Just go into vehicle mode and I'll carry you in then."

"Wouldn't that be violating our robots in disguise gig?" Questions the robot hiding in the alley. Cyrus hears the mechanical whirl and grind as something compresses and reshapes. Gale walks out of the alley with a large rusty motorcycle beside her, seemingly moving of its own accord. 

"Cyrus, this Rattrap, leader of the 54th Epsilon Division." Gale introduces with a slight scowl to her voice.

"You seem more down-to-Earth then Blackrock." Mumbles Rattrap as he rolls to the steps, deploys his kickstand and waits.

Cyrus couldn't think of anything nice to say about Rattrap. He had know idea what the Autobot looked like in robot mode but could already tell there was an offness about the cycle-bot. Bits of rust, dust, old red paint, bronze piping, chromed up parts, and other oddities gives Rattrap an dappled gray-brown color, like the pelt of a sewer rat. Raw metal takes the place of a padded seat and his small windshield is chipped. His tires are worn not to a smooth baldness but ragged tears.

"Speaking of Blackrock, do you think he's coming?" Gale asks.

“Possibly. Kelly did send out an invitation to him but he is a busy man.” Marcus responds. 

Almost on cue, Blackrock’s repaired limoscene slides into the parking lot. It drives right in front of the gathered party and parks. A middle door swings open to let out two suited men, G.B. Blackrock and a bald man with large black glasses framing his chiseled face. Marcus noticeably frowns at the sight of the bald man. “Hello Dr. Hawk and Gale. Sadly I can’t join you for long. Director Joyce and I have more work to be done.” G.B. Blackrock greets. 

Joyce strides up to Marcus and stares at him. “Yeah. He’s no longer playing favorites.” He whispers to the physicist. He turns around and spreads out his arms to announce, “We’re in the final planning stages for a revolutionary product launch!”

Rattrap tilts over to his side. Gale audibly huffs. Mr. Blackrock chuckles, trying to ease the tension. “Save that energy for the press tomorrow. But contrary to what your one sided competitive ideas might suggest, Dr. Hawk, Kelly, and many others have provided a lot of input into our upcoming product launch.” Blackrock’s voice turns low and sour as he calls out his subordinate. 

“Of course. However, I and the rest of KSI were placed in charge of developing and manufacturing the new product line. I have spent day and night toiling away at it. Dr. Hawk is barely in the building.” Director Joyce disses. 

Blackrock’s mustache pulls down into a mighty frown. “I’m an astrophysicist, I do research on my own time. Mr. Blackrock is courteous enough to allow me to have more time.” Marcus defends himself. 

“I suppose if it ends up being relevant to the company…” Joyce supposes. 

“It is.” Blackrock declares. “It is relevant to further applications of some of the base technologies behind the new product line.” 

“How interesting and awfully duplicitous of you. But I do not recall seeing your name on any of the papers describing them…” Joyce probes. 

“Now is not the right time to discuss this.” Dr. Hawk says. 

“It is about the origins behind some of the materials used…” Blackrock blurts at the same time. 

Joyce’s eyes widened. “Do tell.” 

"Have you no respect for the scientific method? That information has yet to be peer reviewed yet.." Says a voice from behind them all. A slim woman approaches them, her black bushy hair tied back in a messy bun, eyes hidden behind black sunglasses. She wears an orange shirt beneath her charcoal-gray blazer and trousers.

"And who are you?" Asks Joyce with a bitter note to his voice.

"Agent Marissa Fowler with Sector Seven. I represent the United States Government in our contract with Blackrock Enterprises." States the agent. Gale and Marcus noticeably light up at her introduction. 

“Yes, I recall your name on some of the paperwork that has graced my desk. Pleasure to meet your brief acquaintance. Sadly, the director and I have to go. Farewell.” Blackrock hastily drags Joyce back into limoscine with an apologetic glance toward Marcus. The green limo slides out of the parking lot as the skies darken overhead. 

“Is he always that much of an ass?” Gale asks Marcus.

“Yes. But he’s clever. If there's anyone we don’t want finding out about us, it’s him.” Marcus explains with a sigh. “Pleasure to finally meet you, Agent Fowler.” The pretender extends out a hand to the newcomer. 

“Pleasure’s all mine. I take it Director Joyce wouldn’t be deterred by a NDA? Kelly has reported to me that that’s how you deal with other employees finding out.” Agent Fowler asks. 

Marcus shakes his head. “Mr. Blackrock doesn’t have anything to offer Director Joyce that he wouldn’t turn around into a chance to blackmail Blackrock or advance himself within the company. Worst comes to worst, we devise a painless method to block out certain memories.” 

“I’d love to see a mnemosurgery needle go through his nerve cord! Serves the son of a glitch right.” Chuckles Rattrap. 

Gale kicks his side. “We would not do that. Besides, he has no access ports.” 

Cyrus squirms a bit at the thought of having his memory erased. I haven’t told anyone. I should have nothing to worry about. But…

Agent Fowler takes a look at him. “I trust him. Besides, Cyrus is fine with an NDA. Should it come to that. But I doubt it!” Gale backs up Cyrus and places a reassuring clamp against his shoulder. 

“Alright. We can discuss more at dinner. Shall we go up?" Suggests Agent Fowler as she cuts through the group and starts walking up the stairs. Cyrus nods in agreement, glad that the tension had eased in an impasse. He goes to join her. Gale picks up Rattrap in a mighty lift, the cycle-bot transforms partly back into robot mode though he looks even more like a shapeless, dangly pile of scrap metal. Marcus follows behind them. Gale set Rattrap down and let the autobot rearrange himself back into robot mode. With them all gathered, Marcus knocks on the door.

________________________________________________________________________________

Kelly bites at her lasagna. Her chewing disturbing the fervent talking that circulated around the cramped, rounded table. She sat between Marcus and Fowler. The agent and her coworker engage in deep conversation, technobabble and war stories filled with references to far off planets or obscure missions Fowler had a hand in passover Kelly. Still Kelly couldn’t help get caught up in Fowler’s tales, the action and adventure, the confident cadence to her voice, the ways her brown eyes glisten… Not now. I mean, I did invite her for dinner but also with everyone else. It's a work thing. But I wish it wasn’t…

 Across the table, Gale bonds with Rattrap over some bizzare, Cybertronian drinks he brought along. Gale takes a scratched up purple can and mixes it in with her soda, the drinks sparking and bubbling in unearthly zaps. The rest she splashes in with the tomato sauce, turning it a sploshy, electric purple soup of carbs and alien energy. Kelly looks on slightly fascinated as Gale goes in for a bite.

"Is that even edible?" Asks Cyrus. The manager sits to Gale’s right, wanting to avoid the walking scrapheap. 

"Probably not for you. It's just a bit of engex mixed with some lasagna. A girl's gotta fill her fuel tank somehow." Gale says with a dismissive shrug.

"Ah right beneath the skin you two are car robots." Observes Kelly, trying to get a joke in.

Gale spits out her food in shock. "Excuse me?!"

“It was just a joke!” Kelly backtracks. 

Rattrap breaks away from his can and narrows his glowing red optics. “So Fowler, can you give me an update on us getting a dedicated headquarters or something? Blackrock said he’d look into it when we first touched down on this rock but ah I haven’t gotten anything out of Shellfish and Lizardlips here. I've been parked along the side of the street for weeks! Hot Rod keeps getting speeding tickets. Joyride and Orion have been Primus knows where with Sky Lynx. And Night Viper and Whirl have gone feral. I've had to be recharging at Marcus and Gale’s just to get by." Rattrap interrupts. "I was lucky to sneak some engex and nightmare fuel out of the Tracker's camp as well."

Gale spits out her food.. "You mean that this is Decepticon engex?"

"Yeah but ya wouldn't know the difference now would ya?" Snorts Rattrap.

"Rattrap, Decepticon made engex may be laden with all sorts of reprogramming viruses or dangerous discharges. They could turn you into a Decepticon if you drink too much." Marcus warns.

"Ah, I've already been down that path." Rattrap dismisses. "So, Fowler, what do you know?"

The agent leans back in her seat and fiddles with her sunglasses. “G.B. Blackrock has sold some of his land in the Northern Cascade range to Sector Seven. We’re currently constructing a hanger with a runway and road access. It should be completed within two weeks.” 

Rattrap blinks. “Finally, a straight answer. Do you take requests for what will be included, cause the gang and I have a lot of ideas. Whirl wants an armory, Orion and Joyride want a study nook with pillows, Sky Lynx demands a sauna…”

Gale punches Rattrap in the jaw, the skin on her wrist recedes to show swirls of black and bronze metal. “Shut up and say thank you.” She growls.

Agent Fowler chuckles a bit. “Such amenities are on you to be supplied.” 

“Thanks.” Rattrap mumbles as he massages out the deep dent on his lower jaw and hinge joint. 

“I think I have some ideas.” Marcus offers. 

Agent Fowler smiles before looking down at a smartwatch wrapped around her wrist. “I have to go. It was great getting to meet you all in person.” She gets up and walks toward the door. She looks over her shoulder to say, “Thanks for inviting me for dinner.” 

______________________________________________________________________________

“This better be important Simmons. I was enjoying a tasty lasagna beforehand.” Announces Agent Fowler upon entering Sector Seven’s office within Olympia, WA. She closes the mighty steel door behind her and turns up the lights, illuminating the two other figures sitting in front of a vast array of monitors displaying scientific instrument readouts, relevant security footage, and classified documents detailing their various missions. 

Agent Simmons spins around in his seat with half a sub sandwich stuffed in the middle of his leathery face. He spits out, spraying crumbs upon his frumpy button down shirt and clip on tie. At Least he’s wearing pants instead of just Hawaiian underpants. “Yeah, and I was enjoying my sub.” 

Agent Burns shoves a paper towel into Simmons’ face. “We’ve detected some seismographic data that resembles something Fanzone was warned about by Metalhawk.” Agent Burns explains. He is a tall man of herculean proportions and appearance pressed into a military uniform and armored vest. He pulls up several seismographs taken that evening around the world. The surface waves pulsated rhythmically, like a heartbeat, and perfectly matched something scrawled out on a mission report from decades ago written by Captain Fanzone. Alongside the sketch he wrote the words ``Metalhawk told me to keep an eye on this. Let them know if we see it again.”. 

“I’ll call them. Any reports of earthquakes or just small stuff?” Agent Fowler asks with a sigh. 

“Nothing. The rythmaticness of it makes me think it’s biological or maybe a bomb, but we’ve got nothing other then Fanzone’s scribbles to go off of.” Simmons speculates. 

“Please try and get a straight answer out of  Dr. Hawk. We need to know if this is something we need to organize a strike force over. We can defend our planet.” Urges Burns. 

Agent Fowler takes out her phone and dials up Dr. Hawk. “Ah, Agent Fowler, what can I help you with?” He quickly picks up. 

“Sector Seven has detected a seismograph that resembles those you warned Captain Fanzone to be on alert for. While we respect your privacy, we’d like to know the source of this activity for possible planetary defense reasons.” Agent Fowler informs. 

The physicist goes silent for a moment. Fowler hears the slamming of a door and a metallic clicking sound before Dr. Hawk responds. “I cannot give you the complete details of this. It is a deeply speculative matter at the center of Cybertronian myth, history, and science. The Autobot High Command has told me to not share the complete truth. Only those who need to know can. Only Orion Pax, Rattrap and I have the clearance to know. I am sorry.” 

“What can you tell me then?” Agent Fowler asks. 

“I did my, I guess equivalent to my doctoral thesis, on the possibility of an Ancient Cybertronian geoweapon drifted into your Solar System during its formation and became a part of a planet. I can send you the abstract if you’d like. Those tremors are a sign of life from it. It might not yet emerge. Like rolling over in bed before going back to sleep.” Dr. Hawk whispers. 

“Is there anything we can do to excavate and eject it?” Fowler proposes. 

“No. It forms the basis of your planet. Living metal is denser than the nickel and iron that makes up Earth’s core. Even if it were to reactivate, it could move around in the core and mantle without disturbing the crust, for a while. Eventually, it would rupture the crust and consume the Earth.” Dr. Hawk lectures. 

“Is it a beast or a bomb?” Asks Simmons as he begins biting through his sub again. Burns kicks the back of his chair to shut him up. Fowler mouths the word ‘both’ at him. 

“Do you have any methods to prevent that from happening then?” Fowler shouts a bit. 

She hears a slight smirk from Dr. Hawk. “Agent Fowler, please trust me when I say that us Autobots have a way to light our darkest hour.” 

Chapter Text

BLACKROCK BUILDING, Front Lobby

Kelly folds her arms as she waits along the margins of the press conference announcing the new product launch. A stage was set overnight in the lobby of Blackrock Building upon which Mr. Blackrock and Director Joyce strut across with several sleekly dressed models holding and demonstrating the three launch products. Dozens of journalists, investors, and media personalities crowd before the stage front. Camera flash and gasps disturb the pristine newness on display. 

“The Go-Watch. It will go where you go. On your wrist, waist, or ankle. Or by your side.” Joyce stands beside an expressionless model. He holds a smart watch in his hand and gently places the case upon the model’s wrist. A silvery strap pops out and wraps around their wrist, fitting quite snuggly. He takes it off and the strap retreats into the casing until he places it by the model’s waist to reform as a belt, then again on the model’s ankle. Lastly, he pulls off the watch and sets it on the floor. The model walks briskly away. Instantly, the case pops up, held above the round by four flat limbs. The watch scuttles after the model, following them as they walk about the stage. 

“Built into the Go-Watch is an innate AI system that monitors your emotions and actions to predict how it can best be of service to you.” Joyce continues as the model poses, the watch jumps up and latches on to best accentuate the model’s movements. 

“Of course, there will be ways to turn this off for those customers skeptical of Blackrock Enterprises' long standing stance against datamining.” Mr. Blackrock adds as he cuts across the stage with an inconspicuous phone and tablet in his hands. He offers them out to two other models. Kelly smiles. We still have principles, Joyce. 

She turns her attention away and spots Marcus exit out of the elevator and cut across to her. He carries several papers and a laptop tucked under his arm. As he pulls up an empty seat, she says, “You need to add sleep along with getting a haircut to the things you need to go do.” 

Marcus looks back at her. “I think I’m past the point of no return on the latter. I haven’t gone in for trim since the others got here. It’s mostly grown even.” 

“Just don’t do a manbun.” Kelly jokes. 

“I make no promises.” The pretender yawns and rifles through his papers. 

“Did you sleep last night?” She asks. 

“No. Been busy translating some stuff. The ‘preprint’ Joyce wants is just copied verbatim from the WitWiki page about rarefied energon or living metal.” Marcus turns his attention back to his laptop. 

Kelly sighs and pulls out her phone to text Gale: make sure Marcus sleeps. he lowkey looks like death rn. 

Gale quickly shoots back a response: ill put his pillow on the tarmac and put wheel clamps on him. that works. Kelly chuckles a bit. 

“I got rid of her clamps. I’m not sleeping at SEATAC, again. If she tries it again, I’ll stick a missle down her gizzard.” Marcus stares at Kelly. 

“You’re no fun sometimes.” Kelly remarks as she turns her attention back to the stage. Mr. Blackrock and Director Joyce alternate between explaining the Go-Phone and the Tab-Go, a smart phone and tablet respectfully with flexible screens and housing, capable of wrapping around arms or legs or bisecting into two bendy pairs of limbs that scamper after their user. 

“Now we’ll open up to any questions you might have.” Mr. Blackrock extends out to the audience. He goes through answering some basic questions. When will the product line be released? Within a few months. How much will it cost? Still be decided but the aim is for them to remain affordable for much of our consumer base. Etc. 

“The main material you’ve used is a metal and mineral alloy that KSI has trademarked, called Transformium. Could you explain more about its development and other applications?” Asks a journalist. 

Joyce goes in with the answer. “Transformium has several other applications. Imagine a material that can become anything. It could go from a plush toy to a firearm. The secret is that it has several isomers that can mimic the form, function, and feel of nearly any material. These isomers are programmable and so it can easily express itself in conjunction with cirurty.’

“In its current form, transformium can’t coexist with itself in large quantities. So we have to nullify it a bit with contemporary materials and needs. In the future we plan on licensing it out to other companies. We are currently developing a programming language for it.”

“An open source programming language. We’ve also discussed educational tie-ins, possible household appliances, and applications in manufacturing. We wish not to place Blackrock Enterprises at the head of a monopoly for this new technology, rather as its stewards.” Mr. Blackrock interrupts to a frown from Director Joyce. “Now, that will conclude our announcement. Please help yourself to the pastries catered to us for this event.” 

Joyce steps off the stage and approaches Kelly and Marcus. A sneer manifests beneath his thick-rimmed glasses. “Dr. Hawk, is that pre-print ready?”

Marcus looks up at him and blinks. “No. It hasn’t been peer-reviewed yet.” 

Joyce pinches his nose and breathes back a snarl. “Can I look at it? It would be very useful for KSI and the future of this company.” 

“He’ll send you an email with a pdf of it after it’s done being peer reviewed. Should take a few more weeks. You’ll live.” Kelly dismisses.  

She’s surprised that the man didn’t just scream. “Fine. But will this company live?” Joyce clenches his fists and stalks away. 

“I know this company’s finances like the back of my hand! We’re fine!” Kelly hollers at Joyce as he enters the elevator and ascends back to his office. 

Port of Sterling City 

Night Viper slips back into the water after losing sight of Jetstorm entering the airspace of Sterling City. She pokes her split, metal tongue out of the water to sense the air. Just salt, exhaust, and energon vapor trails. He mussst have sssome sssort of cloaking mechanisssm in his paint job then. She pushes her eyes above water and looks around. Boats bob along the surface, docks disturb the inlet’s outline while supporting several human buildings and small beach front.  Night Viper goes still in the water column, allowing herself to sink down into the murky depths. 

Upon settling on the port floor, her tail laterally flattens into a paddle as she swims further into the industrial parts of the port. She swims up along the bank towards a sewage pipe, inspecting to make sure she can get through. She paddles upstream through the sewage pipe. Gradually the water became more stagnant and darker.  The serpent-former is quick to twitch off the bits of trash and bodily waste that finds its way onto her long body. Soon she slithers through the muck and lets her tail return to its round state. She pushes out the other end of the sewage pipe into cleaner fresh water. 

She briefly surfaces. An outlet of land pans around, blocking a canal between the sound and a large lake that border Sterling City. Humans gather around a small boat launch and park area. Cheerful children run in and out of the water while their parents mingle beside a smoking grill. Night Viper dips down and swims in an arc away from them. 

She hastily slithers out of the water and up into a sturdy overhanging branch. The dark Eukarian climbs to the top of the tree, transforms into robot mode, crouches, and summons a scope upon her forearm to look though. Her yellow optics narrow as she scans the skies. Jet Storm’s vapor trail quickly fades and doesn’t continue through the bits of sky poking among the towering cityscape. She magnifies the scope and looks at each building individually, taking note of the roofs, sides, shadows…

A few blocks away from Blackrock Building stands a squat 10 story building placed awkwardly among the shine of Sterling City. Along the backside of the building, a jagged shadow blacks out the alley beneath. Why is he resting there? Night Viper wonders as she sets a waypoint for the building with her scope. She returns to her beast mode and slithers through the canopy. 

Her coils brachiate through the branches. Scarcely a snippet of her serpentine form is seen from the humans who sprint, stroll, and straddle their bikes on the sidewalks beneath. Save for one sweaty jogger who Night Viper faintly senses the Autobot inside. Night Viper slows down and dips her head beneath the treeline to look down at Gale as she turns around and jogs up to her fellow Eukarian. 

“Whatcha hunting?” Asks the pretender with a smile upon her sweat stricken face. 

“I sssenced Jetssstorm flying over and I followed him by water. He camouflaged upon entering the city. I can ssssstill sssense his energon trail. He isssss sssstationary. I will easssily find him and chasssse him out of the city.” Night Viper whispered. 

Gale sighs as she pulls out her smartphone. “What is he scheming now? I’ll let Marcus know. He’s used to running seekers out of town. Rattrap might also still be around here. Sorry you don’t have consistent backup. I don’t do stealth.” 

“It is alright. I will go to my prey.” Night Viper retreats back to the canopy. She twists her body between sturdy branches and tree trunks. The plates along her body flatten and open to push her along the rough bark. 

The sun rises further into the midday-sky, heating up her dark plating. I’ll run out of coolant at this rate. She thinks as she slithers down onto the damp ground and opens up her vents wider. Despite being a reptile, she didn’t handle the heat well. Night Viper crawls upon the ground, stopping as the treeline comes to an end and a park opens up, bordered by sidewalk and gridlock traffic caged in by skyscrapers. 

She turns away and slithers along the perimeter of the trees. The closest intersection to her goes red, the cars begin to move again and clear the street. Night Viper swiftly transforms and sprints across the street as a black and scarlet blur before collapsing back down as a snake in the alley way. 

A forked cable flicks out of her mouth to scent the air. Jetstorm’s energon trail hangs thick in the air. Sparks of energy corrupted by Decepticon will and black market modifications. The snake reels and shakes her tail tip in disgust. Night Viper slinks through the alley ways of Sterling City, moving her head first in the direction of the thickening energon trail. Although invisible to the human eye, energon trails or energy signatures had a distinct color particular to a Cybertronian or their faction. Red for Autobots and a cooler purple for Decepticons. Night Viper had heard rumors that it was all just some marketing ploy by a double agent mad scientist or maybe that was with blaster bolts…

Jetstorm’s rolled off beneath his invisible fuselage in white-hot fumes. Night Viper stops beneath him and glares. She can make out his highly modified silhouette through the fumes as he sits perpendicularly to the building in idle. A pair of small engine pods push his underside against the building. Night Viper lifts her head up and sniffs him, hesitantly forcing her exhaust onto him to get a response. Nothing. 

Night Viper pokes her head out from under the Storm Seeker’s invisible silhouette. His compatriot, Storm Surge, circles high above the cityscape. What are they doing? If I bite him now, Storm Surge will surely take me down. I’m outnumbered. She couldn’t rely upon the Pretenders despite their proximity. They had to keep cover. All Cybertronians had to on the Earth. 

Night Viper tunes into the Autobots radio channel. “Requesting back up. I tracked down the Ssssstorm Ssssseekers into Sssssterling City and am need help chasssssing them out. I’m in possssition to provoke Jetstorm.” She whispers. The snake coils up tightly with her head held high, jaws parted to swiftly snap her venom into the Seeker’s wing should he start to move again. She awaits a response. 

“I will arrive there in less than a megacycle.” Sky Lynx messages back. 

Night Viper gulps. The shuttlebot and her clash as far as style and presentation go. However he did have the speed, air superiority, and strength to easily counter the Storm Seekers and send them back to the shadows. And he isn’t at risk of a grisly fate through association with me. Night Viper flares out her hood in anger. What use is my power if all it has brought is death to others? 

Psychic powers were not rare among Cybertronians. As a mechanical and digital species, Transformers can easily quantify, copy, manipulate, and share elements of their minds as easily as computer files. Of course, biological firewalls prevent rampant abuse that oversharing can cause but there are always outliers, those with the ability to hear other’s internal dialogue, witness their datatrax, mimic or control others actions and emotions, manipulate the mind, etc. Upon a Functionist gripped Cybertron, mnemosurgeons became the forced upon occupation among the clairvoyant. It was a revered skill on Camunus, the art of Cityspeaking spread among the Cybertronian colonies. Racers of Velocitron exploit their powers for psychological warfare in the middle of competition. The hardened warriors who held on to life on Carcer seemed to have it diluted through their code, giving them vigilant senses, even the ability to sense fear from an opponent. Devisiun Combiners relied upon mental linking, cohesion, and melding to exist without tearing the opponents apart. Eukarians found guidance among the Fateweavers. They stood outside tribe boundaries and traveled the planet and in some cases the galaxy giving guidance to those who asked. They could peer into the future and see how individuals would spin the web of time. Night Viper had never met one before in her life. 

Though not Warforged, Night Viper grew up isolated within a Scale Walker village until her homeworld was ravaged by invading Decepticons and the swiftly reshaped into those who followed the Autobot aligned King Grimlock or embraced Decepticon Tyranny. The peaceful age when Fateweavers could provide insight was gone as they either were subsumed into the King’s Court or joined the Decepticons in rewriting history and people’s very minds. 

My powers have never brought guidance to anyone but the certainty of their doom or to bring death through my instincts. Night Viper reels her head back. I suppose I will wait for my prey. 

BLACKROCK BUILDING, KSI OFFICES

“Director Joyce will see you now, Mr. Spec.” Greets a ruffled looking secretary. She looks the man up and down in bewilderment. 

Jetstorm’s holomatter avatar nods as it rises up from a plush seat placed within a small waiting room. “Thank you.” He initiates the walk cycle upon his garishly dressed avatar. Reused from his previous attempt to introduce Decepticon ideals upon Earth’s population through a gameshow format, it used the pseudonym Trent Spec. He presented as an industry-disrupting engineer with great insight. A man with as bright ideas as the gradients of blue, yellow, and red upon his suit. Visions of the future as lofty as the hairstyle selected. Promises as bright as the smile he had on as a default. 

The secretary leads him through a maze of cubicles and closed off labs. Look at them, barely manufacturing our lice. He muses upon seeing a group of employees playing with some of the prototypes, small touch screens held above ground by four spindly legs pulsating with energon. They came to the end of the hallway, an automated door with a steel plaque brandished with Director Joshua Joyce’s name dominating between the clean white walls. The secretary takes out her ID badge and swipes it, allowing the door to part. 

“Here’s a Mr. Trent Spec for your 1 o’clock meeting.” The secretary introduces the Seeker’s avatar as they step into Joyce’s office. The room bulges out of the building, panels of glass curve around half of the room, held together by steel and aluminum buckles that web together to form half of the flooring. The cityscape sparkles beyond, glinting in the early afternoon sun. Joyce turns around in his seat and slams his hands down onto a frosted table. A monitor and keyboard are all laid atop it. 

“Thank you, Kelly.” Joyce says as he eyes Jetstorm’s disguise. The secretary slinks away and shuts the door behind her. “Mr. Spec, thank you for coming here on such short notice. I’ll admit that during our initial correspondence I was dismissive of you. Your credentials are a failed game show pilot and knockoff game consoles. However, you know something I want to know.” 

The holographic man frowns before plastering on a wide grin. Joyce narrows his eyes. “I consider myself an entrepreneur, one who is unafraid of failure. Surely you understand.” The holomatter avatar protests. 

“Currently, Blackrock Enterprises can not face failure. Our current product lines are waning in sales and relevance. We’ve been supported by our CEO’s generational wealth, investors, and government grants for years now but that has its limits. I have been tasked with creating something profitable, persistent, and revolutionary yet we are limited. We lack enough Transformium to continue manufacture of the Go product line beyond our limited pre-orders. You claim to have a solution.” Director Joyce explains. 

“I do. I have started up a small mining company recently that has found large quantities of Transformium in crystalline form.” Jetstorm runs an animation that looks as though he pulls out a small, purple energon crystal from his coat. The crystal no clips through the avatar, having been suspended within with the photons that make up the disguise. He sets it down on the table for the astonished human to inspect. 

“Incredible. We’ve only been able to get it to stay in this form by pumping it full of electricity.” Joyce picks up the crystal and marvels at it. 

“This is Transformium’s most common allotype and base form. It forms as an energized crystal, once you drain it of electricity, it turns into a programmable silvery metal alloy.” The Decepticon informs. 

“Then it has potential as a battery… interesting.” Joyce looks back up at the avatar. “What’s your company's name? Perhaps I could place you down as a supplier of Transformium. The government hasn’t given us much. How do you know so much about it?” 

The avatar pauses before gesticulating wildly. “I used the material in the manufacture of the androids that were to be used for my game show pilot.” 

“Interesting.” Joyce turns on his computer and types quickly. “I don’t see anything like that referenced on the patent and trademark office’s website.” 

The Decepticon lets out a jestful cackle that reverberates through the room. “My bad. It failed anyway. Uh my company name is Trackers Mining however we haven’t set up a company website or anything.” 

“I’ll put you down as a maybe then…” Joyce is cut off as his door slams open. Jet Storm reangles the avatar to see G.B. Blackrock standing in the doorway with a few armed guards wearing vests emblazoned with a gray number seven. “Is everything alright, sir?” Joyce asks skeptically. 

Jetstorm’s avatar shorts out suddenly before dissipating. He recedes back into his body upon feeling his spark loosen as cybervenom invades his circuits and pipes. Jetstorm pushes off the building side and transforms,  flinging away the snake before she could do further damage. “You can’t play that trick again on me!” He snarls as he straightens his body in the air column. 

Metalhawk dashes out of the shadows and slams their sword tip against his chest plating. “And I don’t intend to let you live again.” The Autobot proclaims as the sword tip plunges into his chest. 

Jetstorm prepares his null rays, characteristic weapons of the Seekers that can shut off electrical currents for a brief moment. Instead of aiming for either Autobot, he looks out to the street. He aims for the Blackrock Building. A clean shot at that would surely damage their main computer systems and set them back months. So much for considering my deal! Metalhawk stabs the shortsword in further. Jetstorm squirms, the blade lurching to the right and tearing armor. He aims his arm lower at a familiar looking onlooker, the secretary from the waiting room hangs against the corner of the alleyway. She lacks a look of fear or astonishment he’d expect. “Stab any more and your coworker gets it!” Jetstorm threatens. 

Metalhawk pulls their blade out and staggers back. The snake slithers in between the ray nozzle and the woman who slinks away and dashes across the street to the honking of horns. Jet Storm reaims his null rays at the Blackrock Building and fires. 

The eukarian lunges her head up, the beam hits her chin, deactivating her energy flow for a few kliks. Some of the beam continues its travel and ushers in a brief blackout localized to a singular building. Metalhawk looks on in horror. Jetstorm rises into the air and transforms. He rapidly ascends into the sky. 

Any chance of peaceful escape is ruined as the massive Autobot, Sky Lynx flies overhead. Jetstorm turns his engines onto maximum burn, quickly accelerating out of Sterling Citys’ airspace. Sky Lynx keeps a stable pace behind him. 

Metalhawk soon catches up to both of them and launches homing missiles at the Storm Seeker. Jetstorm dodges and dances through the air as Sky Lynx sends a barrage of his own. Where are you Storm Surge! Jetstorm panics and falls in altitude back beneath the clouds. 

Suddenly a sparkling portal manifests beneath Jetstorm, cast along a backroad cutting a forested valley. A black and red car waits in front of it. Jetstorm takes a sharp dive as Metalhawk lets out another volley of missiles followed by a crisscross of machine gun fire from Sky Lynx’s wings. Jetstorm begins to tumble from turbulence and gets loaded in bullet fire. He pulls up against the road and enters the Groundbridge at a steep sharp angle. 

He flies up high into hot dry air hanging in crisp, cloudless blue skies. Roadkill follows behind him, rolling stop fine orange sand that swoops around for hundreds of miles in towering dunes. Jetstorm flies back down and transforms. “Where were you! Your Trackers were supposed to help me!” He screams. 

“If you proved successful, which Stormsurge observed you as not being. Be lucky I bailed you out this time, Jetstorm. You have failed me for the last time.” Roadkill bluntly puts it before driving back through a new Groundbridge. 

Chapter Text

“Sir, we’ve compiled all back data from the cloud, redownloading it to the servers is initiated. Should be done by Tuesday morning.” Reports a rundown-looking woman from IT.

Mr. Blackrock and Kelly stand behind her. For the first time since before 1 o’clock, so many hours ago, he smiles. “Excellent work Sarah! Thank you for working overtime with us to get things back on track.” 

The IT worker nods and leads them all out of the dimly lit server room. Mr. Blackrock struts out to a lobby room, a nexus of various offices, his own expansive office room, and the dining sweep. Drained employees gather around, those whose offices were damaged by the null ray Jetstorm shot at the building several hours ago. The null ray acts as an aggressive circuit breaker, cutting power to all devices within the building in waves of nullification. Everything from computers, to toasters, to heavy machinery was turned off and remained so until the nullification faded. It caused chaos and confusion for everyone. 

Kelly was the first one to notice something awry when she noticed Jetstorm’s avatar saunter right into the building. Many employees had come forward and said they saw an uncanny looking man before the null ray strike as well. After welcoming Jetstorm inside, Kelly had alerted Marcus who swiftly chased the Seeker out of the city but hadn’t been seen since. They have their duties. Still, I can’t help but view them as less reliable. I’m sorry Metalhawk, but we may need to discuss things… you can only have split priorities for so long…

Agent Fowler had arrived with Agent Simmons, a middle-aged man with dark curly hair and a face as rumpled as his shirt. The two Sector 7 agents got quick to work, explaining the null ray blast as a singular fuse going off in the basement of the building. A blatant lie and one that received some joking push back from the press. Still, things today could have gone far worse. The agents stand close to the glass windows, examining the shot trajectory and bits of nullifying residue embedded within the window cracks. 

Director Joyce lurks in a corner, his jaw still agap as it has been since seeing Jetstorm avatar dissipate and being brought into the know about the Autobot and Decepticon goings on on Earth. His head hangs low, perhaps out of shame or astonishment as his sullen eyes pour over the file’s contents. What to do with him? Last night’s jokes about what would happen if Joyce found out about the Autobot’s felt trite now. He still had to face the consequences of his desperation so the idea of promotion to hush him up went out the window. Despite their allusions to processing a memory wipe device, Sector 7 had nothing of the sort other than NDAs and as much threat they could give Joyce without infringing upon his rights. 

“We have finally begun downloading the backup data. Thank you to everyone for bearing through this with us all. I will ensure we have a more robust electrical wiring throughout the building. You all will receive overtime and additional hazard pay as well as tomorrow off. Or I suppose the rest of the day off as some of us sticklers have been here till right now, midnight.” Mr. Blackrock announces with a tired chuckle and gives a slight round of applause to his cheered up employees. “Tomorrow we will be closed for more building repairs and inspection. Thankfully, we are experiencing only minor setbacks.”

The crowd of employees all begin to line up and descend down to the stairs, still weary about the elevator’s condition. Director Joyce leaves the corner and closes the file, finally closing his mouth. He walks over to Blackrock before slinking away as Fowler and Simmons gather. “Let's go to my office to discuss things.” Blackrock declares. 

“Perfect, we gotta discuss a lot.” Says Simmons as he eyes Joyce. Fowler punches her fellow agent’s shoulder. 

Blackrock leads the way into his office. It's a vast room with two walls being ceiling to floor windows and another two lined with satin black paint, portraits of his predecessors, his father and grandmother, previous runners of the company, bare down on him. Beneath the golden frames of each portrait is a small, ornate yet simple table with miniatures of important products and events that occurred while they ran the company. An old automobile, various medical devices, and space age circuitry from his grandmother. Several aid relief rewards, some of the first personal computers developed, and a neon cap lined with LEDs from his father. In the center of the office is an understated, ebony hardwood desk. Kelly dashes over to it and turns on his computer. “I can connect to the main servers sir, seems as though anything sent during the nullification didn’t get saved.” She announces. 

“See if you can find the email IDs and ask for resends. We need to minimize setbacks caused by Joyce’s desperation.” Mr. Blackrock walks up to the Director of KSI with a frown on his face. “It’s time to rip that bandage off.”

Joyce looks away from his superior like a guilty dog. “Are you looking for an apology?”

Blackrock shrugs. “I know it's not in your style. Perhaps some justification for your actions.” 

“Well, this file explains alot but before I knew about that I was worried about the state of this company. We haven’t introduced a new product line in years, mostly maintaining legacy lines and focusing on foreign aid. Not that those aren't noble pursuits but, we need to look for the future. I know you have assured me that we would get another shipment of Transformium, energon I guess. But as we approached the announcement and pre-order openings today, I panicked. Trent…Jetstorm contacted me about a month ago, claiming he was putting a mining operation in place to exclusively mine energon for us. I dismissed him initially but as we approached today with no new shipments, as you said, I got despirate.” Joyce explains, waving the file around in his sweaty palms. 

“Will you accept the consequences of your actions?” Blackrock asks. 

Joyce squints. “Technically, none of this would have happened if you,’ he points to Fowler and Simmons, ‘gave us regular shipments as our deal stated.”

“Oy! It’s on the Autobots for not handing over their waste! I spend hours of each day covering up whatever the fuck Sky Lynx’s make and model is for….” Simmons starts raving. 

Agent Fowler punches his shoulder again. “To be fair, construction of a dedicated headquarters for them has not been as fast as they would have liked. I doubt they’ll hand anything over until they know what they can get rid of. Additionally, the Autobots have a staunch policy against giving us any Cybertronian corpses. We know of 13 Cybertronian casualties on Earth, 3 among the Autobots, 10 from the Decepticons. Out of respect for the dead, we don’t know the locations of them and of course, we can’t harvest energon from them.” She explains. 

“Will you accept the consequences of your actions?” Kelly reiterates as she steps out from behind the desk and stands beside Fowler. 

Joyce brings up a finger in protest. “Not without getting a straight answer from Dr. Hawk. He’s the reason this whole situation arose…”

“They're saving your slagging ass! Yes!” Gale abruptly kicks her way into the office. The pretender walks in sweat-drenched and still half in her wrestling costume with a unzipped hoodie and sweatpants shacked over. She drags a steel wagon behind her filled with lusterless metal shards and busted up computer systems, on the other hand she holds a piece of paper. “This is for you. Metalhawk tried emailing it to you earlier but the building was down and they didn’t get a response. They wanted me to talk to you inperson cause their off doing who knows what. I know said saving your slagging ass, honestly I think they're off sulking on some abandoned runway.” 

Blackrock takes the piece of paper and unfurls it. “It’s a letter calling for their immediate resignation as my science advisor…but why, today wasn’t their fault?” He asks with a quiver to his voice. 

“Metalhawk does this thing where every century or so something big will happen and they’ll try taking the blame for it; volcano eruptions, economic recessions, Decepticon attacks. And then sulk for a week or so. I don’t want to speak too much on their behalf but I think we’ve both finally rediscovered our priorities. Yes. For the past few months we’ve been scattered between our mission and this.” She makes a general gesture over her body. “I’m even thinking about quitting my job, or atleast something less demanding of my physical presence. After my current arc, I’m done. Not to say we don’t see value in it all but, at some points we both need to be reminded that it's just a shell and sometimes we need to come out of it. Because there are dark times ahead and humans don’t have headlights.” Gale says.

Agent Fowler nods knowingly. Perhaps I should prepare my aid foundation… Blackrock thinks upon Gale’s dark omen. 

“There, you have your straight answer, now own up to it or else I’ll have her eat you. She turns into a giant T.Rex.” Kelly threatens. Joyce shirks away. 

“A normal sized T.Rex.” Gale corrects.

Blackrock puts himself between his two employees. “We’re not in the position to give threats.”

“Then are the agents going to arrest me?” Asks Joyce with a scornful look. 

“No. We’re not the police nor your employer. I’ll leave it to Mr. Blackrock to provide a reasonable punishment. Just know that since you’ve been informed about the Autobot presence on Earth, you must keep it a secret. You are not allowed to tell anyone else about this unless the situation immediately calls for it like in your situation or if Sector 7 or the Autobots deem it appropriate. The file goes over more of the legal ramifications should you infringe on this.” Agent Fowler clarifies. 

“You might also see us around, just doing necessary surveillance. That’s different from constant surveillance.” Simmons follows up. 

“Uh, noted.” Mutters Joyce before looking expectantly at Blackrock. 

“You will receive a month-long suspension and a 25% decrease in pay for 6 months after returning to your current position.” Mr. Blackrock decides. 

Joyce tightly closes his eyes before responding. “Alright. Will I be paid during suspension?” 

“50% of what you are normally paid.” Blackrock says. 

“You’re rich, you’ll learn to deal with it.” Kelly remarks snidely. 

Joyce gives her a scornful look then takes a deep breath. “Alright. I’ll take my leave now.” Director Joyce steps up to Blackrock and the two men enter a handshake. “I…am sorry I suppose.” Joyce whispers into Blackrock’s ear. 

“I’ll find you a way to make it up to me.” Blackrock reminds Joyce. The KSI director reluctantly nods and walks towards the office exit, not before eyeing Gale’s wagon full of Autobot junk. 

“How long do you think he’ll keep his mouth shut?” Kelly asks. 

“Sector 7 monitors everyone who knows about extraterrestrial presence on Earth. We’ll know if he does.” Agent Fowler reiterates. Kelly blushes lightly. 

“Hey, Gale, what would happen if everyone found out about the Autobots?” Blackrock asks, genuinely curious now. 

The pretender scrunches up her nose. “It would violate the RID Treaty. Without that in place, someone would have to claim Earth. Yes. Probably the Decepticons, they got the armada for it but they wouldn’t like it. No. They prefer a docile, unassuming populace to manipulate and enslave. Us Autobots might back you up but, we’ve got nothing compared to the ‘cons. There’d be all out war upon your planet. Thankfully, we try to prevent that from happening. It’s why we’ve been here for so long, in the shadows, helping and defending human institutions from Decepticon interference. Ask Metalhawk for the history lesson, which of you wants my trash.” Gale points down from the contents of her wagon then to Blackrock versus the agents.

“What exactly is it?” Asks Simmons as he takes a step forward and crouches low. 

“A few busted computer systems, parts of rollerblade I once had on my left heel strut, bits of my armored plating that fell off in some battles. Just my trash. It’s like snake skin, don’t think about it too hard.” Gale jokes. 

“I mean, it's already here.” Fowler looks over to Blackrock. 

“Is there any way you could ‘melt’ it down? I just don’t want anyone trying too hard to reengineer your organs or anything.” Asks Backrock as he holds his face in his hands, tiredness bear down on him. 

“Oh yeah!” Gale pulls back the skin on her hand, revealing thin bronze and purple metal forming the outlines of finger bones, and places it over the junk pile. Electricity courses out of the trash, turning it into a dull, shapeless pool of silvery metal while the pretender revels in the reclaimed burst of energy. 

“How come you can pull your skin up like that? Metalhawk has to go into the suit then bot…” Kelly asks. 

“Metalhawk never bothers to look at the patch notes for the pretender shell and update it. Probably why their diagnosis alerts have been ringing off 24/7 for centuries now!” Gale explains. “Alright, I’m going to go now, I need to get some shut-eye!” 

“Yes, I think we all need some rest.” Blackrock announces as he opens his office door and allows everyone to exit before him. 

The lights go out in Blackrock Building on purpose this time, allowing for the night to be dark. 

Chapter Text

PART 2

Mars

A small six wheeled rover tumbles down a gentle slope opposing one of the Red Planet’s characteristic canyons. The rover’s two rods of three wheels each pivot and squirm as it accelerates downhill to escape the barrage of sniper rounds coming from an ugly pink and gray Decepticon, Calcar, standing on the other side of the canyon, a few kliks away. A white and red striped ambulance dashes to the rover’s aid. Red Alert swiftly transforms and casts out three floating shield pods around her as the Decepticon affirms her as his target. Two shield generators go online just the purple blaster shots come within an antenna's width away from her thick white plating. Orange hexagons manifest around her and block away Calcar’s follow up shots. The third generator magnetizes itself to the rover, casts out its shield and fully envelops the rover. 

Red Alert rearranges the generator pods around her, keeping herself fully shielded from the sniper’s attacks as two more Trackers join him. Between the canyon sides, a green helicopter-con, Dot, leads a swarm of drones reigning down lasers at the two Autobots crossing the width of the canyon floor. Tigertrack, a stout yellow autobot currently in his wedge-shaped concept car mode, weaves out of the way of drones constant laser beams. One hits his left rear bumper. Leobreaker, a gleaming white lion Eukarian with a spiky red mane of armor, sprints alongside him. Leo leaps up into the air, taking out several drones with the swipe of a metal paw.

“No! My drones! I’ll get you, you clods!” Dot screams, audible to Red Alert as she watches the battle play out from afar. She takes out two medical cases stached beneath some side paneling coming off her hips, forming a silhouette not unlike a lab coat. She places them down on the ground before her and kneels. The Autobot medic opens up one and takes out a large sterile sheet of thin metal. Before completely unfurling it, her left hand retracts into her arm and is replaced by a blower. She blasts away the red dust then switches over to a vacuum, sequestering away the irritients. Quickly, she tosses a small selectively permeable membrane generator onto the metal. The result is a sterile environment should she need to perform surgery in the field. 

Her cyan optics magnify 10x to take in the extent of Tigertrack’s injury; a minor dent with some burned slag around the impact site. She takes out a tube of energon filler, buffering wheel, and some electronic spray paint and places them all out on the metal sheet. Tigertrack and Leobreaker make it to the otherside of the canyon. The yellow Autobot transforms without any difficulty and activates the jet booster upon his back, a small yellow rocket with chrome fins coming off it. Tigertrack jumps and is propelled several meters into the thin air. He reaches the very top of the cliff and delivers a landing kick to Calcar’s forearm, knocking his sniper rifle out of his hand to the bottom of the cliff. 

Leo rakes his claws deep to the rocky slopes of the canyon and scrambles with the same level speed and vigor as he did over flat ground. Red Alert places down a file and wetstone so Leo can resharpen his claws after the battle. Dot commands her remaining drone swarm to focus their laser beams at the rocks above the white lion, causing a rockslide to hammer down upon his metal pelt. Red Alert counts each dent as they happen, 34 dents in total upon his armor. The green decepticon continues commanding her barrage, transforming into her small, spindly robot mode, one forearm disproportionately taking the helicopter blades in place of a standard hand. Her other digits precariously grasp an energy rifle one handed. “Fall! Fall!” Cackles Dot. The flying con adds to her swarm’s efforts, her clumsy shots successful in collapsing the pillar of rock Leobreaker stands upon, sending the Autobot to his fall. 

“Leobreaker! Are you majorly injured?” Red Alert radios out to him as she magnifies into the rubble pile the lion shakes himself out of. His plating sustains further denting though not to the degree it would impede his ability to transform. He steps onto the dusty ground with a slight limp from his left back leg. Red Alert takes out a hammer and spot forger, a cube shaped device that administers anesthetics then heats and electrifies the metal underneath, returning it into a liquid state that can be reshaped by hammer or by the body. A similar process occurs within a CR chamber. 

Though those provided a constant stream of energon into the body to allow for accelerated healing that might otherwise drain a Cybertronian’s fuel canisters. CR chambers also came with several internal robotic arms that pull and push the substructure back into place and could even perform minor surgeries and replacement procedures. Yet they had limitations. A CR chamber couldn’t cure infections, diseases, or viruses, only treat some of the symptoms. Most standard ones couldn’t initiate a body reengineering. Last of all, CR chambers were meant to treat anyone who could fit inside it. Standard CR chambers stood only 15m tall and 8m in diameter. This excludes most larger bots, although large CR chambers are constructed most could only be found on planets or massive warships. CR chambers can only act upon what a Cybertronians ' diagnosis systems tell them too, allowing for more serious, unrecognized conditions to slip by. Still why I have a job. 

“Nothing that can keep me out of the battle. Thanks for keeping an optic on us though.” Leo reports back as he effortlessly transforms into his robot mode. His lion head asymmetrically rests on his left shoulder while a blue crested helm beams proudly among the red mane. He takes out a massive broadsword and swings it at Dot. An arc of blue energy crackles off of it and hits Dot and much of her remaining swarm, taking them out. Leo crouches back down into his beast mode and renews his climb. His left back leg drags along and he uses his long, blade tipped tail for support. 

Tigertrack punches Calcar repeatedly, black digits gaining cracks of wear with each walloping into the Decepticon’s oil-spill colored plating. Red Alert puts down a vial of servo stiffener and another full of lubricant. She does not pay much attention to the injuries Decepticons accrue over the course of the battle. The Trackers had a small fleet of shuttlecraft they patrolled the Solar System in, each equipped with a small CR chamber and a medic and few mechanics among their company. The Autobots only had a CR chamber recently brought over within Sky Lynx and herself to provide medical care. The pretender shells could repair damage sustained in robot mode but not vice versa. The technology could have promising applications in the future. Four million years of warfare had degraded every medic’s ethical codes and oates. 

“Red Alert, keep an optic on the rover too, I’m almost done pummeling this decepti-goon.” Tigertrack snarls as he knocks Calcar to the ground and drops the Decepticon’s sniper rifle off the cliffside. Red Alert groaning looks over her shoulder, the rover continues a slow pace downhill with the shield generator in tow. Rolling, red storm clouds gather ahead of it, far too large to be produced by any of the Trackers. Normal weather patterns for this planet. 

A small dust cloud rumbles up the other side of the canyon. Tigertrack launches out a rocket from a cannon mounted upon his shoulder. Several purple blaster bolts meet the intercepting rocket, lashing it apart as their source, a gatling gun toting purple and yellow Nash Metropolitan, emerges from the dust cloud. Diabla aims herself at Tigertrack, bashing into his legs and spinning up her gatling gun again. Leobracker leaps over the edge of the cliff and pounces upon the two-toned Tracker. Diabla flips and transforms into a slender, spiky robot mode, trading out her gatling gun for two sickle daggers. Leo returns the threat with unsheathed claws. Diabla dances around the two Autobots, lashing out her blades in slices and stabs upon their substructures. She leaps out of the frey and picks up Calcar’s stasis locked body and jumps over the cliff edge. She transforms into her car mode and drives down the sheer, vertical canyon side, Calcar precariously laid atop her trunk. 

“I’ll meet up with you two on the other side. Leo, do not put stress on your left, back paw.” Red Alert radios out as she compresses what she already set out on the sterile plate into a cube-shaped box. She nudges another shield generator in the direction of the rover, protecting it should the Decepticons go after it again in the oncoming dust storm. She gathers together to prepared med cube, cases, and remaining shield generator and transforms, internalizing it all within her ambulance alternate mode. 

“Noted.” Leobracker purrs as he lays on his side. Tigertrack looms over the edge, keeping an eye on the cons as Diabla tends to her fallen comrades. 

“Did I miss all the fun?” Deep Blue, the Sol Defense Division’s leader, chimes in. 

“The cat had trouble getting up the cliff. But we pummeled two Trackers. They were after the Revelation rover.” Tigertrack reports. “Where were you?” 

“I got a call from Metalhawk, things are getting serious on Earth. We may need to assist them.” Deep Blue starts. 

“Pah! The Pretenders just got reinforcements. Earth’s got 10 bots while the four of us are protecting humans' first touches of space.” Tigertrack huffs as he transforms into car mode and drives along the cliff edge as it slopes down into a flat, red plain of rusted rock. 

“I will remind you again that the reasons for our mission are important but have to remain classified. Please continue your trust in me as your commander.” Deep Blue responds. Tigertrack’s engine rumbles reverb through the group radio transmission. 

“The humans are still in the fragile, exploratory part of their development as a civilization. We are lucky they have been receptive to Autobot ideals.” Leobracker adds as he sprints alongside Tigertrack, his left back leg raised in a hopping, tri-legged bound. 

“Leo, please don’t continue that posture longer than necessary, it will put increased amounts of pressure and weight upon your other 3 peds.” Red Alert notices. 

“Just trying to keep up. My, I once knew a bot back on Eukaris who turned into a canithere, had just 3 legs till he transformed into robot mode.” Leo jokes. 

Deep Blue makes a direct transmission to Red Alert. “Metalhawk requested a telehealth appointment with you.” 

“At long last.” Red Alert replies with a grind in her tires. As a medic, she had access to the medical records of every Autobot aligned Cybertronian. Metalhawk’s last appointment was made as a follow up to the pretender procedure, 100,000 stellar cycles ago. Granted not a long time considering a Cybertronian’s lifespan but for such a risky and experimental procedure that beforehand had left it’s patients dead during surgery, collapsing into a blackhole upon activation, or mode locked within the shell, it proved concerning for the medic. “Are they on hold with you?” 

“Yes, but they say they can wait a few more mega-cycles.” Deep Blue replies. 

The leader and the medic rejoin the group radio channel. “How far away is the Parable ?” Red Alert asks as she descends down a slope onto the bottom of the canyon. Tigertrack leaps off the edge of the cliff and swiftly transforms, activates his jetpack and floats a few meters away from the ledge. Leobreaker lunges off the edge with his forelimbs and lands in Tigertrack’s arms. The yellow autobot strenuously holds the injured Eukarian until the two of them land on the ground beneath. Diabla’s gatling gun fire resumes as she attempts to defend her two downed comrades. Tigertrack drops downs into car mode and races out of Diabla’s range. Leobreaker sprints lazily after him. 

“You three are near the Frisata Chasma, correct?” Deep Blue asks.

“Yes.” Red Alert confirms as Leobreaker and Tigertrack dash alongside her. 

“I’ll be overhead in a few kliks.” Deep Blue informs. 

Sure to her word, Deep Blue pilots the P arable into view. Their ship is a Cyber Sparrow-type spaceship, a fairly small shuttle able to comfortably fit a crew of 10 standard-formers. She has a bulbous front half that flares out into a lifting body with a 45 ° angle at wing tips. The ship straddles overhead of the Autobot procession and swivels midair as she descends to the ground, blasting up waves of dust. A ramp lowers to the ground, allowing them all to drive or walk up into the main body of the ship. 

The ramp folds up upon them all entering the ship, forming a table in the middle of a hexagon shaped living quarters. Two recharging slabs are folded in along each wall with a crowded shelf overhead, repeated for each wall. Each bot goes to their own all. Red Alert’s shelf is covered with more medical cases and equipment. She transforms and places the prepared cube on the table and pokes the top. The thin foil unravels like drapery. 

“Here’s what you’ll need to repair yourselves. Mostly a lot of spot forging and filler needs to be applied.” Red Alert explains. 

Tigertrack picks up the can of electric spray paint. “Pft. I despise the standard issue brand.” He scoffs, walking over to his shelf to pull out his own supply of yellow paint. 

Red Alert grabs a different can out of one of her medical cases. “Here is some medicinal primer then. Spray on multiple coats and wait for them each to dry before applying the next coat.” She offers. 

“Great, it will take me until the next battle to not be splotchy.” Tigertrack groans as he rubs some filler between his digits and applies it to his forearm plating. 

“Health before aesthetics.” Red Alert reminds him as she approaches Leobreaker. “I can’t give you my full attention right now, Deep Blue called me in. But give me a quick range of motion test for your left leg in both modes. If it’s limited in both modes, I’ll need to replace some servos, if it's just in beast mode, you’ll have to keep it off for a few solar cycles.” 

The white Autobot nods and stands on three legs, tilting his forth paw around. It fully extends vertically but struggles to tilt, pivot, or swivel. He then grunts as he places weight on it until it thickens as he transforms into robot mode. He sits up on the slab and rotates his foot around. “Looks good, still some noticeable crushing of the metal. Make Sure you’re through with the spot forge.” Red Alert approves. 

“Thank you, Red Alert.” Leo says. Red Alert nods and approaches the door to the cockpit. She knocks it and it parts open. Inside are two seats in front of an expanse of control panels, switches, buttons, sensor readouts, and steering yokes. Deep Blue sits in the pilot’s seat; she’s the smallest among them, transforming into a dark blue quad bike, the tires bulge out at her hip and shoulder joints, handlebars wrap around her collar. Her slender hands clasp her slim face as she converses with Metalhawk through a small screen projected above the control panels. The pretender stands away from the camera, pacing in a dark forest, shafts of morning sun beginning to peek through the trees and onto their plating. 

“Well, we both know what must be done in the event of an actual Awakening. Red Alert is here to access you. After that, we can work out a time to rendezvous.” Deep Blue says. She turns around and beckons Red Alert to the co-pilot seat. 

Metalhawk goes to mouth something in response before nodding as the medic settles down into the seat. “Ah, Red Alert, glad you could see me on such short notice.” They say with a tired smile. They come closer to the camera on their end. Red Alert makes note of their fatigued appearance; dull, flickering optics, two golden prongs along the sides of their helm bent out shape, a stiff posture. 

“Indeed. Deep Blue, care to give us some patient-doctor confidentiality.” Red Alert leans in as her leader nods and leaves the front cabin. “When was the last time you got a recharge or even just slept in a pretender shell? Because if you are finally having an appointment with me just because you haven’t gotten rest then it's a waste of time for the both of us.” Red Alert curtly asks as she turns on a secondary holoscreen before her and opens up Metalhawk’s prior medical records, any notes about them, and even their Autopedia page. She smirks slightly at the remark that they had a habit of not recharging during their time at university in Polyhex. 

Metalhawk looks away in thought. Not a good sign. “Three days since I’ve slept, four months since I’ve had a full recharge.” They recall. 

Red Alert sputters upon pulling up the time unit conversions between Cybertronians and humans. “Well, I’ll assume that you’ve at least been consuming energon readily enough because you haven’t dropped dead yet but…am I talking to a protoform? You do understand why recharging is important, right?” 

Metalhawk shrinks away. “Yes…” They mutter. 

Red Alert closes her optics and vents. “Recharging replenishes your innermost energon. Without a recharge, at least every quartex or month in Earthspeak, your Spark starts burning through it and you’ll become susceptible to flickers and even fades. It also gives your processors and computers a much needed cooldown and break. You aren’t so bad you’d need a transfusion. When we are done with this consultation, you are going to recharge. Understand me?”

Metalhawk nods profusely. 

“Good. Any other symptoms I should know about?” Red Alert asks again. 

“My joints are in a failing state. They keep alternating from being too loose to too tight.” Metalhawk puts it bluntly while sending over various diagnostic reports their unboard computers had produced. “I’d assume it's because I’ve been masshifting alot going between the shell and robot mode but there’s been no warning reports from my subspace system.” 

“Shush.” Snaps Red Alert as she pours over the shared documents and pulls up similar reports from the other Pretenders, including those now diseased or who didn’t survive the process. “Could you send me your changelog? I want to see just how much you’ve been transforming to see how much that could play a role as well.” She asks. 

Metalhawk nods and sends the file. Red Alert takes a quick glance through the datasheet before running it through graphing software. A histogram of time in quartexes against frequency of transformations plus entering and exiting the pretender shell is produced showing a slight yet significant increase overtime. She compares it to a similar graph of Decepticon encounters by both exaltations. Significant as well… Quickly she looks for similar reports from the other pretenders before delivering her conclusion. 

“Your idea is part of it but it’s just one of many explanatory variables for this response. Part of it is you’re a jet.” She starts off to slight frown from Metalhawk. Bluntly talking about alt modes could be seen by some as functionist rhetoric even within a medical, factual setting. Red Alert leans back. “Because your natural alt mode is a fixed-winged starfighter to be specific, your substructure is used to a certain level of rigidity when in vehicle mode. The only flexibility you’d have is your landing gear, nose cone, ailerons, flaps, rudder, etc. And then only become flexible in robot mode. Your substructure though is forced to push past that when inside the pretender shell. You regularly go from having about ten points of articulation to several dozen to several hundred within a fleshy body. Your body is just not used to that. Meanwhile, Gnashteeth, who is highly articulate in both modes, has not reported this problem.” 

Metalhawk blinks. “Did Cloudburst ever report something like this… he turned into a propeller plane…” They start. 

“He did along with Waverider. She turned into a boat. They have similar rigidity quotation. The two of them did this about 625 vorns ago and in response Wheeljack has started adding patches to the shells. Patches that you have not kept up with or seem to even be aware of.” Red Alert stops as she sees the look of astonishment on Metalhawk’s faceplate. 

“So that’s what all these messages from him have been? They all went to my spam!” Metalhawk exclaims. 

“Anyway. You also have been transforming and going in and out of the shell more than what is recommended. Lastly, you have a very compressive transformation scheme meaning your substructure needs to flex, fold, and tab in more than what might be necessary. I get you need to shrink down into a shell but they’ve always allowed for kibble.” Red Alert finishes as she looks up and down Metalhawk. Aside from the narrow wings upon their forearms, very little stuck out and they had almost no noticeable kibble. They have an unnaturally (for a Cybertronian) concise silhouette. 

“I have my reasons. Uh for almost three and a half million stellar cycles I was imprisoned by the Decepticons. You know that they don’t let you keep an alt mode and force you into a protoform state…” Metalhawk trails off a bit. 

“You don’t have to share what you’re not comfortable with sharing. Context is not needed. I am familiar with Decepticon practices. Speaking as a medic, I would recommend same-grade reengineering as the simplest and least intrusive form of treatment.” Red Alert says. 

Metalhawk’s mouth goes agap. “I mean, I’ve tried various lubricants and stiffeners, granted earth based but couldn’t you just prescribe me something or do a reconstruction?” 

“Organic derived lubricants and stiffeners are actually some of the best in the universe. Can’t get better than lipids and rubbers. But a reconstruction or joint replacement would require a medic and multiple mechanics to perform. Most forms of reengineering can occur within a CR chamber with some supervision from a minor medic. Or at least that’s what I’d recommend and can be paid for by the Autobots. But feel free to do research.” Red Alert prescribes. 

Metalhawk bites their lip. “Fine, I’m guessing I should do that the next time I’m on Cybertron?” 

“Yes, I presume that’s what Deep Blue and you are deliberating on?” Red Alert pries. 

Metalhawk nods. “What should I do in the meantime?” 

“Recharge. Refrain from changing between robot mode and shell more than two times per solar cycle. I know that is limiting. You just need to make it count. The shell is for your survival on Earth, it's not a gimmick, it's a part of you. Please note that reengineering will update your shell and basically wipe all the unsaved data so get your affairs in order in regards to your avatar’s identity and fate.” Red Alert concludes. 

“I guess the timing worked out on that front.” Metalhawk chuckles. 

“Lastly, please be proactive with this kind of stuff. I like to stay alert.” Warns Red Alert as she closes up her tabs and leaves her seat. She stands up and walks out into the main living quarters. Deep Blue converse with Leobreaker and Tigertrack about the prior battle as the dust storm buffets the landed spacecraft. Red Alert makes a swift beeline for her side, faintly reminded of the importance of a good recharge. 

Chapter Text

Skies Above Southeast Asia

Joyride lifts her peds up onto the armrest across the aisle as she plays some mindless Cube simulator game on her holopad. The rows of empty passenger seats give way to a gigantic cargo compartment. Reclaimed computers line the red-paneled walls while a C.R. chamber occupies the rear of Sky Lynx’s interior. The shuttle’s cockpit is sealed off. To exit, a ramp would open from underneath the passenger seats, analogous to Sky Lynx’s chest while in robot mode. The C.R. Chamber opens up. Nightviper slithers groggily out of the chamber and up into the passenger seats. She loops her long body around them before opening up her optics. 

“You still need more recharging after a single null ray blast? It wasn’t even a direct hit.” Scoffs Sky Lynx, his voice ringing over the speakers lining the roof of his interior. 

Joyride sits up and narrows her optics. “Jetstorm took out an entire building. He could have blackout all of Sterling City if Nightviper hadn’t absorbed a bit of it.” Defends the orange femme. 

“Did Metalhawk deactivate Jetsssstorm?” Asks Nightviper. 

“No. We chased him until the Trackers aided in his escape through a Groundbridge. I’d imagine Metalhawk is still searching for him now or returned to their humany duties. I haven’t seen their radio signal since two nights ago.” Informs Sky Lynx. 

“Ssssshame.” Says the snake. 

“Anyhoo. I’d imagine this has caused a bit of embarrassment for the Decepticons seeing as how they’ve evaporated from North America entirely. I’ve dropped off Rattrap and Orion in Europe. Whirl is scouting out South America. Hot Rod is racing through much of Africa and I’m about to drop you two off in Southeast Asia. Then I’m flying to Australia. Want to see if I can develop enough of an accent to be interesting. I hear Australian accents are like Nebulan accents…” Sky Lynx blabbers on. 

Joyride gets up and pulls up a few newspaper headlines on her holopad. “Look, the humans are reporting Cybertronian sightings. ‘Giant people standing under street lights. SIGHTED!’, ‘Mysterious Cars and Crystals Found Near Local Mechanics’.” 

The serpentine Autobot opens her optics and flicks her tongue out with interest. She transforms and pulls up the same articles on her own holopad. “The humans keep calling ussss the Sssstreetlight People or Lamplight People. Interessssting.” Nightviper observes. “Are we certain it’sssss the Decepticonssss?” 

“I do sense Cybertronians beneath me however I cannot discern their factions. Perhaps you’ll be able to figure out who’s poking their nose cone where it doesn’t belong.” Sky Lynx remarks. Suddenly, the floor begins to give way as his ramp extends. Joyride grabs onto a seat before transforming and driving off ramp. The dirtbike falls with style into the rich jungle canopy beneath, early morning sun poking parallel to her descent. Nightviper leaps after her and transforms, the serpent’s body flattens out into an airfoil as she slithers through the air and onto a sturdy, often lightning-struck branch. 

Joyride reves up her tires as she falls. Rubber catches onto slippery stone. Waves lash around her casing and tires, pulling her down into a frothy fall. Joyride transforms and closes her vents as she hits the pool at the waterfall’s bottom. Her peds press against the smooth, pebble bed and propel her towards the shallows. She trudges out of the water and onto the sand and pebble beach. Nightviper slithers over to the orange Autobot. “Are you alright?” She asks. 

Joyride collapses onto her knees as she lets her internals flush out the water. “Just a bit waterlogged.” She reports with a cough. The cycle-bot stands back up and looks around; a wide waterfall cascades down from a stone outcrop framed by twisting vines and towering trees. A shaft of light refracts a rainbow through the frothing foam. The pool of water continues on as a stream. “I think we should follow the stream, it might connect to a river. Where there are rivers, there are human settlements.” Joyride points out. 

“Good idea. I can’t ssssssss anything but musssk and flowerssss.” Replies Nightviper as she slips into the water and begins paddling downstream. 

Joyride transforms and races after the serpent. She deploys her holomatter avatar, now outfitted with a bright red sweater emblazoned with an antlered red snouted animal to match human seasonal conventions. The two autobots continue down the stream until it connects up to a wider river. 

The afternoon sun beats down on the river bank by the time they spot any sign of settlement; a dock edging out into the calm waters and house not too far away, caged in by trees and some fenced off livestock. Nightviper dives down out of sight and Joyride throws down her kickstand as two human children dash out onto the dock, a boy in swim trunks and a teen girl with a fishing rod and tackle box in hand. The two children look over at the cycle-bot in surprise before shouting out and beckoning her over in greeting. Joyride slowly rolls over, her onboard computers analyzing the children’s voices to pinpoint the language they were speaking. “You look like a tourist, miss!” Shouts the boy jokingly. 

The teenager makes a mocking swipe at him. “Are you?” Asks the girl. 

“Uh, yes. I’m on spring break! I mean winter break! Do you two know where the nearest gas station is? I need to top myse…my bike off.” Joyride asks. She runs an animation of her avatar stepping off the bike then walking up to the two children. 

The boy runs circles around her, inspecting her alt-mode with a gawking excitableness. “There’s one in town, keep going down the river another 6 kilometers and you’ll see the road that leads into town.” Answers the girl as she points further downstream. 

“Watch out for the Streetlight people!” The boy yells as he falls down from all his spinning. 

Joyride’s avatar kneels down and offers him a hand to pull him up. He takes it. “What do you two know about the streetlight people? I ask because I’m something of a monster hunter.” She asks. 

“My friends say their giant robots!” Shouts the boy as he begins marching around with exaggerated, angular movements. The girl rushes over to him and puts her hand over his mou th. 

“They’ve been a scourge on our community for the past few weeks. We’ve barely been able to go to town because we keep on seeing weird lights racing through the jungle or even in the river. I hear from the people in town that they hear deep voices in the abandoned warehouses. Like the rumbles of an engine. The skeptics think that it's just punks racing. But we all know it's something else.” Warns the girl as she reluctantly releases the younger boy. 

“I’ll be careful. Thank you.” Joyride says as her avatar returns to her seat and drives away from the kids. “Those kids say they know people who have seen Cybertronians in a town further downriver.” She informs Nightviper over the radio. 

The serpent briefly surfaces, flicking out her forked tongue and swishing her tail tip. “Yes, I think I sense someone.” 

“Decepticons?” Joyride asks as she charges down the river bank. The river widens and a rickety truss bridge crosses it appears through the low hanging haze. 

“I’m not sure. I am detecting at least 3 signatures but I can’t discern their factions.” Says Nightviper. 

“NAILs then?” Joyride suggests. 

“Neutralssss is the preferred term. But perhapssss it issss the ssssmall group previoussssly huddled within one of our energon minessss.” Nightviper corrects.

Joyride remains in silent agreement as she approaches the bridge. She turns off her avatar and transforms. Nightviper slithers out the water beneath the bridge and transforms as well, beginning a quick, stealthy climb onto the floor beams. She dashes up and across to the side leading into town. “Do you need an asssssisssst?” Nightviper offers before returning to her beast mode. 

“I got it!” Joyride shouts back as she gives herself a running start. She leaps and catches onto a beam upon the pier. She scales it quickly and hovers with just her optics peering onto the deck. A few people cross the bridge upon mopeds, bicycles, or their own two feet. She waits until most have reached the village road and all she can hear is the distant rumbling of a large truck on the other side. She dashes onto the deck and transforms, deploying her avatar. A few people turn back in surprise. “Sorry, I was speeding.” Joyride says as she pumps her breaks. 

Nightviper pokes her head out of the undergrowth as Joyride passes by before diving beneath the leaf cover. The road curves uphill onto a plateau. A few houses and market fronts line either side of the road before it widens into an intersection. On the left, a small gas station with a peculiar looking car parked in front; a dark green muscle car’s hood, and driver and passenger seat with the back half of the vehicle being composed of black and red metal jigsawed together to form the crude shape of a hatchback. The car slowly rolls away from the station and makes a mad dash through the intersection to the road, cutting a sharp right. It drives past the flagger directing traffic in place of the non-functioning traffic light much to the honks and angry gestures of the other drivers. 

When she’s available to, Joyride turns right after it. The homes give way to small crops and meadows of fenced off goats and cows. The road divides the jungle like glass holding back an aquarium. Hillsides carved straight past by asphalt, trees left hanging half-uprooted. Joyride follows the heat imprint left by the muscle car’s tires. There’s an uneven distribution of heat. The front tires produce more than the back. But it's more pronounced than what I’d expect from a two-wheel drive vehicle. It’s as though the left and right tires aren’t connected to the same axle, let alone the same engine. Could they be a combiner? 

The imprints make a sharp turn left into the forest. Joyride stops to transform and walks over. Nightviper slips out of the foliage and inspects the trampled ferns, sliced down vines, and fresh pedprints. “There are three of them. A ssstandard sssized bot and then two sssmall onesss. One of the sssmall onesss is a quadruped. They all walked ssssingle file into the jungle. A ssshortcut. I sssmell russsting ssssteel and old oil. Perhap a hangout ssspot.” Accesses Nightviper as she transforms and follows the trail, stepping around the pedtracks. 

Joyride nods silently as she follows the Eukarian. Nightviper briefly pauses and pulls out a short scythe in her hand as she looks up. Joyride draws out her pistols as a brightly colored hot air-balloon billows over the canopy. Those kids or some sign in town would have mentioned if there was a balloon race or rides going on. Through the thin glimpse she could see through, Joyride couldn’t see anyone within the basket. The balloon expels a plume of flame from its burner up into the envelope, floating further into the sky and out of sight. Didn’t one of the neutrals from the mine have a balloon alternate mode? She thought. 

Before she can confirm suspicions with Nightviper, she feels herself lurched into a defensive posture behind the Eukarian. “Do you ssssmell him?” Asks Nightviper. 

Joyride blinks and looks around, sensing nothing out of the ordinary within the sun-dappled jungle. A sickly-sweet scent is broadcasted into her processor. A manifestation of Nightviper’s own (albeit justified) prejudice against the Decepticons. Joyride shakes a hand in front of her optics, trying to clear away a purple fog rising up from the scorched ground. Her hand falls upon her face, gripping and pinching it as a processor ache set in. Knees wobbling, the cycle-bot falls backwards. 

Nightviper props her up and spins her around, looking down at Joyride with wide optics. “My apologies. I ssstruggle controlling my thoughts, feelingsss, and even sssensesss. Ssso far on thisss mission I’ve only been affecting Metalhawk. Whenever it becomes too much for them, they jusssst go into their sssshell and it blocksss out my pssssychic abilities. Are you alright?” Explains the serpent-former. 

Joyride gives a shaky nod as she messages her faceplate. “I’ll be okay. Have you talked to a mnemosurgeon about this or a cityspeaker…”

Nightviper pushes her back onto her peds. “They can’t help me and my powers are too unsssstable to be usssed to guide a Titan.” She dismisses. 

Regaining her bearings, Joyride asks, “You were saying something about a Decepticon?”

“Yessss. Counterpunch is their desssignation I believe. A blue car with red windowsss.” Nightviper confirms. “Jusssst one con? And maybe four neutralsssss? Why are they meeting up?” 

“It might not matter. What matters is that they all keep on getting sighted by the humans.” Joyride asserts. 

“A violation of the RID treaty for the Decepticon but not the neutralsss.” Reminds Nightviper as she resumes following the trail. 

“Sure, but the Galactic Council, Shadow Proclamation, and Tyrest Enforcements don’t distinguish between factions when enforcing the RID treaty.” Joyride lectures. 

“Husssh. I don’t care about how well you did in your Galactic Law classsssesss in the Academy.” Whispers Nightviper as the two Autobots approach the edge of the forest. Two empty warehouses stand in a lot connected by a thin backroad to the rest of the world. The hot air balloon floats down between the warehouses, the envelope rapidly deflating as the neutral transforms and scuttles into a building. Joyride and Nightviper dash over to the closest warehouse and begin tiptoeing around its perimeter. Joyride’s fingers rest close to her pistols’ triggers as she waits just outside the open, sliding doors to the Decepticon and neutral meeting place. Joyride creeps a peep inside.

“Finally, you’re here, Balloon.” Greets a gruff voice belonging to a dark green mech. Upon his forearms, a crooked Autobot insignia. He may be a sympathizer but not a true Bot. He hasn’t gone through a proper Autobrand session. By his side is a black targetmaster with his arms crossed and a floppish red quadrupedal minicon. 

The bluntly designated Balloon grapples with his envelope and plays with it in his hands. “I can’t exactly choose where I want to go like Lapse or Devcon.” He retorts. 

A blue Decepticon steps out of the shadows with their hands behind their back and glints in their red optics. “Pleasure to have you four joining me today.” Announces Counterpunch as they look directly at the eavesdropping Autobots. “I know you two are there. Come out, I don’t mean to harm you.”

Joyride and Nightviper slink into a warehouse, weapons brandished in front. The black targetmaster leaps and transforms into the dark green mech’s arm. He takes a defensive posture as Balloon scuttles behind him. “Why have you been following us?” He asks, taking tentative aim. 

“You all have multiple sightings from the locals. We came to investigate the reason why.” Joyride explains. 

“They came to do business with me. Just exchange some holomatter mods. Care to join us?” Offers the Decepticon with a calm smile upon their faceplate. 

“You’re joking?” Joyride snaps as she brings her pistols up to optic level. 

“Matrix! You said you’d protect me! Buddy?” Panics Balloon as he runs circles around the larger bot. 

“They aren’t joking, Joyride. I sense no malice from them.” Reassures Nightviper, setting a hand on Joyride’s forearms to lower her aim. 

“She’s right. This isn’t a recruitment and I apologize on behalf of my customers if we’ve been spotted by the locals one too many times.” Counterpunch says as they step forward and kneel to meet the orange cycle-bot’s optic level. Joyride lowers her pistols as she receives a radio request from an Autobot with the designation, Punch. Reluctantly accepting it, she hears the Decepticon’s voice, “I’ll give you 3 free mods for your troubles.”

“You’re a double agent?” Joyride exclaims, barely keeping it within the confines of a private radio call. 

Counterpunch narrows their red optics, briefly flashing blue at her. “Indeed. I used to be assigned infiltration missions with Landmine as a part of the Elite Guard’s Intelligence Unit before the War. May his spark stay sound. Everyone else who found out, be it ‘con, ‘bot, or otherwise has been sent back to the Well of Allspark. I’ll make an exception for you, just don’t tell anyone else or I’ll be endangered.” They explain as their fingers tighten around a holstered orange gun resting against their thigh. Joyride nods as the connection is severed. “Good, everything is settled. Now, get your avatars out. It will be 15 shanix for each clothing item, 5 for genetic options like skin or hair color, and 50 for animations outside of the base set.” Advertises Counterpunch. 

Joyride walks away a bit as the two mechs reveal their base holograms up to the double agent’s scrutiny. “Are you alright?” Nightviper asks as she follows the smaller bot. 

“Hmm? Yeah. Just living to find emotion.” Replies Joyride as she waits her turn. 

Arizona

Gnashteeth’s snout sniffs the dry cool air of a late fall night. Motes of sand and pollen irritate her olfactory sensors just how they would in her human shell. She stifles back a sneeze as she smells rust and spilt gasoline. The tyrannosaurian Autobot crushes the frosted brush and cacti under clawed feet as she follows the scent trail to a crashed sedan sitting beneath a streetlight. A two lane freeway cuts through the desert, only illuminated by moonlight reflecting off distant cat’s eyes. A gravel road forms an intersection at the streetlight. Gnashteeth crouch’s close to the car. 

The jalopy had been long rusted when it crashed. Smooth curves over the fenders and a strip between its windshield betray its age. Streak marks lead up from the displaced gravel to the car. Old car, recent crash. She inspects the driver’s door, forced open with a cut seatbelt. Disappearing footprints dash away from the car. Gnashteeth smells a wif of diesel lingering hours after a large truck stopped here and left with the car’s driver. Not important enough for a tow truck it seems. 

Her large head looms over the car and tips it over, exposing the underside. Long teeth tug at the car’s tires, unraveling and popping off the wheel well and into her maw. She yanks out the axles and motors and sets them aside as she looks for the fuel tank. She carefully picks it up out of the car, severing the pipes and spilling stale gasoline on her snout. Transforming into robot mode, the fuel tank still clutched in her head-hand, she brings it up to her lips and sips the sweet yet quickly evaporating liquid. “Driest drink in the world. At least they used the unleaded stuff.” Gnashteeth muses as she crushes the empty tank in her jaws, swallowing it when she returns to beast mode. 

She picks out what unoxidized pieces of metal she could from the wreck before moving on. She follows the gravel road, scenting more rusting metal, junk, propane tanks. The purple tyrannosaur ignores the no trespassing signs as she approaches a large junkyard. She easily steps over the fence and inspects the junkyard. Rows of crashed cars and trucks stacked atop on another form a labyrinth with busted appliances; refrigerators and microwave ovens with doors wide open. Stained wooden furniture fill in the larger gaps while tattered books, plastic bags, and moth-hole riddled clothes solidify the walls of junk. Gnashteeth ignores what fresh scraps of metal or fuel could be found in reluctant favor for an Autobot signature somewhere within this junkyard. 

Head kept low, expecting to see Rattrap scavenging, Gnashteeth instead walks shoulder first into a pointy nose cone protruding from underneath a tarp. She grasps the tarp in her jaws and pulls it off the blue and gold fighter jet, red wing tips folded against their back as their turbines lie still. “I didn’t mean to seek you out this time. Honestly, I thought you flew to some random runway, not a junkyard in Arizona. I only came here to do some scavenging and TLC. I got about another day or so until I’m needed back in Sterling City. I did that stuff you wanted me to and did some house hunting. And… I just realized that you are recharging.” Says Gnashteeth as she kicks lightly at Metalhawk’s unresponsive body. 

She stood there as she rummaged through her subspace pockets internally. A limited pocket dimension exclusive to each Cybertronian that allowed them to shrink or enlarge bits of their alternate mode (or even themselves if they have the need and stamina) and stash away items inside themselves. Both hers and Metalhawk’s were larger than average, allowing their entire body to reside within it when the Pretender shell and human skin. “Great! I sleep on the couch without skin on one time and you hack my wheel clamps out!” She roars, kicking the plane a bit harder. 

Metalhawk’s rudders begin to twitch and their turbines spin. They pivot their front landing gear forward as the rear wheels prop up higher; the plane crouches back like a stretching cat. “Oh, thanks for doing those errands for me.” The jet says groggily. 

“No prob. And I wasn’t sent to seek you out or anything. Honestly, I thought it was Rattrap in this junkyard.” Gnashteeth explains, sitting down and settling on her stomach. 

Metalhawk transforms, laying on their back and crossing their legs. “Don’t blame you. I had a quick appointment with Red Alert to see why my joints have been seizing up or loosening. Basically it's because my shell is outdated and a plane is not meant to be broken up and mimic the movement of 206 different bones and all their muscle groups and jiggly bits for 100,000 years.” They explain. 

Gnashteeth smiles. “Sorry, we never really told you about the updates. It is funny to see you prance around in a bulky suit with a fleshy face sticking out of it.” 

“My health is more important than your cheap laughs.” Metalhawk’s scowl loosens. “Anyway, she prescribed me with a reengineering. I’ll get it when I go back to Cybertron in a week or so.” 

“Woah. What mods are you thinking about getting? Triple changing? More weapons! Laser optics?” Gnashteeth budges in. 

“A transformation scheme that doesn’t turn me into fractals. And maybe longer side skirts and actual calves.” Metalhawk says bluntly, lifting their left leg. 

“So tame. Reengineering is a big deal. Are you going to stick with the same skin or do you need me to forge your fake death.” Gnashteeth offers. 

“Uncertain. I tore off a bit of skin as I was about to fight Jetstorm, dropped it and my phone while flying. Anyway, it won’t just be me going to Cybertron. I’m coordinating with Deep Blue, her exaltation will cover for us while we’re away. Additionally, Rattrap and Orion Pax will be accompanying us.” Metalhawk informs. 

Gnashteeth tilts her large head. Then it clicks. “Is the big guy finally awake?” Metalhawk blinks, confused. “The big thing you studied. I know after the dinner party you ran into your room after getting a phone call from Agent Fowler. I know you were talking about something I wasn’t supposed to know but I definitely know about it.” She clarifies. 

“Yes, he is showing signs of awakening. While I was recharging, I ran what models my processors could handle and I estimate we have six months until he surfaces.” Metalhawk explains calmly. 

“Six months!” Screams Gnashteeth. 

“Shush, the junkyard owner still needs to sleep.” Hushes Metalhawk. 

“How in the Pit are we supposed to destroy a moon sized geoweapon in 6 months? There aren’t enough Autobots to destroy him even if we could all organize around earth?” Gnashteeth grapples with the logistics. 

“We won’t need to destroy him. Doing so would destroy the Earth and doom all its life to extinction. Same would happen if he were to emerge fully. Myths speak of how he can consume entire planets. He’s a threat to the entire universe but we don’t need to sacrifice this planet for all others. We just need to put him back to sleep using the concentrated force of his antithesis; the Matrix of Leadership wielded by a Prime.” Metalhawk answers. 

“Zeta Prime was assassinated before the War started. I thought she left no successors.” Says Gnashteeth. 

“While I was imprisoned by the Decepticons, during the brief recesses when our sparks could be bonded with our alt-mode stripped bodies, we all heard rumors and hoped to be freed by a Prime known as Optimus.” Reflects Metalhawk as they sit up. 

“Oh, I remember him. Came to talk briefly to us on our orientation day for Iacon Academy. I had only just come to Cybertron. Stuffiest speaker ever. But he also disappeared half a million years in.” Gnashteeth catches on. 

“He relinquished the Matrix and took on his original identity as Orion Pax.” Metalhawk finishes. 

Gnashteeth almost flops over. “You mean the nerd is supposed to save us all!”

Chapter Text

Florida

The rhythmic chopping of helicopter blades rebel against the boggy heat that persists well into the cloudy night. The downbursts whip tree branches and choking vines into a thrashing frenzy. The stagnant water beneath Whirl ripples out and is further disturbed by Hot Rod sprinting after the slowly moving helicopter. His headlights shine out, trees crouch over the swamp. Fish brush up against his peds as he runs where he can and trudge through mud and vines elsewhere. Scattered among the marsh are soggy islands, little more than mats of vegetation. Hot Rod staggers upon one and looks back up at Whirl with a huff. 

She flips around to face him, briefly retracting the onslaught of weapons stuffed along her underside, wing struts, and side doors. “Pft, too much muck in your intakes?” She mocks. 

“Actually, yeah.” Hot Rod admits before flipping down a visor. A purple energon trail becomes visible overhead, snaking its way toward a denser part of the swamp before diving below under the treeline. “She should be in the forest up ahead.” Hot Rod points as he retracts the visor. 

“Perfect.” Rumbles Whirl as she continues to track down the producer of the energon trail, Ion Storm. The blue Storm Seeker was first sighted by Whirl earlier in the day. She called in Hot Rod to help trace Ion Storm down for questioning. She was the only Decepticon they’ve seen on the North American continent in solar cycles. Storm Surge had abandoned Jetstorm before his null ray fired while himself fled through a Groundbridge portal produced by Roadkill to avoid being struck down by Metalhawk and Sky Lynx. Soon after, Hot Rod stopped spotting Trackers on the street on most continents. 

Hot Rod hops off the island and transforms. His tires churn up mud and silt before sputtering him down into the depths. He crushes sea grass and weeds in search of a sandbar. He hastily pushes off the grass and forward to a strip of sand. With better traction, he ruptures out of the water and hydroplanes through the sandy shallows to the forested shore. 

Whirl disappears overhead yet her down blasts rock the tightly knit trees. Hot Rod transforms and ignites short plumes of flame from his exhaust pipes. The lights emanating from him send stark shadows and glowing eyes as a trio of coyotes dash off a game path. Hot Rod steps onto the path and walks quietly along it. He burns away any dense foliage that gets in his way. Whirl’s slow chops echo above the rustling tree line. A few zaps of lightning flicker just at the border of his light sources. Hot Rod moves in the direction of them, warily brandishing his flames in front of him. 

A blue throb of lightning blasts right up to him! “What do you want, Autobot!” Shouts Ion Storm as her null rays push against Hot Rod’s exhaust pipes. A cross of flame shields him from her pulses of electricity. 

Hot Rod swings out his arms, pushing her back with a barrage of fire as he quickly grabs the energy bow stashed within his spoiler. Ion Storm’s narrow wings twitch with agitation. She extends out her arms, in place of plating, silver cathodes line her wrists. She fires out an EMP blast at the magenta Autobot. 

It hits his spare tire as Hot Rod dashes around to her backside and hits an energy arrow to her side. She smiles as she harnesses the electricity meant to short out a normal bot. Instead the Storm Seeker deflects it back to sender. Hot Rod ducks down into his car mode and drives away from the bolt. He bashes his tire into a root and gets stuck. Ugh, rookie move . Ion Storm frowns as she walks to him and aims her null rays. “I don’t even need to do something flashy to finish you off.” She puffs as she fires. 

Whirl crashes on top of her, two rotor blades in hand that she plunges through Ion Storm’s shoulders, one even passing through her thigh and calf while her other leg thrashes. The Seeker screams and struggles to transform. She loses her footing and slips, sliding down the lengths of the blades as Whirl pushes them into the damp earth below. The worps of electricity in the air dissipates as the blades sever the wires connecting the anodes at her upper arm to the exposed cathodes along her wrist. Whirl pulls out a third blade and drives it down through the Seeker’s torso at an awkward angle, supporting her off the ground in a tripod of blades. The null ray blast hits a tree to no effect. 

Hot Rod stands up and burns the root to ashes. Whirl stands beside him, her one yellow optic glaring down at the trapped Seeker. Hot Rod steps up to her to begin the questioning. He briefly runs his flames over her gaping wounds, burning away the spilled energon and heating up the living metal enough to trigger the start of healing. He notices that Whirl’s blades only severed the salt bridge cables, no major organs or even hydraulics or other important components. “She went easy on you. Now you’ll answer our questions.” Hot Rod asserts. 

Ion Storm glares at him. “This is going easy on me!” She shrieks. 

“Oh please, I’ve had to burn planets to the ground for lesser reasons.” Whirl retorts. 

“Where is Jetstorm?” Hot Rod asks. 

Ion Storm pouts dramatically. “He’s in the Sahara. Roadkill brought him there a week ago and I haven’t heard from him yet. I miss him though! He has the most brilliant ideas.”

“Ideas that will violate the RID treaty and make humans less susceptible to your bullshit. At the expense of their lives.” Whirl counters. 

“What about Storm Surge…” Hot Rod continues. 

“He’s a traitor!” Ion Storm screams. “Roadkill told him that Jetstorm’s idea was bonkers, that's bonkers! But he just flew away… the traitor! Trading sides!” 

“You all are Decepticons. You’re on the same side.” Hot Rod reminds her. 

“Not any more.” Ion Storm huffs, trying to sulk down along the blades. 

“If you answer a few more questions, you can join us as an Autobot.” Hot Rod offers. 

“Is Jetstorm with you? If he goes, I’ll go.” She asks joyfully. 

“No, but if you tell us exactly where he is, maybe we can all go together and ask him!” Whirl says with a mocking gleam of excitement to her voice. 

Ion Storm stares back. “No. He’s not with you. Let me go! I need to find him!” She shouts, shaking her wings and free leg about while pushing up and down the blades.

Whirl pulls out a fourth blade. “I’ll give you one more chance to ask her a question then this is going through her helm. You’ve already offered her…membership… I guess.” Whirl whispers. 

Hot Rod nods. “I’m surprised you didn’t offline her right then and there.” He gulps.

Whirl vents out before rattling her one remaining rotor blade aloofly. “I’m trying to not be a complete monster. I gotta bet to win.” 

Hot Rod thinks of a question as he looks down upon the thrashing, light blue femme. “Why did Jetstorm do it?” He asks, leaving it purposefully vague. 

Ion Storm blinks. “He wants to be great. I already know that he is but he wants everyone to know that he is great, including himself. He made himself look great by getting those gorgeous, handsome, wonderful modifications. He acts great by studying the flyers of old…” She lectures about Jetstorm with irreverence. Hot Rod tunes it out, trying to pay attention to anything that could give him a clue as to the Decepticon’s next moves. Please say something useful to save your life. He pleads. “He is so great he never touches the ground, he’s like a god. Maybe he is a god. I swear sometimes he’s like Primus reborn…” 

Whirl slices the seeker’s helm in half. Her jaw falls to the ground, lips still twisted into conversation as her body goes still, the hit severing her brain module in two. Hot Rod looks away as her spark is freed and dissipates into the sky. Whirl steps forward and reclaims her blades, staking them along her back. “Leave, I’ll dispose of the body. Dead end it seems.” Whirl scowls. 

“I didn’t take you for a bot to bury the enemy.” Hot Rod observes as he takes a few steps back. 

“I’m not. I’m going to crumple it into a cube then leave it to the skullsmashers, I mean alligators to eat.” She jokes as she kicks Ion Storm’s limbs in. 

Hot Rod almost gags. 

“Oh please, at least Gnashteeth will be happy I killed this one. She said she’d been fighting Ion Storm for vorns. There, that will be buried tonight!” Remarks Whirl with a savage grin. 

Southern California

Orion Pax merges off the five lane highway that pours down a scrub-covered valley and across a suspension bridge into Angel City, the entertainment capital of this world. Behind him, a stampede of eager and tired commuters rumbles down from the suburbs strewn about the surrounding valleys, the first of the morning traffic. The red and blue pick-up hustles uphill and onto the plateau. 

Crops grow on either side of the narrowing road. Orion alternates between a hurried pace and stopping to allow tractors to pass from one field to another. Some of the human drivers wave their thanks. Orion’s holomatter avatar, a simple humanoid silhouette sitting within his cabin, waves back. 

Rattrap comes into view of Orion’s rearview mirror. The cycle-bot passes Orion and pops a wheelie. Upon his seat is a slumped over crash-test dummy, hands hastily duct-taped to his handlebars while the legs flop about and buckle over. Orion speeds up, blocking Rattrap’s bad disguise from the confused farm workers. “Is that your substitute for a faulty generator?” Guesses the red and blue truck. 

“Yeah. I found it at some commercial shooting. Pretty nifty, huh?” Replies Rattrap as he swerves to show off the bouncing dummy. 

“I suppose. Do you plan to get your generator reinstalled soon? Metalhawk said that there’s a chance we’ll be visiting Cybertron soon.” Orion asks. 

“Nop! I don’t want to be in the middle of another botch job!” Spats Rattrap as they both turn onto a gravel road. It cuts along the side of a field and to a gated off section of public land. A few human vehicles are parked along the dusty gravel lot, a long, trailing dirt road continues through the grass and scrublands. A few people emerging from their trucks and RVs stare at Rattrap as he drives down the road. 

“You okay, buddy?” Questions a man in an orange vest with a shotgun slug along his back. 

Orion slows down and rolls down his window, animating his avatar into a talkative posture. “I’m keeping an eye on him. Going to set up camp, let him sleep and sober up a bit before we start hunting.” He fibs. 

“I still don’t think he’s in a fit state to be handling his um motorcycle. Better you fix it now before you let the Feds see ya.” Recommends the hunter. 

“Good idea…” Orion utters as he rolls up to Rattrap and budges him, bumper to back tire. “Why don’t you get in my trunk so you can rest up, buddy. You know, before we get ratted out.” Orion calls out. 

Rattrap remains silent but circles the truck. Orion lowers his tail gate. Rattrap props his front tire upon it and shoves himself forth, swinging the dummy over his handlebars. Rattrap transforms, slicing the dummy free, and holding it over the trunk edge. Orion opens his passenger door, allowing Rattrap to toss it in while onlookers stare. Orion churns his tires, producing a puff of dust as he drives further down the road. “Don’t think you save my skid plate, Pax. We’d be fine if you didn’t reply. Or if Metalhawk didn’t pick a crowded location!” Rattrap rants. 

“It’s not crowded, just hunting season. Besides, the coordinates they gave us are fairly remote. We still got 25 more kliks to go.” Orion corrects.

Rattrap slouches in his trunk, sometimes popping into view as Orion drives over the pockmarked road. “You should have picked something with four wheel drive.” Grumbles Rattrap. 

Tumbleweeds blow back and forth in the early morning wind. Shotgun blasts regularly go off to the barking of hounds, the cheers of hunters, and a startled flock of birds sent skyward. Occasionally, Orion pulls off the road and onto a flat patch of long, yellow grass to allow another truck or atv to pass. 

“Oh please, we’re in a hurry! There’s only one reason why Metalhawk would talk with us two. Only we know about the big guy beneath this dirt ball!” Scoffs Rattrap. 

Orion bashes through the ruts and potholes. “That is a possibility.” He states plainly. 

“Are the stories about you true?” Rattrap asks vaguely. 

Orion drives more carefully. “Which stories?” 

“Some say you were offered the power of the Primes. Or maybe Megatron was given it but you stole it or vice versa. Sounds like a fairy tale but I guess we thought the same about the big guy.” Rattrap muses, placing his hands behind his silvery, cerebral helm. 

“I was apprenticed to Alpha Trion. He is the last surviving, or at least still present on Cybertron to our common knowledge, of the original Thirteen. He’s been offering the Matrix of Leadership to those deemed worthy of it for hundreds of millions of stellar cycles, continuing the lineage of Primes: Nova, Solomus, Epistemus, Adaptus, Nominus, Mortalis, Zeta…” Orion is cut off by Rattrap. 

“Just answer, yes or no! Jeez, I don’t need the history lesson, Founding Father.” The cycle-bot complains. 

“He did offer the Matrix to me.” Orion answers bluntly. 

“Did you take it?”  Rattrap asks. 

Orion goes quiet. How much does he know about our history? The Autobot founder knows Rattrap was a recent recruit, only changing designation, body, and allegiance within the past vorn. The half a million stellar cycles of the war were so chaotic, perhaps he has no clear recollection of it. “I didn’t hold it long enough to make a difference.” Orion half-admits. 

“Hmm, maybe the history lesson would have been more interesting.” Rattrap mutters. 

Orion continues to drive to the meeting coordinates. The pulled over trucks and RV’s are spread further and further. The orange vests and shotgun shoots lessen and birds flutter calmly from the grass to the skies. The road comes to an end at a dusty close. A forested valley opens up straight ahead, whispy, short conifers and shade-starved shrubs flow down to a drop off a few hundred meters away. A heron stands at the edge of the road, staring back at the truck without fear. 

Rattrap stands up in his trunk and frowns. “Get off the road!” He shouts. The bird flares back its large blue-grey and red-feathered wings and turns around, slowly walking down the valley. “Ugh, can’t radio Metalhawk. Pick up yah Shellfish!” He moans. 

“Seriously, that's the best nickname you can make for them.” Jokes Orion as he follows the wading bird after it looks indignantly over its shoulder. The animal springs swiftly to the edge and out of view. Orion drives a bit more into the bush, makes sure he won’t be visible to any human onlookers, and transforms. 

Rattrap falls to the ground. “You can’t seriously be following some animal!” He snorts, picking himself back up and giving a redundant dust off of his thighs. 

Orion crouches beneath the canopy and follows the narrow trail of bivalve shells consumed by the heron. “You gave me the idea. Shells.” He informs. Rattrap’s mouth goes agap, clueless but he follows Orion to the edge of the valley. It ends abruptly to a steep, grass-coated drop off. A narrow ledge extends upward to a cave. Above, the heron walks clumsily along the plateau side, heading towards the cave. Orion carefully sets down a pede to test the stability of the ledge while Rattrap walks on ahead with little worry. They know what they're doing . He decides as he follows Rattrap to the cave. The bird runs over, perfectly stable despite the sharp angle. Bits of bloody feathers fall off it, revealing blue and gold metal beneath. As Rattrap and Orion approach the cave entrance, only the heron’s head remains attached. It stands overhead, looking down at the two autobots. Rattrap finally catches on. The heron leaps off and unfolds rapidly into Metalhawk. The pretender lands, towering over the other two astonished Autobots. 

“Impressive.” Orion remarks. 

“Have you been spending the past week as a wild animal?” Rattrap gasps. 

Metalhawk rolls their optics. “No, I’ve spent most of it at a junkyard in Arizona. And sampling clam chowder in Boston.” 

Before Rattrap could get in a crude remark, Orion asks, “I thought the pretender shells could only be set to resemble one species.” 

Metalhawk shakes their head. “It only really has a size and body template limit, in my case, tetrapods weighing 35 to 200 kg. Anything larger and the shell doesn’t have much reason to mass-shift or put most of me into my subspace. Leads to clipping, really awkward. Anything smaller and I’m at risk of my substructure and plating turning into a blackhole. I have to scale up the heron.” They explain. 

“Is this meeting about Unicron?” Rattrap bluntly inquires. 

“Yes. Sector Seven informed me recently that they’ve detected seismographic readings similar to the ones I modeled while writing my thesis.” Metalhawk confirms as they step into the cave and projects out a holo-pad; displayed upon it a seismograph readout next to a scientific figure produced millions of years before hand that looks identical. “These are the first waking tremors. I’ve estimated that we have half a stellar cycle until he awakens.” 

Orion slunks back against the cave wall. “Did you tell Sector Seven about Unicron?” He asks, not angrily. This is their planet after all. 

“Only that he’s a geoweapon.” Metalhawk assures. “But we will have to tell them eventually.” 

“How did he even get here?” Rattrap says. 

Orion looks at Metalhawk. The both of them knew two different sides of the story; myth versus discovery. “How much of a history lesson do you want?” Orion asks. 

“Or some of my life story, it was the subject of my graduate research at Polyhex University.” Metalhawk adds. 

“Give me the Sparknotes version.” Rattrap snaps. “As ya said, we don’t have all stellar cycle.” 

Orion goes first, briefly recounting the commonly accepted creation story for their homeworld. “In truth though shrouded in legends, Primus and Unicron were two brother warrior gods from the Universes prior. Unicron destroyed and Primus created. Together they were in balance. The big bang brought them into a new Universe where they were no longer the main powers. Imprisoned by the laws of physics into planetary forms, Primus and Unicron were separated and found themselves in vastly different star systems. Unicron tried to ravage against imprisonment but was entombed in rock and ice, cocooned in what would soon to be known as Earth.” 

“And I’m guessing Primus became Cybertron?” Rattrap asks as he nods along to the legend. 

“Yes. Sometime later Primus began to create sparks of himself that would go out and explore the universe. While he slumbered, his body would be turned into a factory by the Quint…” Orion Pax continues. 

“That’s not relevant right now, Pax. I initially started my research wanting to understand why our very existence as a species seems to break the laws of physics.” Metalhawk starts. 

“Easy for you to say, you’ve said it yourself, you’re at risk of turning into a blackhole.” Rattrap interrupts. 

“All of us have this risk. It just comes with the territory of mass-shifting and it’s survivable, your sparkcasing is ejected when it happens! And it is a very rare occurrence! All of us use subspace pockets. It's like our body's way of confining to the first law of thermodynamics. Instead of creating something out of nothing we take something out of another universe." Metalhawk further elaborates. 

"I said give me the sparknotes version. Jeez." Rattrap mumbles. 

"Then stop asking questions. I'll send you all my sources papers if you are so interested." Metalhawk snaps. "Anyway, I triangulated Unicron's location by comparing it to the center of the universe and Cybertron's location."

Before Orion could say 'shut up', Rattrap slips in another question. "Why hadn't anyone done this before?"

"Because no one had a consensus on if Unicron even existed. He is a common figure in the mythologies and religions across Cybertron and the Colonies but no one with first hand experience with him has lived to tell the truth. Even the original Thirteen Primes didn't know much of him. Only possible encounters of his influence." Orion Pax answers, recalling his own communing with his predecessors within the Matrix. 

               "That and no one really had the inclination to study it. I advanced pretty quickly as an undergrad, was only 300,000 when I got grant funding from both the declining Senate and the Decepticons as they rose to power. It was a growing topic of interest at the time. I and many other scientists capitalized on it. Others determined how Unicron must function, how he has adapted to the rules of this universe as opposed to Primus. I calculated Unicron’s location to the Solar System.” Metalhawk adds. “And it doesn't count as an exhaustive life story if you keep interrupting me with questions!

“Anyway, I never got a chance to present my thesis. The war broke out and the Decepticons imprisoned me due to my multiple refusals to join the Seekers and that having an educated populace ruins their main strategy of Tyranny through Deception, Peace through Tyranny. Three and a half million years later, I was broken out by the Autobots and soon after they approached me with this mission, I became a Pretender and yeah.” Metalhawk finishes.

“The Decepticons don’t know that Unicron drifted into the Solar System. I’ve ensured this. Rattrap, you had no knowledge of them during your time as a Decepticon. However, when I knew him, Megatron had a fascination with the myths about Unicron as did the Prime he took his name from.” Orion adds. 

“Are you two done with the history lesson yet?” Tuts Rattrap. 

“Yes. Unicron is currently settled within Earth’s core. As he tries to awaken, this manifests as earthquakes, tsunamis, and volcanic eruptions on Earth’s surface. He might be able to transform within Earth’s mantle. I estimate that within 6 monthes time he’ll be at that stage and seek to escape Earth’s crust. Most likely along mid-atlantic ridges, rift valleys, or hotspots. I suggest we monitor these areas to pinpoint exactly where Unicron will emerge from." Metalhawk says. 

"Couldn't we drill down to him beforehand…" Purposes Rattrap.

"The humans don't have the technology nor the time once we actually pinpoint where Unicron will exit. Similar time constraints if we were to add a driller bot to our exaltation. Our best bet is to groundbridge into Unicron once we have a lockdown on his location and internal schematics. I purpose that we ask for a groundbridge engineer and a geologist to join us when we inform the High Council about this." Metalhawk gives an alternative. 

"How are we supposed to defeat him then? Do we groundbridge in and shoot him!" Asks Rattrap as he grabs two detonators out of his forearm compartments and waves them around.

"No. In order to put Unicron back to sleep, we'll need to stun him with a concentrated energy beam of his antithesis, Primus." Metalhawk looks over at Orion. "We need two things. The Matrix of Leadership and someone chosen to weird it." 

Rattrap pivots between the two larger bots in confusion. "Where the frag are we supposed to find a Prime?" He gasps, briefly staring up at Orion.

"Surely, there are other options." Orion stutters. 

Metalhawk shakes their head. "You know better than I that it is the only surviving relic that has the chance of being powerful enough to stun him back into a billion year long slumber. The only alternatives would be to bring a Titan here and kill them or sever the Allspark from Cybertron, killing our own species. Even then a Titan would need to have several active hot spots. Most titans have been barren since the War started." 

"I'm no longer worthy of it. We can't rely on me either…" Orion looks away and fidgets with his hands. 

"You were the last one chosen. I understand why you didn't remain as Optimus Prime but surely you can do it this one last time then discard it!" Urges Metalhawk. 

Orion crouches back, venting heavily out of the grill on his stomach. The inciting incident of the War, four million stellar cycles ago, was the assassination of Zeta Prime. She was one of the last holdouts of the Golden Age yet in her old age was susceptible to the promises of the rising deceptions. Alpha Trion was quick to appoint a successor from three options in the hope that they would reform the corrupt, Fuctionist Senate and broker peace with the growing Decepticon Empire. By this point, they had already conquered several Cybertronian City-States and had one the favor of several colonies. His three options were; Sentinel Major, then and still leader of Cybertron's Elite Guard, Starscream, not yet outed as a Decepticon and high ranking member of Cybertron's Aerial Corp with several entrepreneurial, scientific,  and academic connections like his good friend Skyfire, and lastly, Orion Pax, his own secret apprentice. Though he had tried to reject it, Alpha Trion's words of encouragement and some insight from Skyfire about Starscream's intentions led Orion to take it, branding him as Optimus Prime. 

The Matrix of Leadership could reforge its bearer into a form and mind suited for leadership. Optimus Prime cut a heroic figure, physically larger with a flat-nose truck as an alternative mode, thicker metal plating and a swath of headlights. He introduced himself as the de facto leader of the Autobots during the Siege of Polyhex, the first major conflict of  the Great War. The Siege ended with an Autobot retreat to the combiner colony of Devisiun. Optimus Prime soon rallied the Autobots and their allies to reclaim several City-States on Cybertron: only Iacon remains successfully under Autobot control to the modern day. He frequently fought against Megatron on the frontlines. The Matrix’s influence not only gifted him an enhanced physique but also the combined wisdom of all its previous bearers, filling in the historian’s lack of combat knowledge, strategy, and diplomacy and allowing him to go toe to toe with the charismatic former gladiator. 

Yet, something did not feel right. The Autobots were meant to be a movement, an ideology, an attempt at a democratic nation free from the harmful rhetoric of those who came before it, not the military faction Optimus Prime ended up leading. We are at war. This is our only option. I did what I could within the system, as did Megatron and now we are fighting. I just can’t lead them. Let them lead themselves and all of us. The age of Primes is over. Orion grips his face and massages it as he thinks back to the deep baritone voice, sorrowful quivers of his lips covered by a silver faceplate, deep cyan optics looking back upon his own men as they laid broken, brutalized and yet he asked more of them when they asked for none of this. He closes his optics and sees a similar scene, perhaps from a possible future; deep cracks run through recently cooled lava, slumped within the valleys are burning skeletons covered in ash, in the smoke-stricken skies above Seekers soar, heralding the arrival of Unicron as his golden horns breech the earth’s surface. He opens his optics. 

Metalhawk softly smiles at him, standing on the other side of the small cave. Rattrap tuts his fingers together. “Look, kid, if you don’t do this, we’re all going to die. Not just us, not just the humans and all their little animal friends, but every single thing in the universe. You can’t exactly have freedom for every sentient being when they're all dead, right?” Rattrap encourages. 

Orion looked down at the cycle-bot with a chuckle in his optic. “I’ll do it. Till all are one and such. But we’ll have to find the Matrix first.” Orion declares. 

“I haven’t encountered any relics on Earth that match its energy signature or description.” Metalhawk reports. 

“Doesn’t mean that it might not be here. I relinquished it after only 500,000 stellar cycles because…I didn’t like what it did to me and if I were slain with it still inside me, Megatron could easily take it for himself. Even if he’s not worthy of it, I don’t doubt that Shockwave or some other twisted scientist under his payroll could reverse engineer the Matrix for their purposes.” Orion explains. The Matrix of Leadership is one of the three of the most important relics in Cybertronian society acting in tandem to create, delegate, and lead their species. To fork it over to the Decepticons would give them one more tool to remake all Cybertronians in Megatron’s image. 

“I’m afraid he might already be flaunting that around as a trophy. Saw it strapped to a chain around Shadow Striker’s neck on Playbot….” Rattrap is swiftly interrupted by Orion. 

“I made fakes! And had Sky Lynx deposit them around the galaxy. He has records of the locations they were dispersed in but nothing more exact than that. These records and the Matrix’s exact energy signature are not known to the Decepticons…” Orion rushes in. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah thanks to you, Hacker Cracker.” Rattrap rambles. 

“Is it just a matter of backtracking? If so, I am also capable of spaceflights. Or we could enlist the help of other exaltations.” Metalhawk asks. 

“Yes. But we’ll need the permission of the High Council.” Orion thinks. 

“I’ve already arranged a meeting with them and notified Deep Blue of a possible timeline of events. She’ll be here soon. I assume we’ll all present these matters so we can swiftly mobilize against Unicron.” Metalhawk informs. 

“Pft, tell her before your own team mates.” Rattrap scoffs. 

“When should we break the news to everyone, about why we’re really here.” Orion asks. 

“Gnashteeth already found out years ago, apparently.” Metalhawk admits. “I’d say we tell them before the High Council meeting. Depending on how much support we get, we should ask for Matrix tracking by other divisions stationed near the locations and an additional member to our team who is a space bridge engineer.” 

“You really think the Council will mobilize that quickly!” Rattrap laughs.

“They did when it came to getting us here. Ultra Magnus knows why this is important. They all do.” Orion assures. Except maybe…Sentinel. “Anything else we need to discuss.” 

“Nope!” Rattrap abruptly turns around and saunters off.

“We’ll need to tell Sector Seven, sooner rather than later. This is their planet after all.” Metalhawk says. 

“Perhaps when we get back then?” Orion supposes. 

“I think we should bring one of them with us, to represent themselves.” Metalhawk says shakily.

“Well, you handle it, Shellfish! I’m a find something good to eat.” Shouts Rattrap as he exits the cave. 

“He is right, in his way. We’re entering the darkest hours, Metalhawk. I’m doing something I don’t want to do, and so might you.” Orion looks away. 

“I know. But excuses are more plentiful than the minutes.” The pretender muses. 

Chapter Text

Kelly’s Apartment Parking lot, Sterling City

Agent Marissa Fowler drives her government vehicle, a gigantic, black armored truck, into the spacious parking lot outside of Kelly’s apartment. She sets it to park but doesn’t turn it off, dark fumes puff out into the cold, foggy air as clouds hang low in Sterling City as it enters winter. She grabs her phone, enters the password, fingerprint, and face scan, to text the secretary ‘I’m here’. Marissa flicks up, scrolling through her previous texts. At first, she just told the Sector Seven agent about Autobot goings on she had either been a part of or heard of through her Pretender co-worker. Well, ex-coworker. After the car chase, things changed. Marissa had opened up to Kelly in an effort to keep her calm while the transformers tore each other outside. How great her job was, how her bad luck had impacted her breakup with her last girlfriend, how she first came out as a lesbian, how much snark and wit she had. Remember, I need to tread lightly with relationships with civilians. Wait, is this even a relationship yet, or just a friendship? I guess that is still a type of relationship. Marissa shakes her head in frustration. Still, their friendship (for now) was mostly connected by one thing, being liaisons between humanity and the Autobots. Their texts became more personable until the blackout. 

“To think, a little over a week ago we were all here for some fun times. Now I have to deal with finding out what ‘lighting our darkest hour’ means.” She says to herself, leaning back in her chair as Kelly texts back ‘just waking up, be down in 10!’. 

Changing from park to reverse to drive then park again, Marissa Fowler settles the truck into an empty parking spot along the building. It was the secretary’s off day, a Friday morning. As a secret government agent with barely any social life, Marissa has no off days. Sector Seven is a small division with only 3 Agents, 1 captain, and emergency authority over the National Guard. The current captain, William Lennox is away on paternity leave. Agent Burns, Simmons, and Fowler technically take a single 8 shifts per day; however with their various duties, they all often end up working at the same time, either from home or crammed in their tiny shared office in Olympia. Burns kept an eye on Decepticon activity. Simmons covered up Transformers sightings, much of which was trying to explain Sky Lynx’s existence. And Fowler kept base with them. Been doing a poor job at that.

Kelly scrambles down the stairs and slips on ice, sliding into Fowler’s truck. Marissa jerks in her seat as Kelly shimmies her away along the side of the truck, mouthing ‘I’m okay’. Snow begins to fall. Kelly opens the door and leaps her upper body onto the passenger seat, her movements encumbered by her massive, puffy jacket and knitted scarf. Her tractionless boots slip along the step up to the truck. Marissa grabs her hand and pulls her up into the cab as the snow intensifies outside. Kelly gets settled in and the agent cranks up the heater as she backs out. “So, we’re going to your old boss’s house, right?” Kelly asks. 

“Yep, although I actually never worked under Fanzone. He retired 5 monthes ago, Lennox succeeded him, then I was hired on, then Lennox went on paternity leave. His wife has a newborn, a little baby girl.” Marissa corrects as she pulls out of the parking spot and navigates the massive vehicle onto the tight, slick city streets. “Have you heard anything from Marcus or Gale?” 

Kelly shakes her head. “I haven’t talked to Gale since that night. I’ve seen her but she keeps shouting ‘I’m busy’. I keep trying to call Marcus but nothing. He put in the immediate resignation which Mr. Blackrock has been reluctant to actually grant. A 2 week notice is the standard so come Monday, then it will be official.” 

“Yeah. It’s been a strange almost two weeks. The Decepticons have disappeared overnight and the Autobots with them. We think they're fighting overseas but it limits our ability to cover them up. That and we have this geoweapon to deal with.” Fowler groans as she drives out to the hilly suburbs surrounding Sterling City, the snow begins to accumulate around. 

“What geoweapon?” Kelly asks. 

Fowler straightens up with a gulp, unsure of how much the pretender had told her or if she should even tell her. She’s a citizen, she lacks the clearance but… I want to keep her trust. “After the dinner party, which was amazing by the way, Sector Seven detected seismic activity that matches what Marcus has modeled as belonging to a massive geoweapon beneath the Earth’s crust. They didn’t tell me much about it. It’s why we’re driving out to see Fanzone. See if he remembers anything else because the Autobots have become unreliable as of late.”

“Is it a Decepticon weapon?” Kelly asks. 

“No, Hawk made it sound like it's something older than either faction. Might be older than the Earth even.” Fowler shakes her head as she merges onto the highway. She quickly pulls over to the shoulder. 

“Ugh, my bad luck has returned.” Kelly remarks as Marissa hops out of the truck and grabs snow chains out of the bed and kneels beside a tire. She looks down at the forecast on her phone, it had suddenly changed from cloudy skies to snow with a 100% chance of precipitation. She gasps out cold air as she arranges the chains around each tire before racing back into the truck. 

“It was always going to happen, it's what I get for needing to travel into the mountains during December.” Marissa assures as she books it back for the road, she merges into the middle lane, dodging the slow trudge of eastbound semi-rigs. 

Captain Fanzone’s Cabin, Cascade Mountains

Marissa takes a sharp turn off the highway, swerving through a rut of snow, and onto a narrow dirt road. The truck screeches to a harsh stop just inches in front of a gate. Kelly wobbles in her seat, dropping the book she became engrossed in after Marissa put a stop to any too distracting conversation. The agent parks the truck and opens her door. 

“We don’t have to walk all the way, do we?” Kelly asks. 

“No, I got the key, the same one we use back in the office. He only really trusts us agents to visit.” Marissa denies as she exits the truck. She stomps through the calf-high snow to the gate, unlocks it, and pushes it open. Kelly creeps over to the driver side and drives the truck through the gate. Marissa closes the gate behind and glances at the congested highway. No cons or suspicious persons. She climbs back into the truck and gently taps the gas medal, moreso focused on not clipping the truck along the towering pines that cage in the road then making it hastily to Fanzone’s cabin. 

“I should have brought my snow plow.” Kelly groans. 

Marissa looks at her. “This happen often enough for you?” 

“Yep, I got one for my car and a travel sized one for rentals. It snowed once while I was on vacation in Australia. I then got a targeted ad for it while I was holding a four leaf clover. It then took 5 months to actually ship out.” Kelly says. 

Marissa shakes her head. The trees begin to part as a cabin comes into view. Snow slides off the sharply angled sides of the roof. Warmth glows forth from the singlar window and from a crack in the door frame. A small shed cowers at the cabin’s side while a sturdy, old jeep guards the front. The agent parks the truck beside the jeep and steps out. She stomps through the snow to the other side of the truck and opens the door for Kelly. The secretary falls out, bundled tightly in her jacket and scarf with her boots smushed into the wrong feet. Marissa catches her. Kelly grabs on tightly, blush glowing beneath her tightly wrapped scarf. The agent carries her through the snow and sets her down on the welcome mat. Gently rattling her hand against the door, Fowler nudges it open and takes a step inside. 

“Fanzone?” Marissa asks as the two women walk into the cabin. Towering bookshelves line all the walls, stuffed with books, memoirs, and mission reports from the Captain’s over fifty years of military and government work. Medals, decommissioned shells of grenades and landmines, and scraps of metal and alien circuitry crown the shelf tops. A tattered leather couch stands in the center of the room, a matching recliner at its left, slowly spinning and brushing up against a bookcase. A fireplace roars in front of the seating, a few tin foil packets bake close to the flames as the room fills with the scent of cooking meat. A door to a hallway lies directly across the main entrance. 

“Ah, you’re here. Thought the snow would stall you up.” Grumbles Captain Carmine Fanzone as he marches into the main room. He is a large, barrel-chested man with the face and demeanor of a bulldog. His large nose wobbles with each step, wiggling above his proud, blonde mustache. In his pudgy hands, he grips a bag of hotdog buns and taps the handle of a pistol held snug to a holster along his strained suspender. “And I see you brought a civilian.” He raises a crow-footed eyebrow. 

“This is Kelly, she’s G.B. Blackrock’s personal secretary and Marcus’s coworker.” Marissa introduces. 

“Hmm, from what I hear, ex-coworker.” Fanzone mumbles as he walks past the two women and towards the fireplace. 

“Not until Monday!” Kelly corrects. 

“Are you in contact with them?” Marissa asks. 

“Of course, aren’t you?” Fanzone squints his eyes even more as he sets out several buns along the edge of the fireplace, allowing them to toast. 

“I have his phone number but he hasn’t answered it.” Fowler says. 

“Then track it. Find the phone, you find the man.” Fanzone rumbles as he opens up a tinfoil packet. “How well done do you like your dogs? And I got that plant based crap if it’s what your city mouths prefer.” 

“Not burned. And I’m fine with meat.” Kelly replies. 

Fowler ignores them, taking out her phone to run the Pretender’s phone number through some tracking software. “That’s weird, it says that it should only be about 30 meters east of your house.” She gasps. 

Fanzone shrugs. “I don’t have a guest house if that’s what you're getting at.” 

The agent rushes back outside and stumbles through the snow in the direction of the phone’s location. She pauses right above it and pushes away the snow and crumpled leaves until the pungent scent of decaying matter assaults her. A phone with burn marks and a shattered screen sits among a pile of rust red and cyan lichen. Fowler hastily grabs the phone and inspects it. It turns on, revealing several unread messages and a starry wallpaper for the lockscreen. 

“Looks like they shed their skin. Didn’t eat it this time by the looks of it.” Fanzone observes, looking over her shoulder. 

Fowler spins on her heels. “You mean he’s…” 

“Marcus may be dead, well the identity is. Might be making up a new one right now. You get so focused on the man you forgot the bot.”  Fanzone explains. 

“What do you mean they eat it!” Kelly shouts from the doorway, clutching her hand to her mouth. 

“The pretenders change their human identities every 50 years or so. Keeps us from noticing them but ugh they have preferences I think. Gnashteeth likes to be a well-built woman and Metalhawk likes to randomize things. When I first met them as a redhead school teacher in Boston back in the 60s. Anyway, they gotta get the carbon somehow, so they are like frogs, eating their own skin as it sheds off. Otherwise, they take it straight from the tires.” Fanzone muses. 

Fowler pockets away the discarded phone. “How else am I to contact them then?” Fowler asks. 

“They’re a plane! Big blue and gold Super Hornet with red wing tips! Can’t miss that flying overhead. Use your radar or air traffic control. Ask for security footage from every airport on every continent. Send up a U-2 to look for them.” Fanzone scoffs. 

“We’ve tried that! Except for the U-2. We have that set up for each of the flying Autobots, Simmons sifts through it to help cover it up. But we got nothing on Metalhawk.” Marissa rants, her frustration warming her despite the cold snowfall. 

“What about radio? Hawk said about how the shells blocked out their natural radio signatures but now that’s not the case.” Kelly points out, shivering the doorway. 

“We don’t know what their radio channel is.” Marissa admits as she walks back to the cabin. 

“For crying out loud! Did they not put it in the new file?” Fanzone shouts, following her back in. 

“No, just got their phone number.” She says. 

“This is why I hate machines. They try to be all hip and modern with their phones and such. Forgetting the good old days of the simple radio.” Grumbles Fanzone as he reenters his cabin and pulls a small radio off the shelf. 

“Can’t you contact them?” Kelly asks. 

“Afraid not. I’ve forgotten their exact channel as well, plus there are what? Nine Autobots on Earth now, wouldn’t want to bother them. Or the cons. They’d track it back to here and we’d go kablam!” Fanzone dismisses as he makes his way back to the fireplace and takes the hotdogs out of their foil wrapping and drops them into some toasted buns. He passes a few out to his visitors. “Why do you need to contact them so badly?” 

Marissa grabs the hotdog. “Decades ago, Metalhawk warned you to be on the lookout for seismic data matching a possible Cybertronian geoweapon beneath Earth’s crust. I come to you seeking more information as I am unable to get it from the Autobots.” She explains. 

Fanzone nods his head as he scarfs down half a dog. “The thesis thingy?” He asks as he swallows. 

“Yes.” Marissa confirms as Fanzone moves his greasy fingers along the shelves. He pulls out a giant stack of loose papers and drops it on the arm of the couch. 

“I got the whole thing right here. I asked for some more information, and they printed this out for me. It’s probably not all of it, lost it over the years and it’s not translated. You might have some backtracking to do.” Fanzone explains as he beats a mighty palm across the front page. 

The agent steps up to it, putting her hotdog in her mouth and chewing on it as she flips through the yellowed pages. Inscribed on every page are squared off cuneiforms, arranged in words, phrases, and sentences. Some sort of cyber language? 

Kelly leans over and gasps. “I’ve seen this language before!” She pulls out her phone and shoves a photo from her phone into Marissa's face. The agent blinks at the image of a computer screen showing the glyphs matching up to the english alphabet, the last 5 letters are missing. "On Marcus’s last day showing up to work, he translated some Autobot wiki pages on Transformium for Joyce because he was lazy. Here’s the decoder I think.” 

“This is amazing.” Gasps Fowler as she takes the phone, zooms in on the letters and flips through the pages. She sees one word show up again and again and begins to translate the letters. “U, N, I, C, R, O, N. Unicorn? Fanzone, does Unicorn ring a bell?” She asks. 

The old Captain shrugs. “Metalhawk has told me about how the Pretenders have influenced human history and mythology before. But nothing about unicorns.” 

“Maybe it's the geoweapon’s codename.” Kelly proposes. 

“Maybe. Maybe we need to go further back in time.” Fowler wonders. Sector Seven is slow to digitize old case files, mission reports, and surveys due to a small number of employees and a skepticism to their own cybersecurity. She eyes Fanzone. 

“I don’t have much beyond my own time. However, not too far from here is an abandoned Sector Seven facility. It’s about a two hour drive east and it's got files dating back to when Sector Seven first went west. Stuff from my predecessors, Captain Archibald Amundsen and General Whalen.” Fanzone says as he fiddles with the crumbs accumulating in his bush mustache. 

Marissa grabs the files and finishes her hotdog. “Let’s get a move on then.” 

Abandoned Airstrip, Central Washington

Throughout the 80s, the Decepticons made several attempts to interfere with elections and transitions of power across the world. The Trackers would chase down the motorcades of certain campaigners, leaving only the most ill-suited to be elected or claim the throne. The Storm Seekers bombed destablized regions and reigned down propaganda from the skies, stirring up more resentment, rebellion, and war. Sector Seven did what they did, backing those who seemed to align with America’s interests. Meanwhile the Autobots fought against their Decepticons. Additional Autobots came down to assist the Pretenders; they intercepted the Tracker’s attacks, provided aid with the backing of G.B. Blackrock’s father to the people destabilized by the Storm Seeker bombings. Thwarted, the Decepticons made a recourse and attacked Sector Seven’s base of operations. The attack was swift but not deadly. The higher ups and the Autobots saw it as Sector Seven sticking their heads out too far and so slashed their budget. Once an elite military division diminished into a handful of agents struggling to keep in contact with a jet, a T.rex, and few oversized technicolor Hot Wheels. 

Fanzone’s Jeep and Marissa’s truck drive slowly along the abandoned airstrip. Tires taunt as they roll over chipped asphalt. Cheatgrass and dried stems burst through the faultlines. The runway stretches on for about a kilometer through a valley snug between the Cascade Foothills and the Plateau. Snow covered mountains and peaks cage in the abandoned facility. Behind them, an access road spills out into the airstrip while a few hangers, a toppled over control tower and a portable building recently installed within the past decade to provide shelter to Sector Seven’s history. There were many things too sensitive to allow the risk of a cyberattack. Atleast paper could be burned. Cameras line the roofs of each building, tracking the two vehicles. Except for one. 

Perched atop the ruined tower and pointed out towards the end of the airstrip, a camera gyrates wildly as it attempts to track onto a giant green offroader doing donuts at the opposite end. Marissa looks out her window, the offroader takes notice of the two vehicles and speeds forward at them. Fanzone drives straight forth behind a hanger and stumbles out of his jeep, brandishing his pistol and looking at the strange vehicle. “Get down, below the window line.” Marissa orders as her passenger clamps her hand over her mouth in shock. The agent grabs a speaker and holds it up to her mouth. “You are on a restricted military site. Stop and exit your vehicle or we will respond with lethal force if necessary.” She announces. 

The offroader charges forth at the truck’s side, intent on T-boning them. Marissa grinds her teeth as she stomps her foot down on the gas pedal and grips the steering wheel, pulling the truck into sharp, quick turn and out of the way of the intruder’s thick bumper. The truck swings around as the offroader comes to sudden stop. No one rattles within the offroader. Marissa flings the truck into reverse as an angular, purple insignia unveils itself upon the green vehicle’s front door. Great, a Decepticon. 

“I really shouldn’t have come along…” Kelly groans as she leans back in her seat, face pale. 

“I got you out of danger once before, I can do it again. Do you recognize this one?” Marissa asks as she tries to smile at the ashamed secretary. Kelly shakes her head. “Okay,” Fowler presses a button along the dashboard; a turret of anti-Cybertronian weapons and a machine gun rises up from the truck bed and auto-aim at the Tracker. “We are resorting to lethal force, surrender or…” Marissa fumbles as she grips the speaker. 

“You’ll be found guilty of violating the RID treaty!” Kelly improvises. 

“Uh, no I won’t.” Mumbles the Decepticon in a slow drawl. “You ain’t an Autobot. But ah, you have a nice weapons array.” 

The two women blink. Is he trying to flirt with my truck?  “ You won’t like our weapons array now!” Kelly bluffs. 

The turret auto fires at the Decepticon. A white beam strikes the Tracker’s hood, leaving a scorch mark blasted into the creaked asphalt. 

Kelly sighs and brings up her chair as Marissa sets the truck back into drive and steers in the direction of a hanger. 

A massive green hand reaches out in her rearview mirror, crushing and tearing the weapons turret apart. The Decepticon stands behind them, pulling the truck towards himself with his long arms. “Come here.” Grunts the Tracker through his football helmet like head. 

Bullets fire out of Fanzone’s gun as the old man stares down the Decepticon from the corner of a nearby hanger, each hit aimed at the massive, exposed tires embedded within his forearms. The Captain successfully punctures one. The transformer yanks at the weapon’s array and throws it in the direction of Fanzone. 

With his optics not on them, Fowler turns to Kelly and yells, “Out! Now!” The agent dashes out of the truck and scampers to the front of the truck. Kelly joins her. Marissa wraps one arm around Kelly while pulling out her gun shakily. 

The air lacks any biting cold. Perhaps it’s the adrenaline, the rush of blood from fear or warmth from Kelly snatching her taut torso and burying her face in for some amount of comfort. Focus! I put her in danger like this, a fucking civilian! I need to get her out of it. The warmth emanates from the Decepticon’s vents that line the sides of his columnar calves. He stomps towards the building Fanzone hides behind, a pair of long rocket launchers rotate up from the rest position against his back and settle atop his broad shoulders. 

“Stay behind me and take this.” Marissa nudges Kelly away, takes off her leather jacket, hoody, and bulletproof vest, and hands it to the secretary. 

“What are we going to do?” Kelly asks, surprisingly calm as she takes the vest and wears it over her puffy jacket. 

The agent creeps over to the passenger side of the truck, hoping to use it as cover. She signals to Kelly to stay low as she positions herself to take a shot, aiming at the Decepticon’s other forearm. Perhaps if I can puncture the other one, it will be enough to make him motionless when he goes into his alt mode. She strategizes. 

His arms swing as he walks, almost casually as he sets about destroying three humans. Marissa steadies her gun, placing it in line with his forearm on its upswing, she turns off the safety as the arm bends back, cocks the gun as it moves forward, and pulls the trigger as the elbow tethers up. He quickly turns on his heels and walks away in the direction of a looming bestial figure just visible where the airstrip meets the forest. The bullet punctures through his thin plating to no reaction as the Decepticon sternly stares at his new challenger. 

A massive, four-legged beast stomps into view. Dark, purple crystals cover its stony, beige hide, accentuating the spine, elbows, shoulder blades, knees, and pinnae. Massive, lengthy horns emerge from its back and spiral over and out in front of its chelonian head. It makes a slow stalk towards the Decepticon. He rushes over to it as a green blur with astonishing speed, fires out two missiles from his launchers, grazing the beast’s hips, and locks his fists upon its back horns. The rocky beast pushes on, bites the con’s windshield chest plate, and knocks him over. As it stands atop the toppled Cybertronian, it mutters something incomprehensible to the human ear; a shrill of static chanting. 

“What are ya? Some cultish Rocklord?” Rumbles the green Tracker as he struggles to get up. The beast cocks its head and pushes down one hoofed limb, effortlessly crushing through his armor and into the circuitry beneath. 

Marissa gestures to Kelly, together they dash over to Fanzone. “Are you two ladies alright? What is that thing?” The Captain asks. 

Kelly flattens herself against the wall, not wanting to get a view as the beast pulverizes the screaming Decepticon. “Not an Autobot. Some sort of rock creature.” Marissa replies. 

“Hmm, the Spawn of Primus has grown weak over the billions of stellar cycles. No matter. Once your Spark has been extinguished and your body buried beneath my Emperor’s flesh, you will be reborn as I once was to serve him.” Cackles the beast. 

A blue and gold fighter jet dives down at the pair, rolls, and drops off their payload of Rattrap. The bronze Autobot falls through the air with several grenades in hand, throws them at the beast’s back and lands as a pile of rubble a few meters away from the pinned Decepticon. “Get up or we’re all gonna die!” Shouts Rattrap as he pulls himself together. 

The grenades go off. Metalhawk pulls out of the dive with a spiral and swings in the direction of the huddled humans. They pull a sharp break, spreading out air brakes and landing on their hind landing gears, shielding the trio of humans from the blast. The beast stumbles back, its chest begins to creak open, dark purple liquid spills out. Rattrap and the Decepticon transform and roll away. 

“Where the fuck have you been?” Fanzone grunts as Metalhawk lands. “I radioed ya three hours ago. I’ve seen you fly to the moon and back in fifteen minutes.” 

The pretender’s engines slow down to a miffed whirl. “I second that! We have a 2 week notice policy.” Kelly adds. 

Metalhawk turns around, tail fins twitching nervously as the beast resumes its stalk. The long horns bend like tendrils, sensing the air as it makes a decision between the jet and the duo at either end of the airstrip. “Suit on,” Whispers Metalhawk. The fighter jet rapidly folds down, parts clipping out of sight, their body creaks and shakes as it’s compressed into a bulky humanoid suit and contracts again. 

Dr. Hawk stood stiffly, joints locked until they force a bend with an audible crack. Their gray suit is stained with pink Energon and dark oil. They turn back around to face the humans. Dark circles tug under their eyes while silver streaks flyaway hair as they try to put up a reassuring grin. Their left hand lacks skin, just blue metal in place of muscle and fat. Beyond, the beast stalks away, no longer sensing the pretender. “You look like death.” Captain Fanzone remarks.

“You don’t want me dead. Not with that Terrorcon still standing.” The astrophysicist warns, turning back to look as it spars with Rattrap and the Decepticon. 

Marissa, Kelly, and Fanzone huddle in close, looking over the Pretender’s shoulder. “What is a Terrorcon exactly? And can you stop it?” Marissa asks, holding back the floodgate of questions. 

“It’s a revived Cybertronian body; it utterly lacks a Spark, a soul, and seeks only to destroy more in order to raise more of its own kind in service of its master. The Terrorcon doesn’t discriminate between Autobot or Decepticon. Explosives and blunt force is the most effective way to damage the rocks and… crystals around it. Rattrap is trying to get Crumplezone to cooperate. If they can do that, I’ll ram it.” Dr. Hawk explains. “That means please give me some space.” 

Marissa backs off. “They keep dodging the point.” Kelly whispers to her. 

The Terrorcon slowly stalks back and forth as Rattrap chases Crumplezone. “Just listen to me, ya big lug! We blow it up and you get off scot free, you could even become an Autobot and we could…” Rattrap trails off. 

“I gotta slag both of you! All of you! Stand still you Autochum!” Shouts Crumplezone as two miniguns pop up above his fenders. He swerves and slides upon his popped tires, allowing Rattrap to effortlessly avoid his mock charges and laser fire. The Autobot doubles back, pops a wheelie, transforms, and lands atop Crumplezone’s broad hood. Rattrap swings out two blasters and points at Crumplezone. 

“Either you help me take out that zombie or we’re all going to die. I don’t care if you run back to Toledo or Timbucktoo with Daddy Deerest. Yeah, that’s right, I still remember the Tracker’s channels. I can hear ya right now.” Rattrap threatens. Crumplezone slowly reverses and lowers his miniguns. Rattrap looks across and nods. 

The Terrorcon wises up and sprints toward the unlikely duo. 

Quick as a flash, Metalhawk blasts out of their pretender shell, a narrow strip of skin tears off in the almost instantaneous action, burning up in their exhausts as they ram into the beast’s back. Rattrap sends another flurry of grenades. Crumplezone transforms and sends out his own rockets. Boulders tumble off the Terrorcon’s body, leaving only a dull gray substructure underneath. The dark crystals meltdown, bulking up the skeletal remains as it strikes its limbs out. Metalhawk transforms, and slices off its spindly appendages with their shortswords before staggering over. 

The Terrorcon lays still, a skeleton among rumble. Crumplezone backs away from the two Autobots, a smile upon his face as a swirling portal opens up at the edge of the forest. He makes the run for it. Rattrap looks on, permitting the Decepticon’s escape while Metalhawk beckons the humans forth. 

“Thank you. But can you please give us an honest answer about this geoweapon you keep mentioning?” Marissa as she looks up at the blue and gold Autobot. 

Metalhawk looks away as they sit down, trying to not tower too hard over the humans and human-sized Rattrap. “What will Ultra Magnus say?” Rattrap chides with a buck-toothed smirk. 

“Shut up Rattrap. This is your planet, you deserve to know what threatens it…” Metalhawk starts. 

“Birdbrained Shellfish here thought it would be neat to study our greatest enemy, Unicron the Chaos Bringer, back in college. Tracked the big guy to your Solar System then was sent off to prison because they chickened out just before their big presentation.” Rattrap interrupts. 

“Wait, you were in prison?” Kelly asks incredulously. 

“It was a Decepticon-ran prison. I’d rather not talk about it,” Metalhawk dismisses, “Anyway, I….”

Rattrap continues. “We Autobots made sure the ‘cons never found out about Unicron because they’re into some freaky, occult stuff and came here to protect your planet. You’re welcome.” 

Marissa closes her eyes. Great, all of this because a talking jet in a skin suit thought it would be cool to find their version of the Devil back in college. “What would happen if Unicron woke up?” Marissa asks. 

“The destruction of all life in the Universe. He is capable of consuming planets, perhaps stars and entire galaxies if he can return to his full strength. I’ve estimated that it will take him six months to awaken to the state where he will try to exit the Earth’s crust. It is only at this point where we can put him back to sleep.” Metalhawk continues. 

“Wait, six months? We have until June to prevent the end of everything!” Kelly panics.

“That’s right, you mentioned a way ‘to light our darkest hour’?” Marissa brings up, trying to remain calm. 

“The Founding Father has a magic bra that he’s nervous about putting on because it will turn him into a DILF.” Rattrap spews. 

“What?” Fanzone gasps. 

“Orion Pax was chosen to wield the Matrix of Leadership. It’s a Cybertronian relic that can vanquish Unicron. We just need to recover it. In the meantime, we need to make our case to the Autobot High Council for additional help.” Metalhawk replies. 

“Pft, even when it's the end of the world…” Fanzone starts. 

“Bureaucracy gets in the way.” Marissa finishes. 

“Bureaucracy has its place.” Kelly retorts. 

“Not if it takes them 200 vorns to pass a law on the legality of platingless bars. Anyone worth their scrap knows that it should totally be legal.” Rattrap complains. 

“The High Council understands the importance of all of this. Most of them anyway. However, perhaps bringing a representative of Earth will solidify their call to action.” Metalhawk says. 

“What do you mean?” Fowler questions. 

“In as soon as a few days' time, Rattrap, Orion Pax, Deep Blue, Sky Lynx, and I are traveling back to Cybertron. The rest of the Sol Defense Division will be stationed on Earth to assist in defending it and I know some people I can pull favors from. Would you like to accompany us to Cybertron, Marissa?” Metalhawk offers. 

Marissa looks at Fanzone and Kelly. The old man eggs her on. Kelly’s eyes widened. “On two conditions: open communication throughout this whole Unicron ordeal, where he’ll emerge from, if we need to evacuate places, status of this Matrix thingy, if the public need to know. Second, we’re all back by Christmas Eve. At most, we are there for three weeks assuming we leave Monday.” Marissa proclaims. 

“What about our base you said you’d be building?” Rattrap chimes in. 

“It will be completed on Monday.” Marissa confirms. 

“I’m coming with you!” Kelly shouts to the pretender and Agent’s surprise. “I am both of your ‘witnesses and carers’. I haven’t seen you in a week and a half and already you smell like a Red Sox jersey with clam chowder spilt on it.” She points up at Metalhawk before facing Marissa. “And you, if there is a chance of us being stranded on Planet Hotwheels over Christmas, I’d rather it be with you.” 

Chapter Text

Tracker Base, an Island in the South Pacific.

Roadkill closes his Groundbridge portal as Crumplezone trudges through it with a cold blast of mountain air that ruffles the balmy breeze. The current Tracker base is a small South Pacific island, barely more than an exposed, palm covered seamount and concentric sand bars. Camouflage netting hangs from the tops of the towering palm trees to cover the base from human and Autobot flyovers. Several, small purple stealth shuttles park beneath the trees in a circle, ramps lowered as some Trackers lounge in and around them. Blasters and blades in hand to sharpen, reload, or swigging down cubes of Energon. Several Decepticons gather beside them. Jasper scowls at the sight of his punctured tires and pounded-in chest plate. Shatter and Dropkick lean overhead. Flamewar tries to dash in to ask him about the prior battle. Counterpunch watches on with reserved interest. Knockout cuts through the crowd with a medkit in hand. The medic inspects the puncture wounds. “These came from but a bullet round! Were you accosted by humans?” Knockout barks out with laughter. 

The Trackers begin to jeer at the green Velocitronian. Since his motorcyclist partner had defected a vorn ago, Crumplezone’s position within the Tracker hierarchy had drastically fallen. Breakdown was far more competent, even on his own, and filled the role of a lightning-fast heavyweight. Jasper proves herself worthy as Roadkill’s unofficial second in command. And Shatter was a versatile combatant and triple-changer. Without that murine traitor, Crumplezone had no one to rely on for his fumbles. “That’s enough. Crumplezone encountered the two Autobot leaders and a mysterious monster he helped to vanquish. Crumplezone, please come with me.” Roadkill steps in as he furrows his antlered brow. 

The other Decepticons look away quickly. Knockout patches up the flat tires and hands Crumplezone a tire pump. Roadkill leads the green mech to his personal spacecraft tucked away at the other side of the island, a sleek black and violet shuttle. He climbs up the ramp, rotates the pilot’s seat to face Crumplezone who stands awkwardly between two shelves filled with personal paraphernalia, artifacts, awards, and trophies from his many hunts. “What do you want, boss?” Crumplezone asks. 

“What was that beast that ambushed you?” Roadkill says as he reaches over to pull a corked bottle off the shelf and swishes the indigo liquid within. 

“Some sorta stone thingy. But it had a substructure too. It called me and the Autobots the Spawn of Primus. And we easily beat it with explosions.” Crumplezone rambles. 

“What do you think it was?” Roadkill follows up as he slowly uncorks the bottle and holds it up to his own olfactory sensor. 

Crumplezone shrugs. “Some cultish Rocklord, I think. Although, it did kinda smell like that.” The Velocitronian points at the bottle as Roadkill swirls it around. 

“Intriguing. The Rocklords only come to this sector of the galaxy for religious rebirthing ceremonies so perhaps your idea has some credence.” Roadkill confirms before grabbing two shot glasses off the shelf and a small pump lid. It wasn’t uncommon for a Cybertronian to have a non-retractable faceplate or helm-piece that restricted access to their mouth. Instead, they could consume liquid fuels through a small opening at the base of the neck that leads to the fuel tank. “I was gifted this bottle of visco at a gala hosted by Lady Shadow Striker herself a few hundred vorns back. Personally, I prefer visco over engex. It doesn’t clog up the processor as much but still has a bite. This is Chaos Lymph. It is infused with what is known on my home planet as Angolmois energy but is more commonly referred to as Dark Energon.” He passes a half-filled glass to Crumplezone. Shards of dark purple twinkle within the indigo fluid.

“I’d rather have some Red Energon.” Crumplezone whines as he unplugs his gas cap. Red Energon crystals could be found exclusively on Velocitron. Millions of stellar cycles of their consumption gifted Velocitronians exceptional speed. For other Cybertronians it was a temporary circuit booster and physical enhancer that could wreck the fuel tank if not refined properly or consumed too frequently. 

“Our Lady and even our Emperor of Destruction indulge in Chaos Lymph. Consider this a rare taste of true power.” Roadkill snaps as he grabs the severed helm of an Autobot, red paint still fresh, optics cracked but still shining blue, and bull-like horns pulled out of place. The two mechs take a swig of the tainted visco. Crumplezone nearly siphons it back into glass. Roadkill swishes it though his mouth, the Dark Energon shards sink down to his fuel tank, binding to the filters and regulators, producing an instant, paranormal effect as his red optics turn dark purple. “Hand it back so I might not waste it on you.” Snarls Roadkill. 

Crumplezone passes back the glass. Roadkill spills the visco upon the severed helm and his own hand. He sets the head down and tries pinching his fingers together, willing the helm and jaw to part then snap back together. Nothing. Crumplezone looks on, confused. Roadkill takes another hearty sip of the visco and dumps the remaining contents of his glass down the neck of the Autobot head. He puts it down again and swings his arms together in an exaggerated clap. The Autobot’s jaws part slightly then slam together, the lower jaw breaks off. Crumplezone grabs his own jaw, trembling. 

“When in contact with a living Cybertronian, Dark Energon allows them to control the dead when revitalized with it. There are limits of course; proximity, how recently is the deactivation, willpower on both sides, numbers of dead and living, and Dark Energon poisoning. I’ll be filtering it out for deca-cycle or two. Thus, it hasn’t seen much practical application since the Ages before the Primes.” Roadkill stops before slouching back in his chair. 

He sees a pair of long horns emerging from the ground, no, the very Earth itself. They arc high above forests and mountains. Spindly, skeletal wings like the rings of a gas giant follow them. His insignia burns. Earth burns. Everything will burn and be consumed.  

“Sir!” Knockout’s voice rings through his auditory sensors, the actual concern stirring him to wake. The Lead Tracker awakens, having been pulled onto the sand beside Knockout and Breakdown’s ship: a heavily built gunship meant to house the medic’s various supplies and support Breakdown’s heft. Crumplezone stands nearby, looking away guilty. 

“I am alright, Knockout. Just went too hard on the visco. You know the kind.” Roadkill explains as he pulls himself upright. 

The medic nods and offers his leader a microchip. “This will help counteract the side effects, hallucinations and the pain. I’ll recommend a filter changeout within the next quartex.” 

Roadkill takes it and plugs it into an input strip along the back of his helm. The connection to the Chaos Bringer is blocked and abdominal pain subsides to a dull ache. “Thank you.” Roadkill stands up. “Crumplezone, you are dismissed.” 

Roadkill returns to the middle of the base, gathering everyone’s attention. “There is something I need to do. I will be gone for a few solar cycles at most. You will take your orders from Jasper. We will continue to avoid North America. And, I realize what I am about to say may be contrary to what I encourage but do to the possible nature of the beast Crumplezone encountered, I ask that we not kill our own kind. That includes the Autobots as well.” Roadkill groundbridges away before he can answer the astonished crowd.

A Remote Airport, Sahara Desert

Roadkill waits until nightfall to leap over the barbed wire fence bordering the tiny airport. A single runway of cracked concrete rebels against the desert sands. The traffic control tower barely stands above the single terminal. An experimental fighter jet lays huddled under a dust-beaten tarp. Roadkill slowly drives toward the sulking Jetstorm. “I’m surprised you're still here. You know, the Autobots deactivated that fan girl of yours.” Roadkill says as he leaps over and parks beside Jetstorm.

The bedazzled Seeker trembles beneath the tarp, shaking it off as his wings fold up and down. “Was it the Eukarian?” His voice is low and restrained. 

“Which one? I know the snake already constricted Nova Storm.” Ponders Roadkill. 

“The Pretender. The two of them have been feuding since I came to this dirtball.” Snarls Jetstorm. 

“No. It was the Wrecker. Left Ion’s body to rot in the muck.” Informs Roadkill. 

Jetstorm transforms and slams his clawed fists into the ground. “What! And you did nothing?” 

“She was not under my command. It would serve you well to not abandon your men less they abandon you.” Dismisses the black and red Tracker. 

Jetstorm floats around and punches a fist onto Roadkill’s hood, scratching it slightly. “Does loyalty mean nothing to you?” 

“Rich coming from a Seeker.” Roadkill retorts before transforming. He swings out a short scythe and rakes it across Jetstorm’s aerodynamic chestplate, cracking his cockpit. The scythe tip cuts a wire carefully, shutting off Jetstorm’s levitation. The Storm Seeker collapses, zip fuel and energon spills from the cut. Roadkill kneels before him and plunges his hand into Jetstorm’s wound. He feels around. The internals of a Cybertonian are hard and slick, wires slip around each other, circuitry bathed in cleaning solution and coolant, hydraulics pump back and forth while servos twitch, micropipes deliver energon from the fuel tank to the rest of the substructure, metal plating covers it all. Roadkill grasps a chip and projector from the front of the cavity, intentionally searching within the Seeker to draw out the pain. 

“Why?” Utters Jetstorm as he grasps his wound. “That’s the only way I’ve gotten any maintenance done all deci-cycle. 

Roadkill inspects the holomatter generator before stashing it away. “Fly back to Cybertron for reassignment then. This will get more use from me then you.” 

“What about Storm Surge?” Garbles Jetstorm. 

“He’s protecting the airspace above my base.” Roadkill reports as he transforms and begins to drive away. 

“Wait!” Jetstorm screams. “Surely, I could be of some use to you under your service.” 

“I am not filling out the paperwork again. Fly back to Cybertron or to those neutrals if you must. And for the time being, no deactivating Cybertronians.” Roadkill orders. 

“Why?” The Storm Seeker crawls forth on his hands and hinges. 

“There is some unknown force on this planet capable of reviving the dead indiscriminately. I’d rather not add to its possible army.” Roadkill says as he produces a groundbridge portal and leaves Jetstorm to his disgrace. 

Ruins of Pompeii, Naples, Italy

Mount Vesuvius overlooks the unearthed city of Pompeii. The last sun rays trail long shadows over the cracked arches, ancient masonry, roofless columns, and entombed humans. Roadkill remembers the eruption from 2,000 years ago. The panic and paranoia of a natural disaster provides the perfect environment for slaughter. His cervine appearance gave him the assigned identity to several demons and monsters in human mythologies. He had no qualms about humans seeing him in robot mode during those times. However, it did draw the attention of one of the Autobots, Cloudburst. 

Roadkill senses the faint signature of the long assumed deactivated Pretender, resting within the ash cocoons left now exposed for study and examination by the archeologists who mill around the forgotten city. Roadkill parks himself as close as he can to the city’s Forum. Archeologists and tourists return to their vehicles or the line of public transit in the parking lot. Roadkill backs up and drives towards the Forum. “Excuse me, do you have an ID card?” Asks a woman as she walks up to Roadkill. 

The Tracker projects a default holomatter avatar onto his driver seat and runs an animation; the avatar opens up his glove box to pull out a sheet of psychic paper. "Yes." Assures Roadkill as he holds the paper in front of the woman. The paper could manifest whatever the user willed the viewer to see. 

             The woman nods. "Carry on, sir." 

              Roadkill proceeds into the ancient city. The pavement undertire smoothens from asphalt to opus caementicium. They don't make it like they used to. He drives slowly, savoring the high quality concrete and the memories of wondrous destruction he wrought against the people who used to live in Pompeii. He swerves back and forth, sensing that faint Autobot signature until he finds the source. 

              A cocoon of ash and concrete lays spread-eagle. Roadkill slowly transforms into robot mode and crouches in front of the entombed Pretender. He takes out a dagger and begins to slice around the plaster cocoon. He carefully picks up the lid to reveal Cloudburst’s disguise, a young dark-skinned man clad only in white robes lashed around his waist, sandals, and golden jewelry. Tightly clenched in his hand is a vial of deep blue innermost energon. Roadkill pinches it out of the stasis-locked Autobot’s hands. He dips a narrow talon into it and tastes it. Well traveled yet grounded with acid. I never knew you two were so close. Cloudburst’s broad nose twitches and his locs shake as he awakens. “It’s been awhile, Cloudburst.” Rumbles Roadkill. 

The Pretender’s hazel eyes widen before shining blue as he transforms. Roadkill backs up as a red and gray Autobot enlarges, crushing the cocoon he previously was buried in. A fearful gasp parts his blue face as he unclips one of his wings off his back as a makeshift shield. “What do you want?” Quivers Cloudburst. 

Roadkill smiles. “I don’t wish to resume our bout. Merely to discuss your mission.” 

Cloudburst lowers his shield. “Why would I tell you? Finish the job if you must!” 

“I can’t have you rising as a Terrorcon.” Says Roadkill as he takes out a cortical psychic patch. He stomps one pede down upon Cloudburst’s chest plate as he plugs in one end to a port at the base of the Autobot’s neck and the other end to his palm. 

The two are transported into Cloudburst’s mindscape. The Decepticon takes on a ghostly appearance as he flickers through the Autobot’s datatrax: the streets of Polyhex, behind the bar of an oilhouse, the churning waves of the Rust Sea or maybe the oceans of Earth, trading spices and stories over a hundred campfires with hundreds of humans over hundreds of years, horseback,  ash and dust for 2000 years of stasis lock. Roadkill stands still upon finding something interesting. 

He watches the scene unfold. Cloudburst and Metalhawk stand upon a balcony overlooking the Rust Sea, Iacon visible as a shining sliver against the sunset as Cybertron is bathed in red. So they both hailed from Polyhex. Roadkill looks to the east, dust clouds loom, kicked up from the advancing Decepticon army as they make their way to conquer the cities of Hexian Gulf. The Siege of Polyhex is about to begin. This must be only days before the war broke out. The blue and gold student looks downcast upon a datapad, frantically flipping through it while muttering to themself. Cloudburst’s optics flicker from the view to his roommate. And they were roommates. Roadkill muses. “It ain’t like you to worry, Mel.” Cloudburst observes. 

“I’m not just presenting to my advisors or the Board next cycle. It’s back to back. With Shockwave no less.” Metalhawk stresses. “How can I be partial with both of them?” 

“Imagine them with no plating.” Says Cloudburst. 

“I don’t find that to be a comforting sight. Or even an appealing sight.” Metalhawk dismisses. 

“Then maybe don’t be partial with them? Which one do you like more? The Decepticons or the trusty old Board?” Suggests the red and gray transformer. 

Roadkill speeds up the memory. “Take me to the content, Cloudburst.” He orders. The Autobot becomes visible as two figures, robot mode and pretender skin. 

“You know who created the Terrorcons. Leave me alone.” Cloudburst sulks. 

“That comes from myths. My Lady will need a paper trail if she is to take this seriously. Perhaps Lord Starscream will induct you into the Seekers for your cooperation.” Roadkill pressures before dismissing the Pretender’s conscience. Another memory plays out. 

Two planes fly over mile high glaciers, a blue starfighter and red propeller plane. The frigid air bites at their wings and tails. Roadkill floats alongside them, taking note of the newly installed missiles and bombs lining each Autobot wings. Wartime now. “You need a break or something, Metalhawk?” Cloudburst calls out. 

The starfighter dives down and turns on their afterburners. Cloudburst drops after them. “I need to confirm something. Haven’t been here in almost four million years. I bet all this glaciation was caused by the orbital eccentricity of Earth. Or maybe the decrease in carbon dioxide. Do you feel the difference on your wings?” Lectures the scientist. 

“I suppose. Do you think this is where Unicron is?” Asks Cloudburst. 

Metalhawk falters and lands atop the glacier. “How do you know about that? And don’t say his name out loud!” 

Cloudburst lands alongside them and spins around. “There isn’t a Decepticon for hundreds of kliks. I lived with you for two million stellar cycles that and I actually read all your articles: Comparative and Comprehensive Mythology of the Chaos Bringer: Unicron through the Optics of the Colonies, ‘Cons, and Cybertron, Universal Level Triangulation and its Applications, and Location of Unicron: An Assessment through Comparative Mythology, Triangulation, and Observation. If it weren’t for me, then the Autobot’s wouldn’t have the information locked away.” 

Roadkill pulls out of the datatrax, plugging the patch out of himself and the Autobot. “The paper trail unveils itself.” 

Cloudburst looks up at him in shock and confusion. “Low on Energon, stasis lock imminent.” Rings out his onboard computer. 

Roadkill tilts his head, feigning sympathy. “I’ll leave you to be in your confusion. Uncertain as to if your friends are still online. Underpowered and forced into your shell. Welcome to the future.” Cloudburst immediately retreats into his human shell and sprints away from the Decepticon. Roadkill opens up a new groundbridge portal. “Toodles.” 

Above the Arctic Circle, Finland

Roadkill steps onto a frosted over cliff top overlooking jagged fjords and thick sea ice. He taps the comm on his forearm, conjuring up a holopad listing his contacts. He presses for a direct line to Lady Shadow Striker. The hologram enlarges and backs away. Roadkill kneels as the loading screen gives way to a purple and periwinkle plated femme. A scope covers her left optic while her limbs fail to match up with her torso; left arm from an orange Seeker, right from two diagnostic drones, left leg matched her original body, and right from a Constructicon. Early on in the Decepticon movement, she had been blown to scrap during a mission. Without proper medical care, she reconstructed herself using the parts of those too weak to survive. The patchwork body remains as a marker of her tenacity and ferocity. “What is it, Roadkill?” She inquires, her voice a nasty rasp. 

“My Lady, I have acquired information from an Autobot interrogation that further confirms the Earth as the resting place of Unicron. I have the names of three articles written by Metalhawk of Archon. Inputting it now.” Announces Roadkill as he stands up. 

“Intriguing. I will forward it to Shockwave and the Sciences Division for verification.” Shadow Striker confirms. “We will begin considerations on if the Earth is to move on to Phase Two.”

“Thank you for the consideration, my Lady. How may I assist things here?” Asks Roadkill. 

“I can not speak on what we will do regarding this information on Unicron’s imminent reawakening. That is for Emperor Megatron to decide. Continue as usual; target and eliminate the Autobot menace while remaining under the parameters of the R.I.D. Treaty.” Shadow Striker orders. 

“Of course, my Lady.” Says Roadkill. 

“While I have you here… I can’t help but analyze your service history. It’s impressive in all categories except for Member Retention and Focus.” She preens.

Roadkill’s frame stiffens. It wouldn’t be inaccurate to describe his leadership style with his Tracker unit as laissez faire. His orders were often predictable, patrolling the Earth’s streets for Autobot activity and engaging them. When such opportunities were scarce, he’d focus his bloodlust on Earth’s life forms. Not towards berating and abusing his unit like the dramatized sitcom Starscream commonly seen on the broadcasts from Kaon. “I am aware of this my Lady, how might I improve?” Roadkill states.

“Remember, the Decepticons need a united front. Your personal reports indicate to me that you speculate a defector from your unit now leads the newest rebel cell.” Observes Shadow Striker. “Exterminate that traitor soon or I’ll turn this case over to the Justice Division. For a proper investigation. Lady Shadow Striker out.” The transmission ends. 

Chapter Text

Sector Seven Office, Olympia, WA, 5:30 am

Captain Fanzone pulls his jeep into the small slot of parking spots crowded in front of the Sector Seven office, a squat brick and mortar building painted black. Satellite dishes and small radio antennas cram the rooftop. Thirty foot high barbed wire and concrete fencing surround the office and hide away the rest of the lot, currently housing several vehicles outfitted with anti-cybertronian weaponry. Snow-coated rainforest and frozen over wetlands surround the outskirts of the State Capital. Across the street is a sub shop and a gas station. He grabs the hot coffee he picked up from one of the countless little spots along the road from here to the main part of town. The old man heaves himself out of the warm car and onto the salted and slushy pavement. He leans against his car’s hood as two figures walk out of the gas station, dash across the parking lot, and onto the street. The smaller, slighter figure’s left leg goes rigid as they slip on a patch of black ice and plank over onto the asphalt only for the taller figure to prop them up and slide them over to the curve. “That robotoid arthritis setting in, Mark?” Jokes Fanzone as the two pretenders join him. 

Gale kicks the astrophysicist in the knee, loosening it enough for them to stagger themself upright. “Just Doctor or Hawk for now, Captain. I’ll try and think of a new first name at a later date. And my condition has more in common with osteoarthritis at least in symptoms. Cause is different. Basically, my joints don’t know whether to lock up or loosen.” They correct. The skin had regrown along the left side of their face however one of their hands remained covered by a glove, clutching a crossbody bag. 

Gale makes a better attempt at dressing for the weather, a purple scarf lashed around her neck and a wool jacket pulled taunt over her broad shoulders and toned arms. “Shall we get on with this? We’re both needed back in Sterling City by 9 o’clock. Yes.” She prods. 

“Oh, we finally convinced you to come back and do your job?” Chortles Fanzone. 

“Partially. That and Rattrap was leaving paint flecks in my cockpit.” Admits Dr. Hawk. 

“I see the standards of who you’ll let inside your cockpit has fallen.” Gale jokes.

“My cockpit turns into my knee caps. Also Rattrap is the opposite of my type.” They shout back.

“What’s your type then?” Grins Gale. 

“Someone with high wings, is shorter than me, and retractable faceplates.” Says the pretender. “Also, acute sensors.” 

“Yeah, that co-leader of yours is a bit of a fixer-upper isn't he? Packs a lot of firepower though.” Captain Fanzone adds, recentering the conversation as he waddles his way for the door. He beats his hefty, gloved hand against the door. 

Agent Fowler pushes the heavy, steel door open. “Hello, Captain. Wasn’t expecting you here.” She greets. 

“Yeah, I don't know if the papers have even shown themselves this early in the morning but I’m reentering service here while we deal with the Big Guy.” Fanzone says. 

“That would be great! Come on in.” Fowler holds the door open as the three people walk into the crowded office. Fanzone nods at its familiarity, the main control dash with various readouts: Decepticon detectors dim with inactivity and a steady rise in seismic rumblings across various points on the globe. Three chairs face the draconian computers and old CRT screens. Marissa settles in hers, a pair of sunglasses resting beside a coffee cup atop the table, a large duffle bag and backpack stashed underneath her seat. Fanzone settles in what once was his own seat when he was an agent, now belonging to Simmons, a sub sandwich wrapper crinkles by his boots. Gale leans back in Burn’s chair, putting strain on the uptight backrest. Dr. Hawk paces and looks around. “Simmons will be in an hour.” She says. “So, I did myself the favor and read up on your notes on the conditions on Cybertron,’ she looks briefly at the astrophysicist, ‘but what exactly is the plan?”

“We’ll leave this evening, all of us are going to convene at the new Autobot Base for a briefing. I’ll formally unveil our true mission then we’ll head off. The group of us going is Sky Lynx, Orion, Rattrap, Deep Blue, myself, and you. I’ll fly myself there. Sky Lynx is shuttling the rest of you. I rent an apartment in Polyhex, not too far from Iacon, that has some human amenities I’ve brought over. I don’t know who will stay with me or in the Barracks in Iacon. We’ll have a bit of downtime, a couple of days, before the High Council gathers for us to speak our case. We can go over speaking points later but the whole session might last an entire week or two. Even with a drastically short time frame, bureaucracy might get in the way of meaningful action.” Dr. Hawk bullet points. 

“Amen to that last point. But won’t most of your leadership be away off planet?” Asks Fanzone. 

“I trust Gale to do what she needs to, get us moved out of Sterling City and remove herself from the public eye.” Dr. Hawk assures. 

“Yeah, but what if Rattrap gets up there and appoints Whirl as temporary leader and…” Mocks Gale. 

Dr. Hawk stares daggers at her. “Whirl’s behavior has improved tremendously while here on Earth; however, I hope Rattrap’s understanding of Whirl’s strength is as a solo fighter, not as a team player or leader. He also could pick someone from the Sol Defense Division, Tigertrack or Leobreaker would both make competent leaders. Regardless it would be temporary and I trust you to handle yourself accordingly.”

“Yes.” Grunts Gale as she looks away. 

“I’ll help keep things smooth down here. Plus, won’t Lennox be back from paternity leave soon? He can whip anyone into shape.” Fanzone guarantees. 

“What about Kelly? She’s still adamant about coming along with me.” Asks Marissa. 

“You can’t seriously think you’ll bring her to Cybertron, right? She’s just a civilian! Fowler at least has military training. Kelly’s sweet but she is a magnet for bad luck. You don’t need that when you're trying to make your case in front of Ultra Magnus and that walking chin.” Gale shouts with a burst. 

Fanzone couldn’t help but agree. “Yeah, I know she has an official role as carer. Someone to keep both of you from going off the edge or whatever. But if it weren’t because we’re so underfunded and so off the books, I wouldn’t even think of approving a civilian to go to an alien planet.”

Dr. Hawk bites their lip while Fowler looks away conflicted. “Speaking as her coworker, I have seen her show her tenacity in front of her Murphy’s law esque endangerments numerous times. She has faced down Decepticon attacks and never let that deter her from associating with us. I say we approach her again today and lay out all the possibilities to her. If she still wants to join us, we’ll let her. And you have my promise that I will ensure that both humans make it back home to Earth in a timely manner.” The pretender promises. 

“I wouldn’t expect any less from you, Hawk. But Agent, a word.” Says Fanzone as he leaves his chair and leads the young woman to his former office. He pulls out his keys and unlocks the door at the far end of the control room. The old Captain steps into Lennox’s new office, his successor hadn’t yet put up much in the way of personal effects, just a few of his medals and badges from his military service  framed up and a photograph of him and his pregnant wife posed underneath a sunlit tree. Fanzone sits down in the desk chair, still well worn from years of being reclined back. Marissa pulls up a chair and sits across from him. “Now, I don’t doubt that Metalhawk will do everything in their power to make the trip comfortable for ya and they’d rather see themselves burning up in the atmosphere trying to bring you home than the alternative. But you have to understand why it's dangerous to let a civilian come along.” 

‘But I also know that you have a connection with her. I don’t care if she’s your girlfriend or friend or whatever but I understand not wanting to do this alone. I bet she gets what you’re going through and your role in all of this better then Simmons or Burns. I’ll leave it to you to decide if she can come along. The Feds won’t know about any of this until Lennox turns in our bi-annual report. If you two come back alive, we won’t have anything to worry about. If you don’t, we’ll just scrub you two out of existence.” Fanzone explains. 

“I’m familiar with the process. If she’s persistent with it, I’ll let her come with me.” The agent decides. 

“You have more faith in people than I do, Agent. There’s a reason I never associated much with any civilians during my tenure here.” Fanzone admits. “Just, again, don't let her get hurt. And yourself either. You got any anti-cybertronian weapons on ya just in case?”

“After what happened on Friday, I’m doubting their efficacy. We poured hundreds of thousands of taxpayer dollars into developing those weaponized trucks.” Fowler shook her head. 

“Yeah, maybe Blackrock’s people will crack the code. I’m sure Hawk has an excuse that will take a billion years to explain. If you do get into a pinch, you can always spit or sneeze on a ‘con. From what those two have told me, most machines hate any sort of gunk or gak we make. It saved me a couple times.” Chuckles Fanzone as he gets up and rejoins the two pretenders in the control room. Gale sat in her chair, staring down at something on her phone while Dr. Hawk examined the various readouts on screen. “Are those graphs up to your vigor?” Asks Fanzone warmly. 

Agent Simmons barges into the office. “Sure, got a lot of people here. Ah, Fowler, enjoy your spaceflight. Bring me back a postcard or mug or something.” He groans as he pushes people aside and sits down. 

“Aren’t ya going to give your old captain a greeting?” Huffs Fanzone. 

Simmons sputters. “Great. I’ll have to deal with your hotdog breath. How long are you back in for?”

“Till we either put the Big Guy back to sleep or the universe dies trying.” Fanzone says grimly. 

“You’re only back in this because of them, aren’t you?” Scoffs Simmons as he points at Dr. Hawk.

“Leave us be, Simmons. I’ll be back this evening to help Burns. See ya, Subway simpleton.” Spats Fanzone as he departs with the other agent and the two Autobots. He takes out his keys and flings them at Dr. Hawk. The keys hit them and they shrink up, bending down to grab it out of the slush. “Have you learned how to drive yet?” Asks Fanzone. 

“No, they haven’t.” Gale answers for them, she yanks the keys out their hands and makes her way to the driver's seat. “We took the train and bus down here. Same as everywhere we go. Unless, they fly somewhere.” 

The group load up into Fanzone’s jeep, Gale as driver, Fanzone as passenger, and Marissa and Dr. Hawk load up in the back seats. “I will learn it when I have the time.” The scientist mumbles as they pull out a laptop and begin typing on it. Gale backs out of the parking spot and onto the street. 

Blackrock Building, Sterling City, 8:55 a.m

“You’re sure we’re all invited in, right?” Asks Fanzone as they all follow Dr. Hawk through the revolving doors into Blackrock Enterprise’s front lobby. Guards standing beside metal detectors nod to the procession as they all walk in. A few food vendors are set up between the front entrance and the receptionist desk and elevators at the back. Gale makes her way towards one, briefly stopped by employees, construction workers, and visitors asking for an autograph. Her occupation as a professional wrestler made her something of a local celebrity. 

“You could always get a search warrant, Captain. That’s what you used to do back when I worked as a middle school science teacher. I miss that job. Maybe when this is all over I’ll become a professor or something.” Muses the astrophysicist as they hold out their employee card to those welcoming them back, even if it's for one last day. 

“Maybe I should try ‘search warrants’.” Marissa whispers to herself. 

“Or you could ask her out like a normal person!” Gale shouts halfway across the lobby. Marissa stammers her feet and blushes deeply. 

“Would you do that here or back home?” Asks Fanzone as he swipes a scone off a freebie plate. 

“I wouldn’t mind the commute between. Maybe I’d turn it into a field trip.” Replies the pretender as Gale rejoins the group. 

They all stop right in front of the elevator, waiting for it to open up and take them all to the level of Dr. Hawk’s office. The elevator doors swing open revealing Mr. Blackrock and his secretary, Kelly. Dark circles beneath his warm brown eyes do little to deter the welcoming smile upon his chiseled face as Mr. Blackrock extends a hand to welcome back his soon-to-be former scientific advisor. “Welcome back, my friend.” He greets.

Dr. Hawk takes it, squirming awkwardly. “Thank you, sir. I apologize for the abruptness about this but as I’ll explain to you later, we are in desperate times.”

Kelly’s face becomes contorted between ferocity towards her coworker’s absence and pure joy at seeing Marissa. The agent walks towards her. Gale gives a brief wave. “You have nothing to apologize for.” Assures Blackrock as he retracts his hand and looks at Fanzone. “Good morning, I don’t believe we’ve met yet.” 

The old captain nods back. “Name’s Captain Carmine Fanzone, I’ve been working along these two bozos for about 50 years and now I’m back in the fold.” The two men exchange handshakes before everyone crams into the elevator. 

Dr. Hawk wriggles to the control panel and touches the button for the top floor. “We can discuss things in my office as I clean it out.” They say. The elevator staggers up, story by story, before grinding to a halt. 

“Great.” Spats Kelly as she pushes her way to the control panel and punches it. The elevator resumes its journey upward at astonishing speed. Fanzone falls against the wall as the elevator ascends. It stops suddenly and they all walk out on shaky legs. 

Another lobby and small food court open up, surrounded by floor to ceiling windows offering a handsome view of Sterling City’s skyline. Dr. Hawk leads the way towards a hallway lined with the offices of various heads of departments. They walk half way down and open a plain white door into a small, understated office. A desk stands against one wall, covered by several scientific papers and a desktop computer. Dr. Hawk pulls three frames off the wall; one displaying their most recent diploma, receiving a doctorate in astronomy during the 90s, the fifth time they experienced Earth’s higher education options, a photographed nebula, and a self-portrait of themselves in vehicle mode. They place the frames in their bag before walking behind the desk and start organizing the papers. “I don’t have much in the way of seating here. Never really got visitors. Feel free to ask me anything.” Says the scientist. 

“Kelly has informed me of your true mission, the geoweapon within our planet. How can I assist you all with that?” Asks Mr. Blackrock. 

“You got money, use it.” Huffs Fanzone before Dr. Hawk can offer a response. 

“He is right in a way. I’ll explain my interpretation of the plan later on before we depart for Cybertron but we could use the relief aid.” They reply. 

“My aid foundations are always prepared.” Mr. Blackrock affirms. 

Kelly goes next. “I am coming along with you two to Cybertron. Someone has to keep you in check.” She declares. 

Fanzone looks to Mr. Blackrock, the businessman chuckles. “So that is what the vacation time request was for. I’d offer myself up as an ambassador if I didn’t already have reservations in Italy over the holidays. The company’s insurance policies don’t apply off planet of course but you’ve shown great tenacity and I trust Dr. Hawk to bring you back safely.”

“You have my word, sir.” Promises the pretender as they grab a paper shredder from underneath the desk and begin shredding redundant documents and waste. Kelly smiles and stands beside Marissa. “Any other questions.” 

“I know you’ve surely been occupied with other important things during your absence but one of the things I did ask for was a comprehensive map of Earth’s energon deposits and which ones would be most appropriate for mining.” Mr. Blackrock reminds. 

Dr. Hawk grasps their forehead. “Scrap, I almost forgot.” They utter, pulling open drawers. Purple light shines out of a large, lower drawer. They pull out several, large purple-blue crystals and set them atop the desk. “I probably should have offered some of these up to you. Sometimes I’d get peckish so I keep energon crystals at my desk. They're all liquid filled ones, good to take a nutcracker to and open up. Anyway, what I’m really after is this.” They explain, holding a blue flash drive pinched between their fingers. They plug it into the desktop and yank the monitor around so that everyone could view as they open up the files into a GIS program. Upon the default projection, thin purple lines appear, zigzagging along the continents. The veins fluctuate, moving along as the scientist adds more and more layers until they reach the final one. 

“Why is it all clustered in Florida and Australia?” Fanzone asks, raising an eyebrow.

“It's a map of energon deposits I’ve been taking since the end of the Miocene to the present day. There is a three million year gap due to reasons. But…” Dr. Hawk starts to explain. 

“You went to prison.” Interrupts Gale. 

“You what!” Bellows Fanzone in shock. 

“It was a Decepticon prison. They do that to anyone with basic critical thinking skills who chooses not to side with them. I’ve recovered. Mostly. Maybe not at all!  Never download a new transformation scheme when you are breaking out of prison and desperate to fly again.” Dr. Hawk hurriedly explains. “Anyway, Energon is a somewhat renewable resource. Somewhere between fossil fuels and water in how easily it’s renewed upon a rocky planet such as Earth, on Cybertron it's a bit different. To keep it brief, depleted energon gathers as a liquid in pools or dissolved in a fluid like air or water or trapped as an ore or intact as a Cybertronian corpse. While still exposed to the surface, it is energized by repeated lightning strikes until it reforms as a solid crystal. In the present day, that seems to be throughout subtropical and tropical regions.”

“Interesting. How quickly could you have this map done by?” Asks Mr. Blackrock. 

“By the end of the day! Now please, leave me be, I have two weeks to make up.” Says the astrophysicist as they shoo everyone away. 

Sterling City Seaport, WA, 3:00 p.m.

“Just jam it in!” Rattrap yells as he lays spread-eagle inside an empty shipping container, his small torso exposed, pulsating red spark and asymmetrical panels hinged open as Punch crouches over him. In the Decepticon double agent’s hand is a newly reconstructed holomatter generator, hot solder and twinked wires dangling off it as they pinch it and carefully slide it into his chest cavity. The generator slips and globs on Rattrap’s twisted life cord. “Ow!” Screeches the small cycle-bot. 

Punch yanks it back out and reapplies heat with their soldering iron. “I’m sorry but I still don’t see why you can’t have someone else do this. Someone with smaller hands, like Joyride or one of the pretenders.” 

“Orange Julius isn’t a mechanic. Gnashteeth’s hands are made for punching. Not that I’d mind. Have you seen her plating? Ooo ooo! And Birdbrain would give me the side eye. Plus, you’re an expert in holomatter generators.” Rattrap dismisses as he braces himself for another shove. 

“Not much of an excuse. I consider the development of holomatter assets to be a hobby of mine. A side hustle as the humans say. I know the software, not the hardware. You’ll owe me double on saving your skid plate.” Says Punch as they steady their hand again. 

“Hey, isn’t it your job to get ex-’cons like me under your sweet Iaconian umbrella?” Rattrap says in a singsong voice. 

“Part of it. The much bigger part is keeping an optic on the Decepticons and reporting it. Something I am not doing because you insisted I help you repair your own faulty generator. What brand is it?” Scoffs Punch. 

“I got it from some junk trader on the outskirts of Tarn about 50 years ago. And what hot gos’ you got, Fruit Punch?” Asks Rattrap. 

The double agent shunts the generator down, the wires auto-connecting into his spinal cord, allowing his brain module to control the generator’s outputs. “You never used nicknames or were so openly randy in the Trackers. And your life cord is a mess.” Notes Punch as they sit down. 

“I just like getting a kick out of others' reactions. If they tell me to shut up I will. I’m looking to get attention, not a lawsuit. And it's your fault my body got turned into salvage. Some spy you are, unable to escort your target to the proper rendezvous point without getting him blown to scrap by a rogue missile and the ensuing battle.” Rattrap complains. 

A vorn ago, Rattrap under his previous designation, Ransack, had reached an epiphany. That the promise of power and prowess sold to him by the Decepticon recruiter he met as he and Crumplezone swept the bleachers in the aftermath of the Speedia 500 never meant anything. Just an empty sales line to get more suckers to lay down their sparks in the name of Cybertornian excellency and expansionism. Sensing his dissatisfaction, Counterpunch approached him with a second chance, as an Autobot. A rendezvous was arranged with Landmine, an old associate of Punch’s. Only to find the Autobot struck down by Storm Seekers in a remote Scandinavian forest. His conjunx, Waverider, arrived shortly afterwards and placed the blame on the two traitorous Decepticons. She fought with them. The Storm Seekers back tracked and joined in. Roadkill arrived, seeking out Ransack. The battle ended when an Autobot patrol ship landed. Ransack’s broken body was loaded up on the Prerogative for treatment and trial. 

“Actually, Ratchet performed something of a medical miracle on me. We were Spacebridge jumps away from any sort of C.R. chamber or body reengineering clinic and my spark was fading fast, wouldn’t have lasted what? The centuries-long waitlists for a new protoform or pre-constructed body. Luckily, there was a stowaway on board the ship, a glitch mouse. Ratchet shot and sterilized it and shoved my life  cord inside. Sorta of a reverse domestication procedure.” Rattrap recalls as Punch shimmies back and fiddles with some development software on their holopad.

“Well nice to see you still alive. Had any run-ins with the D.J.D. yet?” Punch asks. 

“Nope. The body transplant and designation change should have done enough to keep them off my trail.” Rattrap says. 

“Good. In the Decepticon database’s I have access to, you’re considered deactivated. I’m going to give you a starter bundle to download. It will auto generate an avatar and animations based on a combination of personality traits and physical features. That will be 250 shanix.” Informs Punch. 

“Puh-lease. They don’t even accept that here on Earth. I got $600 on me.” Rattrap says as he sits up and closes his chest compartment back up. 

“Fine.” The avatar developer reluctantly accepts the wad of cash Rattrap had swiped out of the wallet of some uptight Sterling City businessman. “I will inform you that Roadkill left us briefly over the weekend. Beforehand, he sort of declared a truce of sorts, the Decepticons are not allowed to deactivate any Autobots. And when he got back he told us all to be prepared for new arrivals.” 

Slag, they’re sending a Savior Ship. The Decepticons had two options when it came to conquering populated planets; violent subjugation or carefully considered manipulation. Part of the reason the Decepticon Empire had allowed the Autobot Resistance to persist for so long was their easy role as a creditable enemy to base their propaganda around. The placated masses needed a common enemy to rally against, to fear, to value the destruction and conquest over their fundamental freedoms and rights. Savior Ships are crewed by a small force of Trackers and Seekers serving a publicist, staffers, and a provisional Governor to the planet. They would control the narrative, recentering the Decepticons as uplifting saviors to a less (technologically) developed, often organic populous. Once ensnared, the conquered became either a slave labor force or turned into synthetic biofuels. 

“Well, we’ll deal with them when they get here.” Says Rattrap as he stands up and walks out of the shipping compartment. He transforms into his rat bike vehicle mode and drives through the maze of containers and cranes. Punch follows behind him for a bit before finding their own way out. As he approaches a stop sign, he deploys his new holomatter avatar. Small pink hands grab his handlebars as he plasters up a buck toothed grin. 

Rattrap drives through the streets of Sterling City, seeking to exit it on the bridge leading into the mountains. Rattrap merges onto the more crowded freeway, drawing the eye of many flabbergasted drivers. Cramp it back up to your teeth! What? You’ve never seen a guy take out his garage project? 

“What kind of avatar is that!” Shouts Gale as she lowers the window to the long, green limoscene, personal vehicle of G.B. Blackrock. 

“What do you mean…” Replies Rattrap as he runs a hand over his staticky gray fur? A long snouted head with two beady eyes stare down at the grubby claws, twitching ears, and long naked tail of a rat. Punch! You spawn of a glitch!

Gale grabs his handlebars and yanks him through the window, dropping him between two sets of facing seats. He transforms, picks himself up, and sits down between Gale and a frazzled looking Kelly. “So, you’re coming with us to Cybertron.” Says Rattrap slowly. 

Across from his seat, Dr. Hawk stares him down. Captain Fanzone’s mouth parts beneath his mustache and Marissa frowns. “Yes, I am. And while I don’t know much about Cybertron I do know alot about Earth. And I know that we don’t have rats riding around on motorcycles.” The secretary snaps. 

Dr. Hawk taps along the glass separating them from the front section of the limoscene. Mr. Blackrock opens it. “What is it? Oh, Rattrap, pleasure for you to be joining us.” 

“Could you have Sophia pull us over for a moment, I need to exit the vehicle.” The pretender asks. 

“Of course.” Replies Mr. Blackrock as he closes the divider. The limousine pulls over to the shoulder of the highway. Tall, frost-tipped pines and coiled up ferns replace the cityscape on the other side. Dr. Hawk unbuckles and steps out of the car. Rattrap tries to get out of his seat only for Gale to punch him in the gut. 

“They're not getting out for you.” She says as they walk further out of sight, along the edge of the forests. The car remains parked until the trees begin to shake. Metalhawk charges up into the sky in jet mode, holding a near 90 degree angle to their climb before becoming just a speck leading a contrail. “They helping the Sol Defense Division land the Parable near the new base. That and they're pissed with you.” Gale explains. 

The limoscene pulls back onto the road and continues its journey. Eventually, it merges onto an exit to a small mountain town who’s only defining characteristic is a giant ski resort. This quickly passes into the wilderness. Conifers blanket the mountain slopes, interrupted by hunks of rock carved by mini, frozen over waterfalls. Glacier peeked summits gleam over the cloud layer. The car turns onto a newly paved private road that leads down into a mountain valley. They stop in front of a gate guarded by a singular National guardsmen. Marissa steps out of the car, ID badge in hand, to talk to the guard. Rattrap also slips out of the car and runs behind it. He transforms and hugs close to the green limoscene’s bumper. So cold! Rattrap jitters. The gate rises and the car pulls forward.

Hot Rod and Orion Pax drive up behind Rattrap. “Ya ready to head back home, Founding Father?” Rattrap asks. 

“Yes. Are the humans coming with us?” Replies Orion Pax as the trio of Autobots pass through the gate and continue along the winding road up to their new base. 

“Yep.” Confirms Rattrap as they all enter a cleared section of the valley floor. A small airstrip lined with 200 ft tall wooden poles along 2/3rds of its perimeter comes into view. Camouflage netting is suspended between the poles. At the far end of the airstrip are two large aircraft hangars. Whirl had landed right next to it, remaining still in her vehicle mode. Joyride leans against her kickstand not too far away. Meanwhile Nightviper curls up in the shadows between the two hangers. Some forklifts, ATVs, and trucks zip across the airstrip, heading towards a small parking lot filled with personal vehicles and military personnel. A mixture of National Guard and construction workers steadily leave on the joint orders of Agent Fowler and Captain Fanzone. Rattrap catches a glimpse of Metalhawk circling above them all, a cloud swirls even higher above them, the Parable underneath a holographic disguise. 

Rattrap drives over to his exaltation members along with Orion, Hot Rod, and the limoscene. A steady stream of heat radiates out of the half-open sliding doors to the left hanger, attracting the Autobots like a goose to grass. Everyone except for Nightviper transforms and spreads their hands towards the hot air. Nightviper basks at the entrance. 

“I see you all liked the heating that’s installed.” Remarks Fanzone as the humans make their way towards the Autobots. Kelly drags two gigantic suitcases behind her with a hiking backpack strapped on as well. Gale sprints ahead of them all and quickly transforms out of the skin, skell, and into her robot mode. 

“Now we get to watch those three figure out how they’ll land on such a short runway. Rotors: 1, wings: 0.” Laughs Whirl as she leans against a pole. 

Spirals of air and exhaust pummel the tarp overhead as Metalhawk slows down in a circular descent. Their nosecone peaks beneath the tarp as their fuselage swings upside down. Their wings twitch out breaks, ailerons, and spoilers along the length as they twirl mid air and land bouncily on their rear row of landing gear. They transform just shy of the right hanger and stand rigidly still. 

“Do you need me to break out the hammer, again?” Offers Gnashteeth as she rushes to their side. 

Metalhawk staggers back. “I’ll be fine.” They say as they walk towards the others. 

The holograms concealing the Autobot spaceship phase through the tarp. It slowly hovers down to the far end of runway, shimmies underneath the tarp, deactivates the hologram, and lands in front of the right hanger. A ramp lowers itself onto the runway. Four Autobots descend it; Deep Blue leads, Red Alert and Tigertrack flank her from behind, while Leobreaker pads down in his gleaming white beast mode. 

Metalhawk nudges Rattrap with their ped tip and nods in the direction of the newly arriving Autobots. Rattrap breaks into a sprint as Metalhawk walks towards Deep Blue to greet her and her crew. “Welcome back to Earth.” They call out. “This is Rattrap, leader of the 54th Epsilon Division.” 

Rattrap plasters on a smile. “Nice to meet you. Is everything ready for departure?” Deep Blue asks. 

“We’re waiting on Sky Lynx and…” Metalhawk starts to explain. 

“You three are excused. Remember that those are the ‘bots you’ll be working with.” Interrupts Deep Blue as she beckons her division away. 

“We have to inform everyone of the true intentions of our mission and the plans going forward.” Metalhawk finishes it on a private radio channel. 

“And Orion Pax will go through with it?” Asks Deep Blue.

“Took some coaxing', but ah yeah. He will.” Replies Rattrap. 

“And we have only half a stellar cycle till Unicron emerges. At least it will be warm by then.” Remarks Deep Blue as she shuts her vents.
Metalhawk turns on their heel struts and together the three de-facto leaders walk back to their combined exaltation and human allies. “It's time you all know the true purpose of our mission.” Metalhawk starts. 

“It's to defeat Unicron.” Whirl says bluntly. 

It goes quiet.

“How the frag did you know, BrainWreacker!” Rattrap shouts. 

She points at Metalhawk. “About 4.1 million years ago, they and their old roommate entered my watch shop. Didn’t buy or really even look at my creations, just stood there spouting technobabble about how ‘the chaos bringer floated to the sol system’ then slipped right out. It was demoralizing. No wonder I went berserk afterwards.” 

“It wasssss evident when our mindsssss first connected. Your thoughtssss alwayssss turn chaotic when the sssubject of your resssearch comes up. My applogiesssss.” Nightviper pipes up. 

“I read some of your early writings when I first found out about being assigned to this mission. Based on the topic, I knew it had to be somewhat related to Unicron.” Adds Joyride. 

“Well, there goes half of my speech.” Says Metalhawk. 

“Sorry ya can’t recite your whole college thesis, Birdbrain.” Rattrap quips. “Alright, we gotta new base. It’s heated and that's all that matters. Our furniture, computers, etc. are all either in Sky Lynx who is not here yet or scattered around Blackrock’s property.” 

“I would like those removed in a timely manner.” Adds the businessman.

“Zip it, Bezos.” Rattrap continues. “But yeah you gotta get that done while we’re gone.”

“On Cybertron, we are seeking to convince the High Council of the imperativeness of our mission. Unicron must not be allowed to emerge completely from the Earth in half a stellar cycle.” Deep Blue adds. 

“WE HAVE ONLY HALF A YEAR! Might as well send ME to him right NOW!” Whirl screams as she whips out a sword and turns her right arm into a RPG. Nightviper coils around her legs, keeping her from flying away. 

Orion steps out of the crowd. “That won’t be necessary, Whirl. What we need to do is wait until the moment Unicron emerges, get inside him, and unleash the power of the Matrix of Leadership. Which I once wielded as Optimus Prime.” 

It goes quiet again. 

“Is that supposed to mean anything?” Asks Mr. Blackrock. 

“It won’t mean anything unless we find the Matrix!” Says Sky Lynx as he emerges through the forest. He splits into his two components and steps onto the runway. His lynx half lays down and opens up his chest compartment while his toothy beak pulls out a few computers, three recharging slabs, the C.R. chamber and a variety of folding chairs. “Luckily, I have narrowed down its location within my datatrax.”

“Good, but you’re late.” States Metalhawk. 

“Fashionably so.” Corrects Sky Lynx as his two components settle down with the rest of the small crowd. 

“Glad to have you here, old friend.” Orion greets. 

“Anyway. On Cybertron we also hope to add a few more to our divisions; a groundbridge engineer and a geologist. We still have the Decepticons to deal with and their main advantage has been Roadkill’s groundbridge generator and small spaceships and starfighters at their disposal. While I do have a rough estimate of what Unicron’s awakening looks like on a seismograph thanks to my models, that’s where my skills end. We need someone to help us pinpoint Unicron’s exact exit point. Mr. Blackrock, can I count on your aid foundations to help in evacuation efforts?” Explains Metalhawk. 

“Of course.” Says the businessman. 

Rattrap steps forward. That's the end of it. I gotta pick a temporary leader now. Rattrap had been fortunate enough to be paired with a co-leader like Metalhawk. The pretender was willing to assist him at the drop of a hat, putting their body and human career on the line just to take part in missions, provide much needed aerial support, or just take over completely! But now I need to put in effort. Thinks Rattrap as he inspects his team members. Leobreaker is too bright. Tigertrack, just no. Also just no’s for Whirl. A million no’s. Joyride is too young. Gnashteeth has her own responsibilities. Nightviper maybe, if she could control her powers. I guess that leaves…. “Hot Rod,  you’ll be left in charge while we’re all gone.” Declares the cycle-bot. 

The magenta and orange Autobot’s optics light up. “Me? I’ll do it!” He shouts. 

“Wouldn’t expect anything less from ya. Now Sky Lynx, for booting up cold, get your shiny fuselage skyward. We’re going home!” Shouts Rattrap. 

The two counterparts recombine and prance around. "Now who's ready for a trip on their favorite rocketship!"

Chapter Text

Central Spaceport, Iacon, Cybertron

Kelly stares out at the yellow haze rising up into Cybertron’s oxygen and nitrogen rich atmosphere. Fog clouds like brimstone clings to the top of shifting rooftops, as though the very city was in motion, as alive as the cars or people who commuted across the tangle of roads crisscrossing between skyscrapers. American car culture on steroids. The earthly secretary compares as she takes another step closer to the edge. The floor underneath her pulls her back and deploys a guard rail in front of her. She grabs the railing and leans over a bit, trying to look down at the docks spiraling around the Spaceport’s main tower. Two sheets of glass grow out of the ceiling and floor and connect in the middle, pushing the woman’s face away. “Ha! Hey! Marissa! This planet’s me-proof!” Kelly yells back to the Sector Seven agent who leans against the dark blue metal and rivets of the wall, their combined luggage resting not too far out of sight. 

“Oh, that’s cool.” Says Marissa as she continues to stare vacantly around the massive, relative to a human perspective, waiting room. A circular desk houses a singular receptionionist, a hunched over autobot with smooth tires for shoulders and pink glasses slammed over blue optics, a faint purple light glides over her holo-screens and Rattrap as he tries to strike up a conversation with her. On either side of the room is a large screen listing arrivals and departures to the spaceport, there are more names of Autobots who turn into space shuttles, starfighters, and cargo ships than a generic sprawl of random letters and numbers in an Earthly airport. A ramp spirals up along the outside of the towering Spaceport, leveling off to allow access into this waiting room and onto the various launch pads that radiate off the tower. Occasionally an Autobot or two will drive past on the ramp, stop by inside to inspect the arrivals and departures or ask the receptionist for something. 

Rattrap walks back over to the two women. “So, ya liking my old digs? Actually, I’m not from here, not this city nor this planet. I’m from Velocitron actually, that dust ball we all saw once we popped out of the Spacebridge?” Rattrap mentions. 

Marissa almost keels over. 

“Marissa!” Kelly yells as she runs back over to the agent and puts a hand on her shoulder while resting her other against Marissa’s forehead. Hot with sweat. She grabs Marissa’s hand and gently guides her over to the luggage. Kelly kneels next one of her giant suitcases and pulls out a pillow, blankets, a water bottle, and some medication. She lifts Marissa’s head and plops it onto the pillow while she drapes the blanket over her. “I have some ibuprofen and antacids for your nausea and fever. And here’s some water.” She offers. 

The agent mutters something as her deep brown eyes flutter against the harsh overhead lights. Kelly reaches out a hand towards her chest and pulls the agent’s folded sunglasses off and puts them over her face. “Marissa, you have to take them and drink water. Whispers won’t do anything.” 

“You sound like my dad,” Utters the woman, “he’s a real hardass. Both him and my mom were active duty military, him in the Air Force. He used to fly planes all the time, experimental shit even, but I can’t even handle a passenger flight.” 

“Nice story. I’d love to meet him maybe once we get a few dates in but now take these.” Kelly pushes the pills and water bottle into Marissa’s face. 

“She doin’ okay?” Asks Rattrap, looking over her shoulder. 

“She’ll be fine. She has a history of getting sick on airplanes, guess that applies to being on Sky Lynx in space. Metalhawk might want to rethink their strategy when it comes to bringing us to their apartment.” Kelly says as she stands back up. 

“Uh well it's very easy to get sick of Sky Lynx.” Rattrap jokes. 

“Or you could have told us about how easy it is to get sick in space. I was feeling quite quesy once I woke up upon landing. I could have known to bring something stronger.” Kelly snaps back. 

“Uh, blame Metalhawk, not me. They’d know more about spaceflight than I would.” Deflects Rattrap as he paces about. He stops as three Autobots drive into the waiting room and transform; a white and blue striped sports car with a blue visor above her smile, a dark green and brown tracked ‘bot with leafy fins framing her tan face plate and solar panels angling out her shoulders and back, and beefy, broad-shouldered blue and orange mech with a gigantic chin. Upon each of their chests was a variation of the Autobot insignia, the robotic red face surrounded by a pair of stylized wings. Rattrap gasps and falls to his knees in a clumsy bow. He looks back up at her. “That’s the Elite Guard! Show ‘em some respect!” He urges. 

The white car and the green half-track take notice of the two humans and tiny Autobot as their leader ignores them and heads to the receptionist’s desk. “Ooo! We haven’t gotten visitors in eons! Bah-weep-Graaaaagnah wheep ni ni bong!” Greets the white and blue autobot as she waves her hand. 

Kelly and Marissa blink. 

“Do you two not know what the universal greeting is? Huh.” She asks. She briefly looks down at Rattrap. “I’m assuming they're with you. What planet y’all from?” 

The solar-powered autobot’s green optics glow as she scans the two humans. Kelly blinks again before furrowing her face into a frown. “Two organic lifeforms, heterotrophic in diet, homeothermic in metabolism, powered mostly by sugars chemically changed most efficiently when in the presence of oxygen.” Explains the green femme. 

“Yeah, I got that Botanica. Just want to know what they are and why they're here.” Postures the white Autobot. 

Kelly looks at Rattrap. “Hey, don’t look at me, Madam Secretary, Metalhawk invited you two here to advocate for yourselves on behalf of Earth.” He whispers. 

The visor-wearing femme overhears and grabs her face in realization. “Oh! You two are humans from Earth! Well, I’ll let you in on a little secret, I’ll be voting in favor of you girls. You both are looking at Jazz, Chief Recreation Officer for the Autobots and lieutenant for that mech-piloting chin over there, Sentinel Major.” Jazz introduces. 

“What do you mean the trains are down! Why are we letting them have a worker’s strike? This is the kind of sick debauchery we get when the High Council votes for lame things such as worker rights and unions over proper shielding for the entire Iaconian Providence, not just the city-state!” Rants the blue Autobot as he manhandles the desk, crushing it in his giant orange fingers. 

Oh no. He’s one of those. Jazz looks down at her. “It's a universal experience.” She says with a shrug. 

“Yep. Have to stand next to that ‘alpha male’ and say ‘Oh! What does it mean when he says words? Here’s our actual plan’. Just do a course correct for every depraved dribble and talking point that comes out of his lips, breaking your back and betraying your morals along the way. But hey, that pay is good!” Kelly recognizes.  Botanica and Marissa nod in agreement. 

“Thankfully it's normally not that way for me when working under Perceptor but Sentinel made a diplomatic meeting with Space Whales a challenge.” Adds Botanica. 

“Has Mr.Blackrock ever been like that?” Marissa asks. 

Kelly shakes her head. “No but there are more Joyce’s in the world than Mr. Blackrock’s. Also how is he even allowed to have a job?” 

Rattrap interjects. “Well ya see, the Elite Guard are a multi-factional organization. They’re the last pillar of Cybertron’s military not to get completely dissolved or bashed into either side. But they have multiple Commanders, Sentinel for the Autobots and I forget what boulderbrain for the ‘cons and half a dozen Neutral territories. But you’d have to get them to all agree to dispose Sentinel and that ain't going to happen unless you don’t want the Elite Guard protecting Iacon.” 

“So he found a loophole.” Kelly says. 

“Essentially.” Jazz agrees. 

Sentinel Major turns away from the startled receptionist’s desk and stomps his way back to the two other Autobots. Jazz and Botanica straighten up. Rattrap starts to vent, bits of paint fleck off him and agitate Kelly’s nose. She brings her elbow up as Sentinel stops a few feet away from her. 

“ACHOO!” Kelly lets the sneeze rip out, spray splitting between her elbow and onto the blue ‘bot’s foot. 

Sentinel recoils in shock. A pair of gun barrels pop up out of his hefty forearms and points at the two women. “Why you…DISRESPECTFUL ORGANICS! Barely more than …”

SMACK!

Metalhawk’s clenched fist smashes into the side of Sentinel’s head. The head falls off and transforms midair into a human-sized robot with a comparatively large chin. He lands chin…feet first. The Elite Guard leader's body wiggles around. Metalhawk crouches down and scoops up the two humans, the luggage, and Rattrap in their hands and runs to the otherside of the room. Kelly yelps, clinging tightly to the gaps between their blue outer plating and the black jointing underneath. Marrissa stands up a bit more confidently, throwing the blanket off herself. 

“Oh finally ya show up! We landed hours ago! Where have you been?” Rattrap spats. 

“Getting my body re-engineered no thanks to you having me running all over the globe. My body was like a crumpled piece of paper.” Metalhawk retorts as they stop right beneath an air vent. They shift everyone else into their left hand, Kelly hangs awkwardly between Marissa and the crease of their palm, as they cut the vent apart with one of their shortswords. Their hand reaches into the exposed vent to drop off the humans and human-sized Autobot. 

Kelly hastily stands up and makes sures all the luggage made it. Sentinel's body swaggers over to Metalhawk, looking for retribution with a lance and energy shield in hand. Jazz pushes against him. “Get back here, you flighty NAIL.” Sentinel's head sneers. 

Metalhawk frowns and brandishes their blade like wings. “I’ve learned from my mistakes. I’d think you're big enough to admit yours as well, Councilbot.” 

“Like I’d every vote in your favor. Magnus is insane to think we’d help these tiny monkeys over harnessing the geoweapon baking under that nature preserve of a planet!” Shouts Sentinel. 

Metalhawk reaches upto the vent opening and shrinks down into their pretender shell. Doctor Hawk looks down at the irate blue mech and throws a raspberry at him before running down the ventilation tunnel. “Bye Sentinel!” The pretender shouts. Marrisa and Rattrap follow after them with Kelly dragging the luggage behind her. 

The tunnel twists and turns within the tower walls. It abruptly drops down into a slippery slide cascading the group down to another vent opening. Rattrap quickly recovers and shoots blaster bolts around the perimeter of the vent. It falls off onto the ramp leading down to the city streets. 

“Ya taking these two to Polyhex, I assume?” Asks Rattrap. 

“Yes, it should be a quick flight.” Answers the pretender as they return to robot mode. The re-engineering had changed the distribution of gold metal away from just the torso to cuffing around their wrists and ankles underneath the flaring blue plating, like socks or a long shirt underneath a suit or jacket. Horizontal stabilizers and winglets fold down to act as side skirting. Jet engines and auxiliary thrusters embedded within their calves. Their colors had changed as well, the blue and gold now softer and less saturated like the ocean knocking against sand and the red a naturalistic rufous color. 

Kelly rushes ahead of Metalhawk’s stride. “Actually, could we maybe not fly? Marissa gets plane sick.” Kelly shouts. 

“I’m feeling better, Kelly.” Marrisa assures. 

“Yeah? And we don’t need you feeling any worse.” Kelly snaps. 

“Is it an altitude or a speed problem?” Asks Metalhawk. 

“Kinda both. I’ve just never been able to handle flying in a plane. We should have brought Burns, he’s ex-Air Force.” Marissa says. 

“It’s fine, I’ll just taxi all the way to Polyhex.” Metalhawk snarks. Kelly folds her arms. “Fine, I have a solution but it will turn a 45 minute flight into a 10 hour drive if you drive at top speed.” A panel springs open on the inside of their leg. They shake it around until a black sudan tumbles out and falls on its tire, setting off the blaring car alarm, and the key falls out as well. 

“Why is there a frickin Toyota Corolla in your leg?” Kelly shouts. She picks up the key fob and smashes the buttons on it, silencing the inanimate vehicle. 

“I bought it about 10 years ago.” Metalhawk shrugs. 

“But you don’t even know how to drive.” Kelly retorts. 

“They do have a driver’s license, though.” Marissa adds as she drags the luggage over to the sudan. 

“Surprisingly easy to make fakes of. Anyway, driving rules in Iacon are fairly similar to Sterling City, drive on the right side of the road, stop on red, go on green, etc. But, you have to be driving at top speed, the minimum speed on most Cybertronian roads is 200 kph.”  Metalhawk informs. 

“I’ll drive for the first half.” Marissa offers. 

Kelly nods and relinquishes the keys. “Alright.” 

“Um, Rattrap, could you drive ahead of them till we get out of Iacon? I’m familiar with the city’s sky lanes but not roads. I know we’ll need to get to the Rust Sea Speedway.” Metalhawk asks. 

“No can do. That runs through Fuctionistic Cultist Territories. If I step a servo on their land and they see it, I’m a goner.” Dismisses the cycle-bot. 

“So will I. And the humans as well.” Retorts Metalhawk. 

“Besides there are a number of open seats at Iacon’s finest oil houses with my name on it. Toodles.” Rattrap transforms and races down the ramp and into the city below. 

“I’ll help you.” Offers Botanica as she rolls up to the group in her solar-powered half-track alternate mode. “Anything to not listen to Sentinel’s pseudoscience and confusing acids for enzymes. He sincerely thinks beings like you two have enzymes that can break down energon.” 

“Ha! Metalhawk tells me that if we were to try and eat it we’d get electrocuted.” Kelly laughs. 

“It’s been a longtime no see, Mel. We were TA’s for Greenlight’s xenobiology class together.” Botanica reminds them. “I’m surprised to see you’ve actually remained an Autobot for this long.”

“I remember. That was an enjoyable 5 vorn long term. I’ll have you know I am no longer apolitical.” Metalhawk nods. “And I’m surprised you’re a member of the Elite Guard.”

“It’s a temporary position. Sentinel just needed a behaviorist to deal with some migrating Space Whales. We’ll have to keep the coms down planet wide for the next quartex.” Botanica explains. “I’m actually Perceptor’s understudy. I’ll be standing in for her on the High Council in our next meeting. She’s still on deployment with the Wreckers. I’ll be voting in your favor.” 

“Thank you. Do you know if either Springer or Impactor will be at the meeting?” Asks Metalhawk. 

“Springer, I believe.” Says the biologist. 

“Great, he has a track record of voting the same as Sentinel and carries two votes.” Groans Metalhawk. “Anyway, shall we get going?” 

Seaview Apartments, Polyhex’s Research District

Metalhawk slowly up the stairs to the level of their apartment, the two humans and luggage in hand, the toyota corolla back to floating in their subspace pockets. The drive down had gone painfully slowly with Metalhawk circling above the two humans as they drove through the Cybertronian wilderness with a curious tepidness. Kelly leans back and yawns. “Don’t.” Says the Autobot.

“Don’t care. I hear the beds calling.” Kelly yawns again.

Metalhawk stops at the start of the hallway. All the doors remain tightly locked shut, save for one. The door to their own apartment. Instead of physical keys or an external card, the locking mechanism is synced with the occupant’s energy signature. Metalhawk’s apartment has three registered occupants. Myself, Cloudburst, may his spark rest where all are one, and my mentor…

Kelly and Marissa stur. Before the two women can question anything, they’re dropped as the pretender shrinks down into their shell. The floor underneath immediately softens into a trampoline like structure, bouncing the humans and luggage up until they land on their feet. “What was that for?” Shouts Kelly as she gathers her luggage and bearings. 

Doctor Hawk slinks against the wall, eyeing the crack in the door. “Someone is in my apartment. I detect four energy signatures. All Decepticon.”

Marissa pulls her pistol out of her holster and positions herself in front of the secretary. “Do you have a plan?”

“Perhaps, but it involves getting inside first. I know one of the ‘cons inside. She’s my old mentor. Not in an academic sense though…” They trail off as they take off their shoes and begin to tiptoe down the (rather lengthy) hallway. 

“What is she? Like your mom or something?” Asks Kelly. 

Hawk pauses. “Actually that's not a half bad comparison. We arent… Cybertronians don’t reproduce sexually, we sort of emerge from hot spots here on Cybertron or on a planet…”

“You can lecture to us about your reproductive habits later. So are you going to stab your mommy issues away or?” Interrupts Kelly. 

They roll their eyes and continue walking while in thought. “I have an idea. You two just need to stay close to the walls. If I become incompacitated, hide in the closet at the end of the living room, it’s where I keep my canned clam chowder. And other foods. But mostly the clam chowder.” 

“Well there isn’t anyone else I’d rather hide in the closet of my ex-coworker who’s a clam chowder obsessed alien robot.” Says Kelly as she takes Marissa’s hand.

“Feeling mutual.” Confirms the agent. 

“I have a plan.” Doctor Hawk reminds. They sprint up to the creak in the door and peer inside. The living room is long and narrow, closest to the door is a shelving unit, wall-inlaid cabinets, and a tall table with two seats. A sliding door out to the balcony is next followed by a couch of sorts, squared off and made of hardened steel as opposed to comfy fabric and cushiony like what they had gotten used to at home… Earth. Across from the couch is a large flatscreen Metalhawk had mostly used to practice giving lectures to with Cloudburst providing obnoxious color commentary. A door to the apartment’s two hab suites flanks the flatscreen. At the end of the living room is the closet door. 

Various items from Earth are strun about the room; ancient clothing and linens kept perfectly preserved in Cybertron’s microbeless pristine, vases, plates, and other pottery pieces the Pretenders had handcrafted under the guidance of early human cultures, bins filled with arrow and ax heads, knife edges, and other stone tools, each divided up by era and continent of origin, scrolls of papyrus, leather bound books, tightly packed journals, and stray pages cram the shelves in a makeshift library, kitchenware and electronic bought on discount either from online or Black Friday sale. Two maroon and cyan minicons scuttle through the earthly items and inspect it all. A suite door is open after remaining closed for two thousand years. Moonlight spills in through the balcony doors and is disturbed from the shadows casted by two Decepticons standing in the doorway; the minicons’ employer, a similarly colored simian ‘con, and a purple seeker with teal accents. Simacore. I remember seeing him in passing at a few conferences. Always the Shockwave suckup. And… Slipstream…

The pretender pulls their head away before drawing the attention of the two minicons. “Stay out here. When I walk out, you two run in and head for the closet. If you are spotted by the ‘cons, sneeze on them and then shoot their optics.” Doctor Hawk orders.

“We can’t sneeze on command. It was Rattrap’s doing.” Says Kelly.

“Any bodily excretion will do. I’d imagine you’ve been holding it in.” Replies Hawk with a groan as they walk into the apartment. They keep close to the perimeter of the room, staying out of view of the Decepticons until they reach the balcony door. 

“So, nothing in either room. No computers, datapads, not so much as a stray data stick?” Asks Slipstream. 

“Not necessarily, Captain. Axiom, Theorem, what have you found in the Earth Artifacts?” The large maroon ‘con calls out to his two subordinates. The two minicons look up out of a tote bin filled with blenders and shake their heads in unison as they scamper over shelves. “Yeah, do that. Remember to use your linguistic decoders.” 

Metalhawk emerges from the shell. “I thought Decepticons believed in privacy.” They briefly quip. 

Slipstream spins on her heel struts in surprise, jaw agap and purple optics wide, warbling even with tears. Metalhawk stands still, swords sheathed within their fidgeting wings as they bite their lip. They both came from Archon, an ocean covered moon of a gas giant in a star system a few lightyears away from the Tronian System. The Titan Tortuga had called it her home and ushered forth several generations of Transformers from her hot spot, all with either flighted or aquatic alternate modes. Anyone from a seal lion to a sailboat to a glider. Metalhawk was the last sparkling forged by Tortuga before an abnormality in Archon’s orbit sent it on a collision course with its planet’s rings, raining down destructive meteors down onto the paradise moon. Slipstream was appointed Metalhawk’s mentor, a paternal figure who raised a younger apprentice. Despite the title, the relationship is often never true in an occupational sense, merely a form of kinship. Slipstream was merely a waitress working at an oilhouse who turned into a hydroplane at the time. Everyone evacuated Archon and many of the refugees resettled around the Rust Sea, the largest remaining body of water on Cybertron. The mentor and apprentice moved into this very apartment.

Slowly they drifted apart as parent and child do. Cybertron was far different from the peaceful, paradise-like Archon. It was a time of turmoil, Still is, always has been when you look upon history ; the Decepticons had recently outed themselves as an imperialistic, technistic, milteristic movement. Instead of receiving condemnation, they were embraced by the people and several City-States willingly allowed themselves to fall under Decepticon control. In response, the Senate turned to the ideals of Fuctionism, an ideology where one’s alt-mode dictates their occupation and standing in society. It became a battle between the old guard propagating efficiency and conformity versus mechanical supremacy and the promise of greatness. All the while, Orion Pax had published his Edict, a call for all Cybertronians to remember their fundamental rights to life, alternative mode, beliefs, culture, and freedom, for it was the right of all sentient beings regardless of chemical composition.

Metalhawk mostly ignored it at the time. They turned to academia as an escape option against the Functionist suggestion/order that as a starfighter, they had to be a member of the Aerial or Space Corps. I’m a scientist. Science serves no singular ideology and therefore I don’t either. Facts don’t care about your feelings. Primus, I was such an idiot when I was young. Why didn’t someone punch me? I guess they did, in prison…  

Slipstream instead became enraptured by the Decepticon’s promises, registering as one and exchanging her original body for one offered by a prominent framemaker brand; Seekers. The brand helmed by respected ex-Aerial Corps Commander and ex-senator Starscream and renowned scientist Skyfire, produced near identical frames with a fighter jet alternate mode, a highly desirable option for those down on their luck, eager to rise through the ranks or fly far, far, far away from it all. Metalhawk was obviously not the target audience but their mentor bought it hook line and sinker. At the sametime, Metalhawk met and became close friends with Cloudburst, an Autobot sympathizer, and a rift formed between the apprentice and mentor. 

Slipstream is the first to speak. “Simacore, I am no longer in need of your services. You can return to Kaon. If he asks, let Shockwave know that I have secured the confirmation.” 

“I see.” Says Simacore as he eyes Metalhawk, recognizing them. “Axium, Theorem, to me.” The two minicons scamper back to their master and transform into small rockets. They both sputter around the apartment before connecting to a weapon array on the back of Simacore’s armored truck alternate mode. He drives out of the apartment.

“I suppose you were always a quiet sparkling.” Recalls Slipstream.

Metalhawk finally speaks. “If you found the right topic, I would talk about it stellar cycles.” Faintly, they think they can hear Kelly shouting a confirmation. 

“That changed though. Overtime.” Slipstream says. 

“Well, that’s what happened. I grew up.” They reply. “It’s part of life. Perhaps the only constant thing. You were the first face I saw. It’s so different now. The face I’ve shot or stabbed down several times by now. But still, it’s your face and I know why you chose it and I respect it. We’re all different people all through our lives, and that's okay, that's good, you've gotta keep moving, so long as you remember all the people that you used to be. But you clearly have forgotten that!”

“Where are your thesis documents?” Slipstream asks frankly. Her null rays hum with life.

“If you’d remain a part of my life you’d know all about them.” Says Metalhawk. 

“Part of your agreement with the Decepticon Science Division when they offered you funding was that your research would be freely available for Decepticon review and applications. I am merely making sure you follow through on that agreement.” States the seeker.

“I revoked my signature after your side captured me and held me imprisoned for 3.5 million years. Check the financial records, I’ve paid you all back. You have no idea how in debt I am when it comes to shanix.” Retorts her apprentice. 

“I thought I raised you to be more fiscally responsible and not to share blatant lies. Whenever I asked, the Penal Divisions said that you were in a state of comfort.” Says the mentor.

I’d hardly call self-induced stasis lock as a way of coping with thousands of years of solitary confinement while being alt-mode stripped and a fuel starved condition a state of comfort! Metalhawk wants to shout but refrains. She’s too far gone. I’ve been down this path before. It’s on her to drag herself out. 

“I remember this apartment being filled with computers, particularly your room. Where are they?” She asks.

“Cloudburst sold them all to keep paying rent during the war.” Metalhawk says with a shrug.

“No matter, I just have to extract it myself then.” She aims a null ray at the Autobot while tossing a cortical psychic patch and a pair of stasis cuffs in front of her. 

Computer, turn off right leg power and reboot both legs in 30 seconds. They command their onboard computers. 

Slipstream fires. 

Metalhawk’s left leg goes numb and limp, tripping them over, and collapsing them along the couch. The null ray blast hits their right leg, shutting it off as well. Metalhawk lays on their side until both legs regain power and they stand back up. “It’s as I told you, I’ve fought Seekers several times. I know your tricks.” I can’t let her know about me being a Pretender. It’s my only advantage against her. And speed if I can breach out of the atmosphere.

“Fine, how about I grant you amnesty? We can be together again.” She offers. 

“No. I don’t want to be your basement dweller. How about a deal? You relinquish your occupancy of this apartment and I give you an audible confirmation.” Metalhawk counters. 

Slipstream paces around and considers it, stepping carelessly into the earthly artifacts. “Deal. And sorry for your loss.” She says bluntly. 

Metalhawk allows a tear of washing fluid to roll down their face. “Alright. Let’s go down to the office.” They say, pushing the tear stain off. They linger by the door after the Seeker steps out, letting the two women hurry in. Kelly flashes her phone up, a tea emoji enlarged across the screen. 

Polyhex remains a divided City-State. It was the site of the War’s first major conflict, the Siege of Polyhex, which left large swathes of the city still in ruin. What had been reconstructed was owned by those who issued the repairs; mostly Autobots and Fuctionist Cultists. Seaview Apartments is currently managed by Gully, a small brown mech with smoothed over features betraying his rowboat alternate mode. The Autobot-aligned landlord lifts up his seat and desk to match the heights of the two plane-formers. “Alright, you both have been tenants to Apartment E3 for 5,999,970 stellar cycles. Slipstream, your last rent payment was 4,998,000 stellar cycles ago. Metalhawk, your last rent payment was 10 quartexs ago. The rent has been unevenly distributed between you two and Cloudburst. I am sorry for your loss. Since Metalhawk has been the most consistent currently, I have no problem making them the sole occupancy and rent payer of E3.” Accesses Gully. 

“Alright. We got what you want done now to answer my question…” Slipstream starts as she backs out of the landlord’s office. “Is Unicron located within the Solar System?” 

Metalhawk bites their lips hard as their ailerons and air brakes flap and stall erratically. Who was the leak? Gnashteeth? No. Cloudburst? Never! Sector Seven? No. Rattrap? Too easy of a target. Myself? Even Whirl knew about it. Was I so careless that everyone who’s ever lived in this city while I did my research knew about it?

Slipstream frowns and powers up her null rays again. “Yes or no?” She asks again. 

Metalhawk steels their nerves with a cocky grin. Fake it till you make it. Way of a Pretender. “What does it matter? It was just a thought exercise and excuse for me to travel back and forth to a water world that reminded me of home. You’d have to be a religious zealot to take it seriously.” 

“My Emperor is rational in his beliefs and intuition. How dare you doubt him!” She sneers. 

“How dare you doubt your own apprentice! Your own child?” Metalhawk returns the favor, allowing their real pain through. 

“You…” She couldn’t bring herself to say anything. So instead she raises her rays up for a second time. And shoots. 

Black and blue ash stains the floor and walls. Only a few flecks of gold and blue paint cling to the air. 

Slipstream gasps. She pulls up a holo-pad and inspects her weapon outputs. 

Gully steps out of his office in shock. “What did you do…” His voice trails off. 

Slipstream transforms and dashes out of the apartment building in jet mode before the landlord could call in security forces. Gully gawks as he steps in the ashy remains of his former tenant. His shock turns into confusion; a small organic being stands against the wall breathing haggard breaths. “Get out of here!” He shouts, waving his arms around and pulling out a paddle. 

The organic stares back at him, unfazed. “I just need a breather, Gully. It takes a moment to reboot even if I just got grazed by it.” Says the tiny person in a familiar voice. 

“Metalhawk?” He asks.

“Drop the prefix. Listen, I have two guests with me. They both won’t cause trouble. At some point in the next deci-cycle, I’ll drop by and pay my rent.” Says the pretender as they walk away. 

Metalhawk returns to robot mode after hobbling for a bit. They reach their apartment and open the door then lock it behind them. The Autobot parses out what was damaged, scoops it up, and dumps it in the trash compartment. They close the door to Cloudburst’s old suite and lock it. Finally, they pull open the closet door. 

More earthly items line the shelves along with replacement parts, paint bottles, medical kit, and raw Energon crystals with only a thin coat of wax keeping its radiation from short-circuiting their substructure. Metalhawk grabs one, liquid filled of course, and pockets it away. At the bottom of the closet is a tiny house on a trailer. Kelly and Marissa exit it. “You’re back! Are the Decepticon’s taken care of?” Exclaims Marissa.

“I didn’t realize you had mommy issues.” Kelly jokes. 

“It’s mentor issues. And yes, Slipstream has fled. I see you found the tiny house. It should already be plugged in and I have a few water tanks somewhere. There should be two twin beds inside or you can slide them together. I don’t care. All of my organic food is in there as well. Ignore the expiration dates, this is a sterile environment. Any questions?” Metalhawk explains as they kneel down. 

“When did you buy the tiny house?” Asks Marissa. 

“Why did you buy it and how did you get it here?” Kelly adds. 

“Seriously? That’s the most pressing matter? I bought it in ‘99 after dropping Gnashteeth at a lovely retirement home called Shady Pines. I lived in it for a few months before moving into an apartment. I brought it here by turning into a shrunken down Airbus Beluga and flying it back here. It was a miserable and awkward flight.” Answers the Autobot. 

“Hmm. Alright. Goodnight.” Says Kelly as she goes back inside with the agent. Metalhawk stands back up and cracks the closet door open, enough to give the humans their privacy. 

Ultimate decision, do I go to the bedroom or the balcony? 

The balcony always wins. Metalhawk steps out into the warm night. The frizz of laser fire and hyperactive engines cling to the humid air. Across the Rust Sea, they see a glimpse of the Iaconian skyline, protected by several layers of shielding and energy barriers. The stagnant waves lap against the sloping metal plates that descend into the basin. Unlike the eroding, thrashing, living force of Earth’s oceans or the global, sterile salt waters of Archon, the Rust Sea is still. 

They place their hands upon the railing and lean against it. The top conforms to the pressure of their forearm and nicks appear on the vertical supports underneath where Metalhawk’s wings come to rest. The muscle memory of the very building itself, familiar with the goings on and habits of all its inhabitants over the billions of years of habitation. About a wingspan away, the imprint of a single, tight grip reappears. An echo of when Cloudburst would lean back and tug at the railing with one hand while Metalhawk would peer forward at the goings on upon the water or up at the stars with a telescope, now stashed away in their room. 

Their lips begin to quiver and they bring up a hand to cup their face as the tears resume, gathering and bubbling just outside the hollow of their optics and top of their cheeks. Their wings retract as they shiver and shake in sorrowful fits. They almost fall out of balance as they stretch a leg back and slam the balcony door shut with the tip of a thruster nozzle. With what logical processor power they have remaining, they order their engines to remain silent, not wanting to disturb the humans as they both rested. 

I should get to bed. 

They never did. 

Chapter Text

54th Epsilon Divison’s Base, Cascade Mountains, WA

Flames spume forth from his exhaust pipes as Hot Rod fights back against the assault of cold that threatens the lives of his Autobots. With every twirl of fire he sends forth, more ice falls around him, replacing what he’s managed to melt. He stomps down his ped and grimaces at the freezing darkness setting in before him. He punches the air and refocuses his fire at the growing shadows. 

“What are you doing? You’ll burn down the whole state like ya almost did to Australia in ‘84!” Shouts Captain Fanzone.

Hot Rod snaps back to reality. In the two solar cycles after Rattrap, Metalhawk, and co. left for Cybertron, the remaining Autobots found themselves snowed in. Gray clouds hang low to the mountain valleys, heavy with snow flurries that gently drift down, occasionally showering. Snow accumulates on the camo-tarp, hanger roofs, and conifer forests surrounding the base and falls to the asphalt below. The temporary leader stands among puddles and slushy piles at the left (from the perspective of those entering the base on the backroad) edge of the base. A few trees before him bear small fires, quickly put out by the dripping melt water and harsh winds that bite at his metal plating. “Sorry. I just thought melting it would be more efficient than what you are doing.” 

The old man holds a snow shovel in his gloved hands. “Just take a shovel, kid. I got the Home Depot stuff, a step above Ace.” He points over to his parked jeep at the other end of the base, several shovel handles poke out of it. 

Hot Rod transforms and trudges through the slick, cleared away patches of asphalt. He passes by Joyride shoveling snow, clumsily tossing it behind her, causing her to slip while doubling back. “Joyride! Make a pile.” He suggests. Tigertrack circles around the parked Parable, pushing snow away with his wedge-shaped hood and zero ground clearance. Hot Rod returns to robot mode and grabs two shovels, one for each hand. He hunches over, smacks the blade edges together, and scrapes the tips against the asphalt. He tosses the accumulating snow back into the forest’s edge. 

Once he reaches the left hanger, he rests the shovels against the partially closed door. Inside, Whirl lays down on a wall-mounted recharge slab. Occasionally she fidgets, kicking the air in powerful strikes or reaching for a weapon as she fights in her dreams. Above her is another slab. The wall across from her has an empty bunk. Computers and bins line the back wall. Nightviper coils up next to the heater. Hot Rod turns back, walks to Fanzone’s jeep, grabs a bag of salt, and sprinkles it upon the ground Joyride and him had cleared. 

“There. We’ve achieved something. A decent clear path out. Now we can get out and resume patrols.” Hot Rod declares. 

“Yay!” Cheers Joyride. 

“You still have the problem that the passes to both the east and the west are closed.” Fanzone reminds him. 

“Pfft! I hate this planet! Too much climate.” Huffs Tigertrack. 

“On the contrary, Earth is absolutely lovely this time of year. There aren’t many planets in this galaxy with such a seasonal splendor.” Counters Leobreaker as he pads out of the forest. The tips of his white-plated pelt and spiky red tufts are sharpened by frost, hot exhaust puffing out his vents. 

“How did your patrol go?” Asks Hot Rod. Shortly after the others left for Cybertron, the Eukarian volunteered to go on patrol. In two days he traveled from coast to coast, sprinting at nearly 400 kliks per hour through the North American wilderness and back. 

“Not a ‘con on the streets nor the skies. Of either the deceptive or terror kind.” The lion summarizes. “However, as I stood upon the edge of this continent, the salty winds flung against me from the Atlantic…”

“Spit it out, whiskers.” Tigertrack snaps. Hot Rod couldn’t help but agree. 

“This may be my intuition but I sense something coming from Europe. A sense of despair and darkness and someone trapped there.” Leo explains, waving his tail thoughtfully behind him.

“Your intuition? That’s your imagination!” Decries the yellow car-former.

“Ugh, that’s just Europe being a rubbish continent.” Fanzone slides in. 

Red Alert walks over to them all from the right hanger, having partially turned it into an energon refinery and med bay, an energon cube and glass in hand. “It’s not nonsense, Tigertrack. Remember when we entered Earth’s atmosphere, we detected a faint Autobot energy signature coming from the continent.” The medic explains as she offers the weary Eukarian a drink. Leobreaker transforms and takes the glass. Everyone’s optics and eyes turn to Hot Rod. 

“Well, that means we should investigate it. It’s also where three Autobots were deactivated which means they all could come back as Unicron-controlled Terrorcons. We need someone swift, rational, pragmatic, and respectful to ensure that our fallen comrades find rest with Primus rather than puppets of his antithesis.” Hot Rod’s speech starts out strong. Slowly he walks to the left hanger and heats up his exhausts pipes. “However, Whirl is our only flier unless the Parable could…?”

Red Alert shakes her head. “The Parable can’t handle an atmospheric phenomenon as rough as a blizzard or a hurricane forming along the Atlantic.” 

“What? I was on that ship when it flew into Jupiter’s Great Red Spot! It’s more agile than you think.” Scoffs the magenta Autobot. 

“That’s only because you were piloting it solo while Deep Blue was recharging! I had to fly us out of that mess and then we did maintenance on it for three quartexes while you were asteroid surfing!” Tigertrack yells. 

“Enough! Part of being an Autobot means being given second chances. We’ve given you one by leading us temporarily and Whirl should be extended the same opportunity.” Leobreaker steps between the two car-formers before anything could transpire. 

Red Alert speaks up. “I agree. The reports I’ve received from Rattrap, though I’m certain it’s Metalhawk writing it…” 

“It has been them.” Hot Rod confirms. “Continue.”

“Anyway, Whirl does seem to be making a legitimate effort to improve her conduct.” Red Alert trails off into a silent rant. Leobreaker gently guides her back to the right hanger. Joyride and Tigertrack resume shoveling snow. 

Hot Rod walks toward the left hanger, Fanzone waddling behind him. He slides the door open. Whirl’s remaining optic stares coldly upon the temporary leader. “You’re awake.” Hot Rod states, relieved. 

“I heard you guys mentioning my name. If someone so much as implies that they're talking about me, I’ll wake up and kill ‘em. But you guys were saying nice things about me so not now.” Whirl says. 

“Oh what an honor. Listen up, we need you to fly over to Europe…” Fanzone starts. 

“You’re not my boss.” Whirl interrupts as she sits up and lowers her legs, almost stomping on the old man. Fanzone shuffles away in time. 

“Well, I am. Temporarily. The Sol Defense Division detected an Autobot life signature over Europe. We need you to investigate. We think there could be more Terrorcons coming online.” Hot Rod orders. 

Whirl jumps up. “Yay! I get to kill something!”

“More so to make sure the dead remain dead. Now, Red Alert has told me that her and Metalhawk’s hypothesis is that as Unicron wakes…” Hot Rod starts to explain. 

“I don’t care about what the half-timer or the reformatting peddler say.” Whirl interrupts. She stands up and walks out of the hangar. 

“Explosives work best on them! Don’t hurt anyone! I don’t want to do the paperwork!” Fanzone hollers as she transforms into her attack helicopter alternate mode and angles her rotors down and forward for a surface taxi. Hot Rod closes the door. “You doing alright, kid?” The old man asks. 

“I can see why both Metalhawk and Rattrap half-ass this job.” Hot Rod admits. 

“Neither of them half-ass it.” Fanzone counters. “Metalhawk has run themself ragged trying to keep up appearances for whatever schlep like me they're working for and trying to defend my species from the Decepticons. Rattrap’s the one keeping Sector Seven up to date with Decepticon sightings and insider knowledge.” 

“Then why do I feel like I’m half-assing it?” Hot Rod asks. 

“Because you don’t feel like you're doing everything?” Fanzone asks back. 

“I guess…” Hot Rod says. 

“Look, when I became the Captain of Sector Seven, I wanted to do everything. So I downsized everything, streamlining the process into our own irrelevance. Leadership isn’t about doing everything, it’s about making sure you know your teammate skills so that we can do everything. Ya gotta touch base with everyone.” Lectures the old man, he points to the resting Eukarian. 

Hot Rod nods and walks over to her. “Ahh!” He screams as his processor and brain module begin to ache upon approaching a ten foot radius around the serpentine femme. 

Fanzone marches up to her, unaffected by the mental attack and kicks a coil. Nightviper’s head rears up and raises high above him, fangs dangling above him. Cyber-venom drips down onto his balding head. “You know that doesn’t affect me. We just want to talk so you can stop giving Hot Rod an ice cream headache.” He orders. 

Nightviper’s face softens and she transforms into robot mode, lowering the mental shield. “My appolgiesssss, Hot Rod. What do you want to disssscussssss?” 

“I just wanted to ask if you were feeling alright? We have plenty of recharge slabs if you need to rest or we can bump up the heat.” Hot Rod says. 

“I’m fine. Eukarian batteries are vestigial and despite my beast mode, I am endothermic, same as you two. But, I'm still susceptible to torpor.” Nightviper shakes her head. 

“Ya still put up the ice cream headache shield.” Fanzone points out. 

“What’ssss an ice cream headache?” She asks. 

“The most amazing food from this planet gives you the ultimate betrayal.” Fanzone answers, tears spilling from his beady eyes. 

“So it’s like the Starscream of foods.” Hot Rod assumes. 

“I have no clue who that is but sure, kid.” Fanzone wipes away the tears. “Anyway. Stop deflecting! Tell us what’s wrong!” He points a stubby finger at Nightviper.

“I ssssaid I wassss fine.” She repeats. 

“This is why I hate machines. And never had kids. Whenever someone says ‘I’m fine’, it always means the opposite!” The old man groans. 

“What’s wrong, Nightviper? You can show me. It's alright.” Hot Rod asks again. 

The splitting processor ache returns. Hot Rod clutches his helm and closes his optics. When he opens them again, he finds himself in the middle of a dense jungle. Then another flash it’s burnt to a crisp with the carcasses of organic lifeforms and mechanical corpses embedded within the charred stone and ash. Time seems to speed up, thousands of stellar cycles passing by within the span of an astro-minute. Flowers spawned from buried seeds sprout then are burnt again as gigantic, purple daggers crowd the clearing sky to rain extinction down again. And again. And again. “Is this the Razing of Eukaris? Nightviper? I…I’m sorry this happened to you. And Gnashteeth and Leobreaker. To all of you.” Hot Rod calls out. 

The scenery changes. The scorched tree trunks rise up into rusty skyscrapers given literal glow-ups of neon lights, blocking out the starry sky. Airships and helicopters circle above a broken down racing track, host of the Nyon 300, a fundraising race held regularly to draw in tourists to spend money on betting the winner, small businesses, and other junk. Hot Rod had entered it and taken circuit boosters, nucleon, and other performance enhancing drugs to make himself the certified winner. He knew beforehand that such a bat-slag insane cocktail of illicit substances and programs would make him sensory and processor impaired. So, he had hired an action master to drive him. They never showed up. I’ve never seen this while not buzzed. 

He’s memory-self revs up on the start line along with several other cars, hovercraft, and Eukarian immigrants with swift-footed beast modes. Each bears a Decepticon insignia upon their hood. A dolled-up femme struts infront of the racers, raises her pistol, and shoots, sending them off. Hot Rod blasts forth, nearly running her over and the Velocitrionians who manage to briefly surpass him in speed. Briefly. On the first turn, he falls off the track. For a while, a helicopter with a camera keeps up with him until he drives out of bounds. Not just of the track but of the city, drawing the ire of some policing Seekers. A green pick-up truck blasts over a ramp and onto the back of a Seeker. “Wait! Kup saved me?” Hot Rod calls out. 

Kup had been his mentor, well mentor to a lot of Transformers along his long life. Their relationship started out strong as most mentorships do until they drifted apart as most mentorships end. Hot Rod was drawn to racing as a way to raise money for his failing city while Kup had found himself in the ranks of an early Autobot insurgent cell judging by the blazing red badge that shines upon his chest as he clings to a red seeker’s tailfin. The other seekers focus their firepower on eliminating the outed Autobot, killing their comrade in the process. Kup steers the falling jet ahead of Hot Rod, leaps off, lands, and drives up to his apprentice. He half transforms and holds on to Hot Rod’s spoiler in one hand while shooting at the chasing Decepticons with the other. 

The memory changes again to an Iaconian medical station, hastily put together on shores of the Rust Sea as shuttlers and boats carry refugees away from the Decepticons besieging Polyhex. Hot Rod’s body remains offline, siphons pull out what remains of the toxic fuels and replace it with gasoline. Kup stands beside him, his plating where not missing is dented and scorched. He grips a cy-gar in his wrinkled mouth, delivering painkillers. A nurse walks over to him. “Sir, I ask that you please lie down and recharge.” She asks. 

The gruff ‘bot gestures her away. “I took your fuel and that’s it. Now tell me two things. Will he live? And where is the armory?” 

“Yes, most of the nucleon and experimental fuels have been siphoned out. His body shows no wear other than his tires. We just don’t have any splicers in the ward who could deprogram the circuit boosters, we have to wait for him to wear it out.” She explains. 

“Good. Now, I gotta get back to the fight. I hear we gotta Prime alongside us. Now that’s something I haven’t seen in a long time.” Kup declares. He steps closer to his apprentice and runs a finger over Hot Rod’s head crest. “Ya better continue the fight if I don’t make it, ya hear?”

“I hear you now, Kup.” Hot Rod collapses to his knees as the memories fade and he finds himself back in the hanger with Nightviper standing in front of him. Beyond them, Fanzone stares in confusion while Red Alert grips the top of her helm. 

“What happened to the two of you? It seemed far more intense than an ice cream headache.” Asks the old captain. 

“Nightviper is an Outlier with telepathic abilities…” Red Alert starts. 

“Please, leave us be, we went through alot, in there.” Asks Hot Rod, wiping his optics. “Um, thank you for showing me that…I never knew how much I needed that… but what’s wrong, aside from the infinite amount of therapy every single one of us will need once this million steller cycle’s long war is done.” 

“My telepathy hassss expanded beyond me bonding with one individual. At firsssst it wassss Metalhawk. They could alwaysssss avoid it by returning to their pretender sssshell, my powersssss don’t work on organicsssss. But then I bonded with a Decepticon and then Joyride and now you.” She explains. 

“But you seemed pretty in control just now. If anything, that's an improvement!” Hot Rod tries to spin it. 

“It has gotten sssstronger! Before I could only sssssensssse the emotionsssss of another now I can ssssslither through their memoriesssss like a mnemosssssurgeon. Ssssurely you’ve heard sssstoriessss of them losing themsssselves in the mindssss of their patientsssss, becoming addicted to their work.” Nightviper despairs. 

“Yeah but you’re different. You could become a fateweaver or a cityspeaker one day. Or just decide not to use it.” Hot Rod accentuates the positive. 

“I don’t jusssst ssssee into ssssomeone’s memoriesssss now. Many fateweaverssss can ssssee into the future and become prophetssss. With whomever I am bonded to I would remain bonded until their deactivation and I knew right from the beginning how it would end.” Nightviper explains. She casts up the mental shield again. 

Hot Rod finds himself seeing through her optics; slithering through a dark woodland alongside a mechanical lizard only to find them struck down by the ax-edge of a genocidal Decepticon, talking with a fellow student in lecture at the Iacon Academy then becoming shrapnel in an explosion, being deployed on other missions, gradually becoming more and more withdrawn as more partners die, not out of any apparent malice but to Decepticon attacks, bombings, illness, etc. Eventually it becomes more recent; her meeting Metalhawk on the night they all arrived on Earth, then their starfighter alternate mode crashing into the ocean, missing a wing and scorched from a failed reentry, talking with Joyride in a hanger with a Decepticon and two neutrals, Trackers surround the small orange Autobot from all directions on a desert highway, swarming in to run her off the road. Finally it’s Hot Rod’s turn to see his fate. 

His frame feels different, heavy with age. There are black skies, piercing cliffs and upturned mountains with ice caging in some primal force wanting to break through to the surface. It’s the end of all of time and space at the hands of Unicron…

Suddenly, he finds himself lying on the floor, a needle-tipped tendril whips at the edge of his blurry vision. He rolls onto his back and sees Red Alert hastily put back on her helm piece. A few meters away from him, Nightviper lays coiled on the ground, motionless. He pushes onto one hand and gasps, “Did you…”

“I don’t make a habit out of mnemosurgery but as someone who specializes in preventative care it is useful in assessing the risk of a potential patient to get injured. However for you it is apparent: very, very high.” Explains Red Alert curtly as she stands up and inspects Nightviper. “She was starting to get fatigued, either from the strain of sharing both emotions and memories with you or from her torpor. If I hadn’t pulled you out, she would have taken you down with her.” 

Hot Rod touches his forehead and blinks. “It felt so real…and!” 

“I don’t mean to be culturally insensitive but those weren’t visions of the future. She has the ability to create very complex and accurate models of the future based upon the emotions and memories of the person she is connected to. The closer she is to someone, the more detailed and accurate it will seem. But she can only take past information into account, not what would happen between now and then. The future is still in flux.” Says the medic. 

“Do you plan on training her at all?” He asks. 

“No. Her abilities are innate, an expression of the Primal code of her spark. Mine are installed. She can’t recycle the memories, can’t retract the needles. For her, reading someone's emotions is as natural as looking upon their face. She seems to be able to control whether or not she looks into the datatrax and create predictive models but not how intense the experience would be. As for the strengthening of her abilities…it's probably due to stress. Like how your flames seem stronger or my cables more willing to twitch.” Red Alert continues. 

“Ha, I’m not an outlier.” Hot Rod protests. 

“You possess a Primal ability not controlled by your t-cog. As do I and her. That fits the most commonly agreed upon definition for an outlier. It doesn’t necessarily make you any less or more of a Transformer, it's just a part of you.” Says Red Alert. 

Naples International Airport, Italy

“Hey! Wake up. we’re ready to make the deal.” Someone prodes Kevin Pheonix, current pseudonym of the recently awoken Cloudburst, awake. After being broken out of stasis lock and the cocoon of ash and concrete, he’d found temporary rescue inside an airport, pawning off his jewelry and various things from his subspace pockets to pay for food, clothing, and hopefully some plane fuel. Kevin staggers upright in the seat he slept slumped over in. He’s dressed in a random assortment of overly expensive tourist twat while his previous white garbs are piled on the seat next to him. The pretender picks up the robes and hands it to the two archeologists, a blonde woman and a bearded man, standing before him. “How much do you want for it? Between us, we only have 600 euros on hand but we could always write a check...” 

I need 210 euros for a full fuel tank. Kevin notices the man holding a datapad looking device. “If you could give me 200 euros and that…pad?” He asks. 

The human looks at it. “Sure, it's a kindle though, not an ipad.” He corrects as he turns it on to do a factory reset. The woman takes out a few bills of cash and exchanges it with Kevin for the white robe. The bearded man hands the tablet to Kevin and goes off on their way. 

Kevin changes seats to a corner seat. He brings his legs up and slowly pulls off the brown skin to reveal his red and grey metal underneath, acting like bone for the organic tissue to cling to. While he was in stasis lock, his pretender suit kept updating. I swear if Metalhawk still hasn’t updated their suit…I’ll actually tell them. This gag has gone on too long.  

He picks up the tablet and places the charger port on his finger tip, the metal changes shape as it adapts to plug in. He jolts up as electricity rushes from the tablet to his batteries, draining the device instantly. “No, I gotta share.” Kevin whispers as he reverses the polarity and forces the electricity back into the tablet and begins to hack into it. He enters in as a guest and accesses its internet browser. Instantly, all of the collective information collected or created by the Human race is processed by the Autobot stuck in time. He collapses in his seat. 

20 Minutes Later

“Hey! Wake up. We need to discuss a previous deal you made.” Someone else prodes Kevin awake. His feet slam back down to the floor and he hastily tugs the skin back over his hand and stuffs the tablet into the oversized pockets of his sweatpants. 

“Ugh…you know, your species is a lot more screwed up than I previously thought. You invented pop-up ads, asbestos, and Clippy!” Kevin exclaims. 

Two people in black suits and sunglasses stand before him, a tall woman and a bald man, each with pistols holstered to their belts. “Um, we wish to inquire on behalf of our boss about these ‘amethyst’ crystals you’ve sold several people within this airport over the past four days.” Explains the man. The woman pulls out a purple crystal from her pocket. Ah frag, I gave them all energon instead. 

When Cloudburst was young, back on Cybertron, he wanted to be a chef. With his new knowledge of modern human culture, he’d consider himself a foodie. Sadly that didn’t mesh well with the waning control of Fuctionism and Decepticon rise. His propeller plane alternate mode wasn’t suited for military service in the Aerial Corp or with the merit based promises of the ‘cons. That and much of Cybertron’s population is vehemently against eating solid foods. Unless he wanted to move to Eukaris or settle as a bartender, he was stuck working odd jobs as a homeless courier, air traffic controller, and part time student at Polyhex University. It was there that he first met Metalhawk and then moved in with them and their mentor, Slipstream. The two young fliers struck up a friendship only hampered by their differences in ideology. Cloudburst became an Autobot activist early on while Metalhawk remained abrasively apolitical. Still, the two of them stuck together as Metalhawk’s studies grew more important and in depth and Cloudburst engaged in more dangerous protests and then missions for the Autobots. Just before the Siege of Polyhex, Metalhawk was scheduled to present their findings to two boards, one Senate supported, the other helmed by Megatron’s personal mad scientist, Shockwave. They never made it to either one, instead being shot down, captured, and imprisoned by the Decepticons. The two roommates wouldn’t meet again for three and half million years but... 

“Can I see the crystal?” Kevin asks. 

The people in black nod at each other and offer up the crystal. The pretender snatches it and shoves it behind his back. He peels off his skin and scratches the crystal’s surface. A waxy cuticle comes off it. Kevin clamps his bare metal palm upon the hole in the cuticle and waits. Both Energon and quartz crystals had similar properties such as clarity, hardness, and structure. The difference was in the energized radiation raw Energon produced. Energon radiation could harm and even kill a Transformer if exposed for too long. Too much of a good thing. 

“Doo doo doo doo-doo doo doo doo doooooo doa-dum da-da-da doo doo doo doo-doo doo doo doo dum da-dum da dum dum bomp bomp.” Kevin hums to himself the theme of a trivia game show while the two suited people wait patiently. His exposed arm begins to convulse, slapping him in the back. He drops the crystal and reconnects his skin. 

“Yep, that is not an amethyst crystal. My bad! Do you want a refund or something?” Kevin confesses as he picks up the raw energon. 

“No.” Says the bald man as he and his partner grab Kevin by the arms and drag him away. 

The pretender grinds his heels in and shoves his weight around, trying to break free but to no avail as the two people in suits carry him out of the lobby, past baggage claim, and to a pick-up area. The mid-day sun shines between the awning and shadows cast by giant parking garages. Buses and taxis crowd along a sidewalk dominated by weary travelers dragging suitcases behind them. Everyone is concerned with their future plans rather than noticing the man getting dragged around. They both drag him to the far end of the parking strip, towards a long black limousine. 

A man steps out of the limousine, his pristine mustache hanging above an irate scowl as he marches up to the two people in black. “What on earth are you two doing! I asked for you to inquire with the dealer, not drag him like a prisoner to the stock!” He shouts, betraying the composure of his tailored brown blazer and matching trousers, slick-backed hair, and sharp spectacles. 

“We thought you wanted us to bring him to you.” Protests the bald man.

“Willingly! I’ll arrange flights to take you two home to Sterling City. Then you both will face internal disciplinary hearings, additional training, and a pay cut. Be lucky I don’t fire you two on the spot. Now leave my sight.” Spats their boss. 

The two people nod profusely and release Kevin. “Thank you, I guess. Look, if you are here to try and get a refund, I’ll give it to you. It was a mistake on my end and…” He stops as the mustached man shakes his head. 

“No need to thank me. I’m merely making up for my mistake to allow them to be hired as my security. I sent those two out to make an inquiry on the origin of these crystals. My sources tell me that they are rare in this region.” He begins to explain. 

“Um, I actually harvested these myself…” Kevin is interrupted by the honking of other cars as they drive past the black limousine. 

“Mind if we continue this conversation inside? I can drop you off wherever you want…” Offers the man

“Kevin Phoenix.” The pretender says. 

“Garrison Blackrock, pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He says with a smile. 

Chapter Text

Hall of Records, Iacon

The steady clicks and button presses of a keyboard is the first thing Orion Pax hears as he awakens from a recharge. He sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the recharge slab inside his room, almost stepping on a large magenta stenograph planted in the middle of the floor. Orion recoils as the stenograph transforms; the screen folds behind his back to form a gleaming, galactic cape, armored limbs unfurl from the smooth shell, a bearded and crested helm smiles warmly while the keys rearrange themselves into a rhombus shaped emblem upon his chest. “Alpha Trion? You’re back!” Pax exclaims as he stands up to embrace his mentor. 

The original Prime vanishes then reappears in the doorway. Trion takes a step back onto a floating, mobile platform that dashes away to the forest of gigantic datacores suspended within the center of the tower. Pax grips the edge of the doorway and sees afterimages of Trion descend into the labyrinth of information, the curl of his cape swishing behind a grebbled core. 

Orion hails another hovering platform and steps aboard. He squats down and leans his weight in the direction he wants it to go. Alpha Trion glides into view between two datacore and reaches a hand out, beckoning his apprentice forth. Orion leans forward, the platform tilts down to a 45 degree slope. The red Autobot dives toward his mentor. Time slows and Trion takes another step back, off his platform and onto a plain of silvery metal, untouched by billions of stellar cycles of erosion, melting, oxidation, or mining. Starlight from millions of newborn stars twinkle beyond him in a thin, dark sky. As mentor and apprentice briefly touch fingers, Trion says, “Have faith and patience. All will resolve itself with time, my fellow Primes.” 

Alpha Trion vanishes permanently.

Orion Pax falls off the platform. “Ahh!” He yells as he plummets between the datacores toward the pulsating hover generators at the bottom of the tower that keep them suspended. 

A rope and hook lashes down and snatches underneath his plating, putting an end to his free fall. He looks up to see a dark blue and white gyrodyne straining to pull him up and away from the generators. “This is a library, you gotta be quiet.” Chuckles the flier. 

“Thanks Proxima.” Says Orion as she lowers him to bottom of the tower. Proxima lands and transforms into her multi-armed and mulit-eyed robot mode. A member of the Camien Diaspora taking up refuge in Iacon, Proxima is the Hall’s lead Archivist, only outranked by Alpha Trion and Orion Pax, when either of them were present. A rare occurrence this late into the War. “Has Alpha Trion been around here recently?” He asks. 

Proxima giggles. “I don’t know if I’d call four million stellar cycles recent.” 

Must have been a dream or something…a vision of the past? Orion thinks as he walks over to the doorway leading to the outside world beyond the levitating pillars of knowledge. 

“Are you leaving already?” Asks Proxima. 

“Afraid so. I’m meeting up with some people at Macadam's, then we have a hearing with the High Council.” Orion informs as he transforms and drives through the doorway. The doors slide apart and the red Autobot drives down a tunnel that deposits him outside the Hall of Records. Smokescreen, a guard stationed at the base of the tunnel, waves him goodbye. 

Orion merges onto a vast six-lane street that cuts through Iacon Central. Behind him, the Hall of Records and Celestial Spires, a series of towers each more taller and extravagant than last, home to some of the High Council members. The towers culminate in the High Council Needle, a spire some four kilometers tall with a bulging, decorated observation deck where the High Council meets to discuss matters. The Needle is the tallest static structure in Iacon, only outclassed by the robot modes of the several Titans who serve the city as residential buildings and as a last line of defense should the city-wide shields ever go down. Before him, a gridlock of cars, trucks, trains, taxiing aircraft, equinoid drawn buggies, tanks, and every variant of wheeled vehicle mode. The traffic fails to move as one; an onset of horns blare in Orion’s audio receptors as he stalls between a slow-moving hovercraft in front and a yellow sudan behind him. “Move faster! Fragging heavyweights.” Shouts the racer between his horn honking. 

The hovercraft stops and transforms in the middle of the street. An elderly femme, she leans against Orion’s hood with one hand while cupping her side crests. “What?” She hollers back. 

The yellow mech transforms and flashes his headlights at her. “Move faster! I have a race to get to.” He shouts, gripping down on Orion’s tailgate. 

“Well, I’m sorry, sunny boy. I’m on my way to the mechanic’s office to see if…” The old bot apologies before being cut off by the blaring horns and swears of other Iaconians as they struggle to merge onto the other lane. 

Orion Pax transforms and pulls the elderly femme onto the sidewalk. Instantly, bystanders and drivers recognize him as the Autobot Founder or as Optimus Prime. “Ma’am, are you alright?” Pax asks her. 

The yellow racer gawks at him. “Oh… I didn’t recognize ….forgive me my Prime.” Sputters the mech as he kneels in front of the historian.

“It is you.” Adds the old femme. Orion Pax holds her upright as she attempts to bow. 

“Do you need a ride to your mechanic?” He offers her. 

“Oh, it would be an honor to receive a ride from a Prime…” She coos. 

“I’m not a Prime, ma’am. Just a fellow Autobot.” He reminds her, pulling away. He looks at the yellow mech “Infact, if you want to be ‘forgiven’, why don’t you offer her a ride?” 

The racer’s jaw drops. “Well, you just said it yourself, you’re not a Prime. You have no authority over me.” He scoffs. 

“He has the authority of basic decency.” Shouts a hefty, pale brown tractor who stops and drives up onto the sidewalk. She lifts a shovel attachment up to the old hovercraft. “Here ya go ma’am, what’s the address?” 

The old femme shakily sits upon the shovel. “Why thank you, my dear. It’s…” She starts. 

“Now wait just an astro-minute!” The yellow mech interrupts. “I could get her there in half the time!”
“You just said you had a race you had to get to. Now scram.” Retorts Orion, flaring his antenna forward. 

The racer shrinks away before dashing back into the crowd and then back onto the street to a flurry of honks and engine rumble. “Thank you.” He says to the tractor. 

“No problem! I got nothing going on right now, unlike you oughta.” Says the brown femme as she carts the elder away. 

Orion continues down the sidewalk, keeping a hand up over his face and lowering his antenna to disguise himself from onlookers. He passes by a myriad of buildings; Camien Temples to the Way of Flame, an emergency hospital overseen by Ratchet, a race track spilling out overhead of the street, vendors selling exotic oils, rare ores, and ravishing paints, tour guides claiming they knew secret passages into the Undergird where one could seek guidance from the Oracle herself. 

The Autobot founder stops at a street corner, the convergence of Main street and the Recreation District. A few roads fork off to harbor businesses that cater to a more specialized interest. Yet they’re all overshadowed by Maccadam’s Old Oil House. Harsh neon pinks and blues mark the edges to the multi-story, octagonal building. Droves of people, either parked or standing outside the gigantic doors guarded by thick-plated and armed bouncers. The Oil House serves anyone; conjunxs and their apprentices spending family time together, study-weary students from Iacon Academy or the Institute of Higher Programming, or elsewhere come to socialize, the conniving politicians of yestercycle muse on the old days when Cybertron was theirs, Autobot rebels looking for some relaxation, colonists of the various Diaspora refuging within Iacon exchange their ideas, hopes, and dreams over drinks reminiscent of their homeworlds. Pax checked his internal clocks. It’s early but not unreasonably so.  

“Is that you, at the end of the street?” Deep Blue messages him. 

Orion narrows in on the crowd outside the Oilhouse’s doors; each party is delineated with lines glowing through the gaps on the ground. He notices a tiny square where the dark blue ATV parks with a few humans, all trying to take up as little space as possible. “Should we have picked a less busy venue?” He replies, transforming and returning to the road at a slow pace. 

“And go where? Some dingy, dim lit canteen where the servers have their airbags exposed? A bombed out student lounge by the beach? Or sip the coolant from the teat of a dying Titan?” Jokes the blue femme. 

“That’s what you’re into?” Orion recoils. 

“I consider myself an adventurer. I’ve gotten myself into a lot of trouble, even before your War. Had to take what I can get.” She explains. 

Orion hangs up and drives up to the first bouncer, a black and orange mech with a shoulder cannon, and receptionist, a glaucous winged micromaster holding a datapad. “Do you have a reservation?” The tiny transformer asks, not looking up from the screen. 

“Yes I do.” Orion confirms. 

“State what name your reservation’s under.” Says the micromaster. 

“Should be Orion Pax.” Replies the archivist. 

“Your reservation was renamed to ‘Kiss Our Shiny Afts, We’re Earth’s Last Chance’. You may proceed to where the rest of your party is in line.” The receptionist reports, gesturing for the bouncer to accompany him. Transforming into an armored car, the bouncer plows their way through the crowd, escorting the historian through the waiting crowd. 

“Did Rattrap rename the party?” Orion asks as he approaches their waiting spot. He parks next to Deep Blue, his bed barely kept back from spilling into the party behind them. Marissa and Kelly stand between the two Autobots. 

“That he did. He’s inside right now procuring us a ‘private spot’. And Metalhawk is…” Deep Blue answers. 

“Got distracted by a bookstore when we got off the train. Also the train was a snake. I swear whoever your God is was either high or needed to design alot of toys when he did all of this. Maybe both.” Kelly says. 

“Uh, more so it's a sign of our species' great diversity. A strength we seek to embrace here in Iacon.” Corrects Orion. 

The line doesn’t move, instead, bouncers accompany a waiter to each party to escort them to their table inside Maccadam’s. 

After some amount of waiting, Rattrap saunters back to the group with a maroon, heavily-vented bouncer and an orange waitress balancing upon her wheeled feet. “Hello, Kiss Our Shiny Afts, We’re Earth’s Last Chance, I am Lickety-Split and I will be your server today. Let me take you all to your table. Reminder, space is limited, so until you’re seated, please stay in your most compact mode.” Announces the waitress, giving a delightful spin around, Rattrap’s optics track her every steer and servo twitch. Orion turns and bumps into him, breaking the cycle-bot’s gaze. 

“Show some respect.” Pax radios to Rattrap. 

“I am. Admiration of someone’s physical appearance is a form of respect, I show it to everyone, not just the femmes. You used to be quite the looker.” Rattrap whispers back. 

“Not everyone appreciates such frankly objectifying sentiments. Do we have a private seating area?” Orion snaps. 

“Yeash! You and Metalhawk always hampering the lubricant flow to my joystick. Loosen up your d-pad. If you even have one. Of course, I got private seating. We’ll hardly hear a peep or a purr from anyone else. And I'm from Velocitron. Objectification is part of my heritage. ” Says Rattrap. 

"Doesn't mean it should be used as justification. If you keep doing it. I will run you over." Orion replies. 

Lickety-Split skates in front of the party. She leads them through the gigantic doors and into a wide, open foyer at the base of the Oilhouse. Several bars line the walls as the path splits and twists up into various other areas of the establishment, serving a variety of customers. The waitress skates toward a tunnel that dips beneath a rowdy counter serving engex to mechs drafting their picks for Fantasy Cube League. 

The ceiling lowers as the party slips down, Lickety-Split transforms into motor trike to accommodate. They pass by portholes leading to private suites, occasionally the silhouette of a patron visible through the semi-opaque window. 

Through his rearview mirrors he sees Dr. Hawk running after the group. They squeeze past Deep Blue to walk alongside the two women. 

“Alright, here we are!” Lickety-Split transforms and opens up a porthole. Soft orange light filters out to the dark tunnel. Orion Pax drives in first, taken aback by the spacious room. To his right is a booth with plush seats soft enough to be mistaken for organic derived pleather (or leather). A few images are framed on the yellow-tinted walls; Iacon’s prewar skyline, a Velocitronian racetrack, and an otherworldly forest swathed in biofluorescence. A small table is hushed in the left, back corner. Lickety-Split stands beside it and waits for everyone to get seated. Orion takes a seat closest to the wall. Deep Blue sits beside him. Metalhawk emerges out of their skin and shell, retracts their dogtoothed wings, and sits across from him. Rattrap and the two humans wait as the other side of the opposing booth lowers, allowing them to step on and rise. The seats and table height adjust, lowering Metalhawk while lifting Deep Blue, Rattrap, and the humans until everyone is at optic or eye level. 

Lickety-Split skates forward and passes out menus displayed upon glassy datapads to everyone. “Feel free to take a few astro-minutes to explore our offerings and I’ll be back in a jiffy!” She says before dashing back out to the tunnel. 

"Now, a quick refresher on how the High Council is organized…” He starts. 

“Ooo! That’s right, we need refreshments! A whole round of engex, on me!” Rattrap interrupts. 

“Shut up, Rattrap.” Metalhawk snaps. 

“Actually, it’s not a bad idea. Although, I prefer crude oil over engex. It gunks up the gears enough to slow down your circuits.” Proposes Deep Blue as she looks down at her menu. Orion can't help but nod in agreement. He flips through his menu and settles on locally made algae derived biofuel and energon goodies. 

Across the table, Metalhawk places their menu in front of the two humans. "I got it to the foods you can eat. And translated it for you." 

"Huh, I'm surprised Maccadam’s even has organic friendly foods." Says Deep Blue. 

"My old roommate was something of an activist and a chef. He flew over here and protested for about a millennia for Maccadam’s and other restaurants to put more solid food options on the menu. He succeed but when time came for Maccadam’s to actually hire a chef, he wasn’t selected. One of the only times I could get some peaceful rest.” Metalhawk remises. 

“Why would solid food be so controversial here?” Marissa asks. 

“You’re lookin at a planet where having a mouth is optional. It goes in and out of fashion to just cover up your face hole and even then it doesn't always connect to the fuel tank.” Rattrap explains. 

Lickety-Split skates back into the room to take orders. Rattrap asks for a case of smuggled engex and a few shots of Nightmare Fuel. Marissa and Kelly decide to split an small ‘organic sample platter’, an (oversized from a human perspective) plate of technicolor protein nuggets, charred algae and seaweed salad sourced from the Rust Sea, bone stock, and a glass of water and 10% (straight up ethanol). Metalhawk gets a glass of kerosene and takes out some energon crystals they brought inside. Deep Blue gets her preferred crude oil and some chrome-crackers to dip into the oil. Orion instead orders diesel and grilled gear patties. Once they all have their food and drink, discussions begin. 

“So, remind me again, as an outsider and I guess, alien even, how your High Council is structured.” Marissa asks as she stands upon her plate, attempting to pull some crumbs off a crusty, purple nugget. 

“So, within the Autobots, everyone has to play double duty, most scholars like myself or Metalhawk are multidisciplinary. Rattrap is a scout, a demolition’s expert, miner, informant, and a lawsuit waiting to happen. Deep Blue was an adventurer and mercenary originally. Same applies to the High Council. They aren’t stuffy politicians, well for the most part, but democratically selected volunteers and exepeleries of their field or people. They all have day jobs or lead rebel cells.’

“The Autobots don’t have a lot of territory, just Iacon, a few outposts on or in orbit around the Prime Colonies, and hundreds of rebel cells, refugee convoys, and militias we organize from here. So instead of a bicameral Senate and House like your own nation, we divided up the city between Districts defined by its prominent industry or representatives for the Prime Colony Diaspora’s. It’s not a perfect system, has a lot of hold over from Functionism and will probably need to be restructured once the War is over…” Orion Pax explains. 

“There are 21 Council Members, 20 regulars who each represent a District or an industry or organization with a title like Chief blank Officer or Representative for the Blankotronions, and then Ultra Magnus, Supreme Commander of the Autobots. He’s the tiebreaker vote and moderator.” Deep Blue continues. 

“Normally, we’d only need 11 votes to pass along a proposal. But because of the immediacy of our request, we’ve forced them into exercising Emergency Powers. In order to pass our proposal, we need 16 votes.” Metalhawk finishes. 

“And I’m guessing we won’t get it from that walking chin you punched out at the Spaceport?” Kelly asks. 

“Wait, you punched Sentinel?” Deep Blue points at the blue and gold Autobot. 

“Yes…” Replies Metalhawk. 

“He wouldn’t have voted for us anyway. But he does have a lot of sway. He represents the Elite Guard, he can’t be voted out by Autobots and has a lot of sway among both the more militant and Neutral Council Members.” Orion says. 

“Gotta bring out a hammer for some N.A.I.Ls then.” Mutters Rattrap. 

Metalhawk gives him a sharp look. “You’re one to talk, ex-con.” Deep Blue adds in agreement. 

“Anyway, who do we know will definitely vote for our proposal?” Asks Marissa as she paces across the tabletop. 

“Ultra Magnus, his conjunx Pyra Magna, Ratchet the Chief Medical Officer, Prowl the Iacon Police Chief, Headmistress Arcee, Silverbolt of the Aerialbots, Elita One…” Orion rattles off the names of those who had a history of voting for him or a close friendship too. 

“I briefly talked to Jazz at the Spaceport. We have her vote. And Preceptor's too, Botanica is representing her. Also, Wheeljack likes me, or at least the fact that I represent a ‘successful experiment’.” Metalhawk reports. 

“I’ve been serving the streets and sewers. It's maybe from Fort. Max in security and Mudflap in sanitation.” Adds Rattrap. 

“What about the other Colony Representatives?” Metalhawk asks as they pull up news reports on a holopad. 

Orion leans over the table, cupping his chin in his hands. “What’s with all the maybes? What’s so controversial about saving the Universe?” Marissa shouts. 

“It isn’t that it's controversial. It's about the resources involved. The people who need to be shuffled around. The time limit at play. All the other things the Council focuses on; keeping Iacon running smoothly…” Orion tries to explain. 

“That isn’t good enough! This isn’t just about my planet or my people anymore! This is everyone in the entire Universe! I don’t care if I have spit and slobber my way into scaring your superiors to act! To just see reason and their own supposed ideals. Freedom is the right of all sentient beings. That’s what you keep on telling me about yourselves. And that includes the freedom to live and find happiness. But we can’t do that with that Evil God of yours parasitizing my planet!” Marissa proclaims.  

“Ha! That’s a good bit of work. Have you and Metalhawk been practicing that in their apartment? That pathos should change the minds of those uncertain!” Deep Blue laughs. 

“I second that! Ya know, I was skeptical of your ideas, ‘Hawk. But that bit. We might just win..” Adds Rattrap. Metalhawk reaches over and grabs the tiny cycle-bot. “What’s the big idea, ya oversized barnacle goose!” 

“We haven’t practiced anything. I brought the humans along for their insight and to advocate on behalf of themselves and their planet. Not as our puppets to gather sympathy votes!” Metalhawk snarls back. They drop Rattrap back onto his seat. Kelly tries to go in for a fist bump only to receive nothing. 

“Are we done?” Orion asks. 

“No. If the Council won’t take this seriously then I’ll…” Metalhawk starts. 

“Fly out and deliver the Matrix to me? You’ve given enough of yourself to this, Metalhawk. Besides, Sky Lynx is doing that currently. He’s taken on the role of backtracking. He is in outer space looking for the Matrix. I booked a small shuttle to take us all back to Earth when we’re done. I will also revise our proposal. Now we’re only asking for the necessary support staff, the geologist and Groundbridge engineer. These amendments will add Fortress Maximus, Tailgate, Blaster, Cerbros, and Andromeda from the uncertain to the certain. There, 16 council members.” Orion admits. 

“That’s all we need. Good work, Orion.” Exclaims Deep Blue. 

“Uh, a bit underhanded.” Remarks Rattrap, resettling himself. “So, just how I like it.” 

“Thank you. At least you take this seriously.” Says Marissa as Kelly brings her for a side hug. 

Across the booth, Metalhawk continues their glower. “What about Sentinel’s counter proposal?” They silently message him. “We both know he’ll have one.”

“And who’s fault is that?” Mine…

Chapter Text

Skies Above Northern Australia

Devcon shakes his panels as he and Lapse make landfall above the northern coast of Australia. His flying is shaky and inexperienced like when he was a sparkling nearly 10 million years ago, forged from the Carcar-aligned Titan, Deris. Despite having the title of a Prime Colony, first founded by Liege Maximo billions of stellar cycles ago, the Clans of Carcer were not limited to a single planet, instead they traveled nomadically throughout the Milky Way and beyond. They could be traders and explorers but also plunderers and mercenaries for hire. The Titans and the Clans they spawned all followed Carcer, Liege Maximo’s titan. Carcer would select a First from any Clan at random to lead and represent them all. Before the Decepticons began their invasions of Cybertron’s colonies, Elita One was chosen as the First. Devcon was one of a few thousand Carcer clansbots to join her in aligning with the Autobots after the Clans broke their alliances when Decepticons infiltrated and manipulated the chiefs of several Clans. He stuck around the Autobots as an escorter for people and ships traveling between Iacon’s Central Spaceport and Decepticon free space, before being hired on by Lapse and Balloon to take them all the way out too Earth. Upon arrival, Lapse extended her contract with him. And then again. And again. 

His antenna-tipped nose cone pokes out of the air pocket within the cloud. A web of ice deposits at the tip and dances along his nose cone, thin wings, and engine pods. Lapse pulls him back into the cloud. “Stay within the cloud.” Lapse reminds him, her method of keeping the two rogue fliers hidden from unwanted detection. 

“It’s hard. This new alt-mode has a problem with fuel stacking. It’s just setting me off balance.” Devcon tries to explain. 

“Not a problem I struggle with.” Replies the glider kept aloft and at great speed by the controlled currents of water vapor directed along her long, slender wingspan.

 Devcon slowly deaccelerates, matching Lapse’s leisurely glide while his center of gravity stabilizes. Beneath them both, the northern woodlands thin out to the expansive, dry outback. Twice a stellar cycle, their little band of neutrals and bounty hunters migrated between Earth’s northern and southern hemispheres to avoid the winter cold and climate. Lapse, Balloon, and himself flew through the skies while Matrix and his smaller companions drove along the shoreline and at the bottom of shallow ocean basins. 

On his internal readouts, Matrix keeps trying to message him. “I gotta take a call. Mind lowering the cloud?” He asks. 

Lapse rolls away from him, taking the cloud with her. 

“Alright. Talk to me, Matrix. How’s the drive going?” Devcon calls. 

“Crrz-Balloon…..crrz-seperrated.” A staticy reply comes back to him.

“What happened? A stray wind could have separated you two.” Devcon asks as he lowers in altitude to reduce interference. 

“Crrrzzzz…….blue plane…..crrzzz…..can’t catch up….” Matrix’s message remains broken up.

“Be more specific. There are alot of blue planes here; myself, Lapse, Metalhawk, hundreds of human planes…” Devcon says.

Only a snippet of Matrix’s reply comes back as inteligible. “Crrz….seekr-zzzz..ain…” 

Devcon’s engines roar to life. Air pushes back against his nose cone, engine pods, and wing tips as white-hot exhaust and wind streaks off him. He dulls his auditory-receptors and concentrates on his readouts. A cone of air forms around the front of his fuselage. The pressure builds along his metal plating until….

BOOM!

He breaks through the cloud of cones and sound barrier. Concentric rings of air explode around him. He pushes through the cloud and accelerates past mach one. His mode inhibitors prevent him from passing past his alternate mode’s limit of mach two. The rapid acceleration sloshes his liquid fuel forward and sets him off balance. He spins aft over nose cone and loses altitude. Devcon transforms; his delta wings fold up and swing down, the engine pods cluster around his calves, blasting out heat to keep him aloft and slow his descent. 

The blue bounty hunter lands with a thud upon the dusty ground. Orange sands as bright as a chronic rust infection stretch on until they meet with the soft blue horizon. Gray sedges, scratchy grasses, and the thin husks of brush protest against the sands and cling the earth together. Not so much of a tire imprint is worn into the ground as Devcon takes a few steps. He scans the skies above for signs of Balloons or the Seekers. Only clouds and his streaking contrails. “Matrix? Do you read me?” He calls. 

“Do you have Balloon?” Replies Matrix,  voice as clear as day. 

"Not yet. And I see no sign of that marathon-mouthed Seeker." Devcon says. "Could you tell me exactly how you lost Balloon?"

"He and I made landfall a few solar cycles ago. I had gone into town to get some supplies while he began talking to 'a blue helicopter warrior'. I first thought he meant that ex-Wrecker from the mine. I paid it no mind till this morning when Balloon disappeared while Gun and I were recharging. Frisket smelled Decepticon afterburners, heading southeast of White Stone City." Matrix explains. 

"Great. Might have been a botnapping then. But why?" Devcon wonders as he scans through different filters. He finds a faint exhaust trail when examining chemical readouts. He sends over his current location to Matrix and Lapse. 

"I'm about 60 kliks away. On the human roads though." Says the green mech. 

"Take your time. I'm onto something." Devcon hangs up. 

He follows the exhaust trail to a small valley. A stream runs through the bottom, a ribbon of silver water and soft green foliage between sandstone walls. Five transformers sit in a circle on a exposed sandy clearing; a small, bright green triangular femme, two triple changers, one tall and red with wings, the other shorter and dark blue with rotor swords. The blue helicopter warrior… Balloon sits among the gathering of Decepticons, his gaze fixed upon the ringleader. 

Devcon had never bothered learning that Seeker Captain’s name. He was just a nuisance who’d get too close and need to be swatted away with heat seeking missiles and a well timed laser shot. I don’t think I’ve seen him in robot mode before. The cracked cockpit on his chest and forward swept wings upon his back are the only indications of his frame’s origins. A faceplate and yellow visor contort up into ridiculous smiles as his clawed hands gesticulate wildly. His strut curls like a scorpion tail. 

The Seeker looks up at him. “I see we have a late comer to our little meeting.” Devcon stares back, the tip of his head cannon lights up. “Oh! Don’t be shy! We welcome newcomers.” 

Devcon slowly walks over. Before Balloon can identify him, he introduces himself, “The name’s Boomer. Because I like to make sonic booms. Whatcha doin?” 

“I see you’re an Autobot…but we don’t discriminate by faction here! Come and sit down! Let us meditate and grow closer to one another and this…planet we find ourselves upon.” Declares the modified Seeker hesitantly. 

Devcon sits down on the sandy shore right next to Balloon. “Did you want to see the Mendtor?” Balloon whispers to him. 

Before Devcon can reply, the Seeker floats up to the two of them. “Remember. We must be quiet while we meditate. Process about what your spark truly desires and what you would do to achieve it.” 

Devcon crosses his legs together and closes his optics. My spark desires seeing a laser bolt go straight through you. I will achieve it soon. As the group sits in silence, Devcon updates Matrix on his location. 

“Now, how about we all share. You go first, Dot.” The floating Decepticon points to the little green femme. 

“Oh! I’d like to serve my Emperor to the best of my ability!” Declares Dot. 

“Here! Here!” Agrees the blue triple changer. 

“The only acceptable answer.” Purrs the red femme beside him. 

Devcon pauses, he sees a gleam of dark green at the opposing ridgeline. Matrix kneels down in the brush, his targetmaster transforms into a long, dark sniper rifle. He aims at the Seeker. Then lowers Gun. Devcon raises his opticbrows. What’s stopping you? The green mech points at Dot. At first, Devcon doesn’t see but then… he notices that Dot only has a small tail rotor and is far smaller than the blue heli-former she sits beside despite having similarly sized alt-modes. Matrix only turns into the front half of a car…. They both have the same colors, just different proportions of neon to pine green. Matrix did say he’s from Devisiun. 

“What do you wish for?” Asks the Seeker as he orbits around Devcon. 

Devcon smirks. “To shut up the annoying mouth of yours.” Before the Decepticon could react, Devcon stands up and clamps his hands over the Seeker’s flamboyant shoulder pads, pushing him down. He warms up his head cannon. 

“Shatter! Dropkick! Do something!” The Seeker pleads as he scratches at Devcon’s stomach plating. 

“Nah, we agree with him. You can’t buy our loyalty, Jetstorm. We Trackers thought you needed to learn that.” Dismisses the blue triple changer as he and his partner pace around. 

A laser blast cuts through Jetstorm’s faceplate, scorching and twisting up the metal, exposing his toothless gums and overworked voice box from both ends. Purple liquid gurgles up in bubbles as he tries to speak. His claws tear at his face, knocking off the visor. Two red optics tear up as his engines wheeze and wail in place of his mouth. Jetstorm’s strut strikes forth, plunging into Devcon’s stomach. The bounty hunter drops him and steps back. Jetstorm transforms and dashes away down the valley. Matrix points Gun’s muzzle at the retreating Seeker, aiming for the jet’s left engine pod. The bullet leaves the round and hits its target flawlessly. Jetstorm falters, sheds off his earthly alternate mode, and curves upward in a high angle of attack, relying upon his undamaged energon radiation drives to power him past the speed of sound and then escape velocity. “Well, he won’t be a problem for you anymore.” Says Devcon as he walks back over to Balloon. 

“Too bad you got us as a problem now.” Says Dropkick as he and Shatter circle the Autobot and Neutral. Dot takes to the air, a few circular drones merge together to form the front half of her small helicopter alternate mode. A shadow falls upon them all as a gigantic, monochrome strategic bomber flies in overhead. He lowers his ramp and two additional Trackers roll off it and land on the ground; a wild looking orange femme and a blue face-plated ‘con with red tire rims. 

Matrix timidly approaches the fray, aiming Gun at the ‘cons while wary of his sister. Devcon makes the decision for him. He stomps around, caging Balloon in between his legs. He reaches out and snatches the front half of Dot. He crushes the combining drones, staining his hand in mint green fluid. He grabs her as she transforms. “Why you!” She squeals as she pulls out a peashooter and shoots at Devcon’s upper arm. He tightens his grip and turns the tip of his thumb into a blade edge, he twitches it, slicing into Dot’s neck, partially severing her life cord and triggering stasis lock. “Relax, she’ll be online.” Devcon assures Matrix as he approaches. “Remember, gotta mute your emotion circuits while in battle.” 

Shatter launches a spear at the bounty hunter, the tip pierces the outer layer of his armor. Devcon shoots back from his head cannon as picks up Balloon and holds him and Dot in one arm and a blaster in the other. He marches his way up hill, shooting at the Tracker’s who swarm around him. Matrix takes additional shots as well while his mechanimal, Frisket growls and makes mock charges. 

“Not so fast!” Rumbles the orange pickup truck as she drives through the brush and rams into Devcon’s shin. Matrix blasts at her but misses as she transforms and turns her helm into a crash helmet. She dashes back in for a spin attack. Before she could connect, the stream broke its bounds and floods. Groundwater bursts out of the sandy soil. Dark gray storm clouds roll in overhead, releasing sheets of rain, like a steel cage around blue silk. The water sloshes at the feet, tires, and legs of the Decepticons while avoiding the Neutrals. It seeps underneath the plating of several Decepticons and freezes upon contact, rupturing hydraulics and loosening armor. Some ‘cons fall to their hands and knees, allowing the water to climb deeper into the hands and arms. 

Devcon and Matrix make it to the top of the valley. At the edge of the rainclouds, Lapse circles above. Devcon lets go of Balloon. “What were you thinking! Getting involved in ‘con yoga?” Devcon shouts at him as the little neutral transforms and billows up to Lapse. “What do you want me to do with her?” Devcon asks as he lets Matrix look upon his sister. 

 Matrix sighs and takes out the golden scope replacing his missing optic, revealing a scarred cavity. “I want to talk with her again, even if she does end up leaving for the ‘cons. Let’s take her with us to the barn.” 

A Resort in the Italian Alps

Whirl’s holomatter avatar, a scarred woman with blue pigtails, an eyepatch, and a punk fashion sense, stands slumped over against the wall of a sleekly designed event space within a mansion owned by a friend of G.B. Blackrock. Whirl didn’t really care about the relations. A few solar cycles ago, long assumed deactivated Pretender, Cloudburst was discovered by a vacationing Blackrock. He got in touch with the other Autobots and both parties were filled in on modern events and the Decepticon’s possible knowledge of Unicron. Let them come. I’ll finally get to kill something. 

Kevin mingles with the other guests, often drawn to the food platters carried by the servants. He snatches a little kabob and spins it around, examining the vegetable and meat choices and how it’s seasoned and grilled. Whirl dissipates and reappears right beside Mr. Blackrock as he concludes his conversation with a woman in a black dress. “How are you enjoying the party, Whirl?” He asks as he faces the hologram. 

“This ain’t a party. A real Wrecker party would have a mosh pit, barrels of hot oil and engex forced down your fuel tank, music so loud and heavy you’re audio-receptors separate from your central process, random powerlinking, cube matches, using a ‘con corpse as a piñata…” Whirl rattles off. 

“I understand. Perhaps we can channel that sort of energy and event structure for when this ordeal is over. We’ll have to make it survivable for humans of course.” Replies the man. 

“You’re no fun.” Whirl pouts. 

“I think we merely have different definitions and expectations. Is there anything I can help you with?” Asks Mr. Blackrock. 

“I wanna borrow Bursty boy over there. Get him used to flying again.” She points over at Kevin as he flags down another waiter serving cucumber sandwiches. 

“Didn’t your medic say that he was energy starved and his organs weak from the extended stasis lock?” Mr. Blackrock reminds her. 

“Pfft. When you’re weak, you workout to get stronger. Plus, you’ve been taking him to every restaurant, bakery, winery, whatever he wants to. All of that has gone straight to his fuel tanks. He’ll be fine for a quick flight.” Whirl dismisses. 

“If you say so. I’ll send him on his way to the rest of you.” Says Blackrock as he walks away. 

Whirl’s avatar disappears and her attention turns back to the hanger she’s residing in. It belongs to a friend of a friend of Blackrock’s who has a passion for aviation. A few propeller planes, ranging from stunt to sea, fill up the space. Blackrock and Kevin toured the hanger yesterday, allowing the pretender the chance to pick a suitable, modern alternate mode. Now, it's time to test it out. 

Kevin opens the hanger doors and steps inside. He takes the time to stretch before emerging out of his shell. A red high-wing, single engine propeller plane takes the human’s place. Bands of light gray streak horizontally along the underside of his fuselage and wrap over his tail. A little Autobot badge rests right beside his prop. Whirl rolls out of the hanger and unfurls her rotors into a light chop. 

Long shadows envelop the small mountain valley, home to a resort, several rentable cabins, and a tiny airport, now closed for the evening. The setting sun descends behind the peaks, its light dispersed in shades of orange, red, and dark blue. Whirl lifts up into the air, retracts her landing gear, and circles around Cloudburst as he taxis down the runway. “Takeoff, takeoff, takeoff!” Whirl chants. 

His stabilizer and rudder twitch as his prop starts to spin. He rushes down the runway. The front landing gear lifts up and he leans back on his tail until he lifts off the ground. He flies a few meters off the ground for about a quarter length of the runway before landing. He transforms, vents out exhaust and retreats back into his shell, panting with his hands on his knees. “What was that pathetic excuse?” Whirl shouts down at him as she readies her winch. 

“Red Alert says I have to take it easy.” Whines the pretender as he walks off. 

Whirl’s winch lasso’s around his arms and torso. She jerks up into a climb, taking Kevin up with her. “Put me down!” He shouts back. 

“The rope’s not that thick. Transform and fly down if you're so worried.” Whirl chuckles as she angles forward into as steep of a climb as possible without stalling. Kevin dangles and wiggles beneath her. She flies over the edge of the valley and rakes upward against steep rock spires and cliffs. 

Finally the pretender transforms and breaks through her rope with ease. Cloudburst free falls for a few seconds, transforms in midair, sputters his prop to life, and joins Whirl in flight. “That is the exact opposite of how you treat someone who’s injured, a division member, and a fellow human being!” Cloudburst exclaims. 

“One; you aren’t injured, you just took too long of a nap so we all thought you were dead. Two; we’re from separate divisions. And three; neither of us are humans. It’s always you two who forget that. It grinds me gears.” Whirl retorts. 

Cloudburst goes silent and falls behind Whirl. Occasionally, his engine stalls or he rolls left when he meant to fly right. The sky turns dark and cold as the two Autobots fly into the night, hugging close above the treeline and heading northward. Once he’s about a klik behind her, only visible as a pair of green and red lights at the end of his wings, Cloudburst starts up a conversation. “What was your favorite place in Polyhex?” He asks. 

Whirl’s blades slow for a nanosecond. She pops out an anti-tank missile on her underside. “It blew up. Just like the rest of the city and the entire universe by the time we’re done with it.” She pauses in midair, just hovering as she takes more missiles, bombs, gattling, and machine guns from her side paneling and subspace and allows it to accumulate along her fuselage and winglets. As Cloudburst catches up with her, she continues, “Sorry, that’s a bit too straight up nihilistic for me.”

“No, the pain is in all of us who used to live there and now…” Cloudburst starts.

“Ugh! Even small talk would be better than this. Say! Why don’t ya tell me about your favorite human food you tried out today? At least that will be better listening.” Whirl groans and spins around. 

Cloudburst catches up to her and raises one spoiler while lowering the other, like quizzical eyebrows, sending him into a right roll. Whirl aims a machine gun at him. The propeller plane levels out but doesn’t back off. “You know, threats lose their effectiveness if you don’t follow through.” He states.

“Do you want me to shoot you?” She barks back. 

“No, I’m not a masochist. At most, a culinary hedonist.” Replies Cloudburst. 

“Ugh! Stop. What's with you pretenders and trying to get me to be a better person again!” Whirl shouts. She knew why. The Autobots didn’t do prisons. They had a justice system, a police force, courts which allowed ‘bots to sue each other or some larger organizations, access ex’cons in amnesty trials, deliver justice on behalf of the victims and consequences to the perpetrators, and hold disciplinary hearings. In the Wreckers it was different, rowdiness, unpredictability, and capacity for violence were encouraged, hardly the most healthy environment for someone seeking justice against the Decepticons who burned her watchshop to the ground. She wasn’t the only ex-Wrecker to be deemed too unstable for active service, to be sent through the courts, to rehab, to extensive therapy sessions and mnemosurgeon curated reflections, to ‘time out’ in the brig of battle cruiser.  It ended the same for everyone who had it worse than her, revocation of their Autobrand. Revocation of their job, payment, the free housing in Iacon, and of protection from those seeking their own justice. The Autobots didn’t do prisons. But the Decepticons make up for it. Others revoked of their Autobrand could still have a life in Iacon or elsewhere. The Wreckers though are responsible for the deactivations of thousands of Decepticons, from Seekers made of melted down scrap and barely trained Trackers to Phase Sixers and DJD Deputies. Unlike Metalhawk who slept their way through imprisonment and was kept alive for their knowledge and debt to the Decepticons, Whirl had nothing to offer them but the sight of her spark extinguishing. 

A dark purple laser beam creeps up on the two fliers, striking at the tips of Cloudburst’s wing and one of Whirl’s blades. Whirl’s targeting systems activate, identifying a pair of headlights diffused from a motionless source beside an alpine stream. She sends a bomb after it, low in heat but high in vibration. It falls to its target and turns off the lights, shaking the trees but leaving the mountain side undisturbed by wildfire or a landslide. 

Whirl and Cloudburst land. Rattled over evergreens and disturbed dust form a deathbed for a modified off-roading truck frame. Cloudburst shrinks back down into his shell to inspect it. Only the curvaceous fenders, cracked headlights, and freshly muddied tires remain identifiable among the internal fires, crumbling debris, and rusted gray frame. A few dark purple crystalline shards are strewn around the blast radius. Before Whirl could announce its identity, a tiny voice rings through the forest. “Let me get back to the car, dear. I think I heard a rescue helicopter overhead. We might just sleep in our own bed tonight.” 

A man walks out of the undergrowth and stands still. Whirl steps behind a tree and dims her lights. Through the darkness, Whirl can’t make out his features aside from the shagginess of a beard atop a broad, plump chest. “I’m sorry sir, I’m lost as well. But maybe together we can get through this.” Kevin says, trying to extend a hand to the man.

His arm lurches forth unnaturally and points. “I know you…” He whispers before breaking down in a coughing fit. Kevin rushes in to help him. Whirl puts her foot down between them, crushing the bearded man’s outstretched, right leg with a clawed talon. “AHHHRKKKLLEK!” He yells out as the leg denatures itself into a pile of rust lichen clinging to a decaying metal skeleton. Whirl swings out a sword, bisecting him horizontally. 

Cloudburst emerges and stares down as the human flesh returns to its natural state as an algal colony. “That was Landmine. Wasn’t it?” He says as he drops to his knees. 

“No. Remember, he was deactivated over a vorn ago. It’s a Terrorcon and by the looks of it, it underwent a severance upon revitalization or maybe he was killed by it.” Whirl accesses. 

“I thought severances only occur with Combiners.” Says Cloudburst. 

Whirl shakes her head. “Nah, it can happen to anybody who’s Spark ends up occupying two different bodies even if they connect. It can happen to your Ultra Magnuses and Star Sabers, your Sky Lynxes. Primus, I wish it happened to Sky Lynx. If a component dies in a Gestalt. And even you it seems. One half, often the larger one, is damaged or deactivated and the Spark flees into the smaller one as a defensive measure.” She points between the car wreck and the metallic skeleton. “Of course that means, a lifeless husk, hollow bones, and a wacked up subspace situation.” She picks up a gray bone and crushes it between her fingers. 

“May his Spark rest where all are one.” Murmurs Cloudburst. 

Whirl ignores him and stares down at the stream. A pair of violet optics stare at her from the cobbly riverbed before dislodging and flowing away. We’ll still have his ‘dear’ to deal with.

Chapter Text

The Shuttle Yard, Iacon

Sky Lynx awakens from his recharge, each paw planted onto a standard sized slab. He unfurls his wings and parts his jaws as he yawns. His current residence in Iacon is a simple hanger, sparsely furnished with only a shelving unit, the four slabs, and a raised table in the center. He stands up, grabs an energon cube off the shelf and takes it to the table to lap up while reading the morning news. 

His neck curls downward to drink the liquid energon while his right paw projects a holopad with today’s headlines. Mostly the transporter strike it seems. If I weren’t away on the mission, then I’d participate. For the past few centuries, the value of Shanix has been artificially inflated by the Decepticon Empire, dragging up prices used by most Cybertronians and other sapient species throughout the Galaxy. Free housing and fuel (dictated by frame size and procurement) were provided to everyone who bore an Autobot insignia and lived within or close to Iacon. Endure the inane and lengthy courses taught with curriculum processor-made by Ultra Magnus and you’ll never be without a home or meal so long as you function. The rest of someone’s expenses were paid for by a stimulus check of 10,000 shanix delivered vornly and their salary from their jobs. It was up to the High Council to vote on whether or not to raise the minimum wage for the various Districts and Industries. Such divisions in wages based on occupation were holdouts of the old Senate and Functionism that had yet to be surgically removed like the necrotic material it was due to the leverage of a certain walking chin and his base. The decision to raise wages had to happen one by one, over the centuries, with those living in the Shuttle Yard the last to be considered. 

Sky Lynx swipes onto the next article, a feel-good story about a Velocitrionian veteran racer opening up a training facility for mentorless Neutral sparklings. His scrolling is disturbed by a call from Orion. 

The Autobot shuttler perks up and greets the archivist as he appears on video upon the holopad. “Ah, good morning, Orion Pax! Is it good to be back home?” 

“Only for a little bit. What about you? Get those power washing and paint retouches done?” Orion asks. 

“As you said, we’re only here for a little bit. A waste of money only to return to a planet called dirt or… is this why you’ve called me this early in the morning! Let me rest briefly from a long flight and then send me back out the next day?” Sky Lynx scoffs. 

“I know you’ve narrowed down its location but I’ll need you to actually retrieve it. You’re the only one I trust for this position.” Orion implores. 

“Why? Make me do all the work so that Blaster doesn’t have too and you get his vote?” The giant bird-cat asks. 

“Maybe. I’ve revised our proposal. The one Metalhawk drafted was good but wouldn’t pass through the council with how many votes we needed. This one gives us the resources we need while not straining our other efforts.” Orion explains. 

“Yes. How dare we not rock the boat when the entire Universe is at stake?” Sky Lynx mumbles. 

“We’ll make it through this.” Orion assures. 

“I see you still have plenty of optimism then?” Says Sky Lynx.

“It’s never left me. Just the will to act upon it has waned.” Muses the historian. “Will you do it?”

“Fine! Yes. I guess I’ll do it. But don’t expect it to be done in two deci-cycles. It might take me quartexes!” Sky Lynx shouts. Orion frowns. “Don’t give me that look! I know about the time limit. But, sometimes the universe needs to hold out for its grandest, most glorious, most gracious hero.” He makes a fist with his paw and brings it up to his chest. 

“Good.” States Orion. 

“What about getting back to Earth? You don’t expect Metalhawk to be running relay races between here and back just to fetch the Parable? And finding another shuttle such as myself will be difficult with the current strike or trying to add that to your easily passable proposal.” Questions Sky Lynx. 

“I was actually going to ask you about that.” Orion starts. 

“Don’t bother with another shuttle. You’ll never find someone as outstanding as myself. Find a cheap pilot with a sturdy ship. With quantum engines! Who knows about the state of some Spacebridges." Sky Lynx advises before logging off. 

Alloy Alley, Devisiun

Sky Lynx’s feline half stalks the lowest levels of Alloy Alley while his avian half flies in circles above, barely visible through layers of store signs, cables and wires, antenna, flighted transformers, awnings, stairs, and miscellaneous platforms. On any other planet, the Alley would be considered a narrow canyon yet the layers of mint-green living metal that cover Devisiun’s cyberformed surface turned into a narrow center of commerce that runs along a third of the planet’s southeastern hemisphere. The bird component lands at the edge of the division in the landscape. Smooth meadows of bronze patina  stretch on, only broken up by the half-klik wide canyon, the twin gleams of the binary suns shining down upon the Combiner colony, and radio towers signaling between villages. He peers back down, advertisements sprayed over other billboards crowd the view to the bottom. In the Alley, the newest, most outlandish businesses compete in the upper levels while the oldest establishments with mundane yet dependable offerings like simple repairs and modifications, fuel, or a slab to rest on find permanent residence at the bottom layers. 

He often came back to his second home planet for supplies or leisure while off duty. While his Spark and frame were originally forged in the hot spot housed within Avion, Titan Seeker of Vos, his injuries sustained during the Siege of Polyhex and retreat to Devisiun had left his Spark fading and frame an inanimate shuttle beneath the Rust’s waves. As his spark was held within an extractor, it felt the twin lights of Devisiun’s suns make it flare once more. Realizing his spark’s renewed promise, Devisiun medics placed it within a new protoform and he was reforged as Sky Lynx. 

Devisiun had remained neutral since the War’s beginning. It has a more collectivist society organized under a singular planetwide government, a culture built on collaboration and compromise that is not so easily radicalized as the dispert City-States of Cybertron, Clans of Carcer, Velocitronian raceways, or Tribes of Eukaris. Still it was not immune to Decepticon influence, several Lords, Phase Sixers, and gestalts were of Devisen heritage and with their departure, brought millions of others under the Decepticon Empire. Thus, Devisiun was left a ghost planet, harboring its own natives, other Neutral transformers, a few Autobot outposts and Decepticon recruitment centers scattered across its pale teal plates. 

Sky Lynx stops in front of a pair of sliding doors. A camera stares up at him from the doorframe. “State your designation, faction, and intention.” An automated voice rings out from a dingy speaker beside the camera. 

“Sky Lynx, Autobot, and fun.” States the white, cyan, and electrum-coated cat. 

The doors rise up to accommodate his height and slide apart. He walks into a massive warehouse, Jiffer’s Jiffy Journey Outlet. The Journey Outlet had been in business for nearly a billion stellar cycles, owned and operated by the Titan Jiffer and his Forged. It served expeditions, explorations, colonization, and conquests for customers galaxy-wide. Sky Lynx transforms into his tracked launch platform vehicle mode and drives toward the Energon Cube depositors. 

A gigantic tray of magenta energon cubes lays before him. A pale blue hovercraft with a spatula attachment upon a mechanical arm glides over the tray, shoveling out cubes from their confines and delivering them to customers. Sky Lynx transforms and sits down, waiting his turn. The hovercraft approaches him and trisects into three identical siblings. One holds the spatula and nods to Sky Lynx. “How many cubes would you like?” 

“As many as will fit within my pockets.” Sky Lynx opens up a compartment upon his forelimb, allowing access to his subspace. 

“May I have a look inside?’ Asks another sibling, distinguished from the others by a pair of round-lensed spectacles over her white optics. 

Sky Lynx nods and outstretches his forepaw. The combining femme sticks her entire upper body into his pocket and runs a few scans with her lenses. She steps back and returns to her siblings to quietly deliberate. 

The third sibling walks up to him, holding a datapad in his caution tape-striped hands. “Because of the quantity of cubes in your purchase we ask that you pay with cash or debit and specify their use beyond your previously stated intention of ‘fun’.”

“I need to get to the Coda.” Sky Lynx clarifies. The brother's optics widened but he typed out the explanation on the datapad and held it out for Sky Lynx to sign and pay. Sky Lynx taps at the screen with a delicate claw, the tip dulled to a ball point. Orion, you owe me. 

The cat lays down and extends out his open forelimb, allowing the trio to fill his pockets up with energon cubes. Once they are finished, he closes the compartment, a rim of pink light emanating around the cracks. The tray is empty and the siblings beckon a tow truck to come and take it away while two forklifts push a new one to take its place. 

On his way out of the Journey Outlet, Sky Lynx purchases a medkit, signal dampeners, and anti-glare grease for his windscreen. He steps back outside and turns right, heading towards the elevators so he can reunite with his other half and resume his journey. 

“Come one, come all! Don’t you wish you weren’t reliant upon others? Well with these blacksmith-crafted, Cityspeaker commanded, Primus blessed, Seeker frames freshly forged from the City-State of Vos!” A skinny silver seeker struts beside the elevators. He poses and flaunts his body around, tiptoping and swaying his hips while flapping his wings like a 35 foot tall pixie. “You there!” He points at Sky Lynx. 

“Stop.” Moans Sky Lynx. 

“Hardly! How can you stand the sight of yourself? Why you absolutely could use an upgrade!” Shouts the advertiser. 

“Contrary to my current frame, I was forged from Avion long before I held…long before Starscream turned him into a factory. Now stop or I’ll scratch that vermeil off you like an ornery zukubuck to a megamoss.” Replies Sky Lynx as he presses the button for up on the control panel. 

“Then what’s your original designation?” Asks the seeker as he runs his fingers over the giant Autobot’s hips, haunches, and shoulders, before scratching up underneath the chin. Sky Lynx growls and parts his jaws, revealing long gilded fangs. “Come on, you can whisper it to me. If not, I’m sure Avion would love to be reunited with one of his sons, as smelt and slag.” 

Sky Lynx tries to pull away but the Decepticon snatches at the gaps in his plating and charges up a null ray. “Skyfire of Vos.” The cat finally admits under his breath. 

The seeker’s yellow optics widen and he puffs out his vents and mouth. Sky Lynx pulls away and steps onto the elevator. The null ray fires. 

Brig of a Decepticon Capital Ship

Sky Lynx slowly came back online, the glow from his windscreen and landing lights sufficient enough for him to identify his surroundings as a jail cell. Three layers, steel bars, short-circuiting lasers, and a thin force shield, keep him isolated from a narrow hallway and the door. Across from him is another cell and crumpled up figure. The other prisoner strains to lift his helm up against the strong magnetism that held them connected in place of artificial gravity. Sky Lynx sees hollow red optics underneath an expanded, blimp-like crest of blue, red, yellow, and cyan strips. “Small universe, isn’t it, Jetstorm?” Sky Lynx whispers, finding his serpentine face restricted by a crude metal muzzle. Other quickly crafted restraints and clamps are wrapped around his torso and wings. 

The Storm Seeker remains silent and rolls onto his back, forward swept wings streaked with burn marks from leaving Earth’s atmosphere. Finally he says, “They’ll probably speak with you as well…” His mouth is shiny and unpainted, a recent repair.

“Who will?” The Autobot asks as he looks at his internal reader. I’ve been offline for eight solar cycles, they’ve probably started the High Council Meeting already. Thoroughly disarmed of both physical bullets, blaster rounds, and missiles. No messages from anyone and the ‘cons didn’t take my energon. Interesting…

“Some femme. Seeker of the Mind rank. She’s doing an investigation into the Earth.” Jetstorm mumbles before bursting out laughing, a hoard shrill of a strained voice box and tinny speakers. “She actually believes the Earth is Unicron!” 

“Oh no…” Sky Lynx utters. 

Jetstorm pushes himself off the floor and his head jerks around. “What did you say? It’s true then! That’s why Roadkill was so worried earlier! I think I might have a stash of Dark Energon somewhere…and I know where Sun, Nova, and Ion still rest… together we’ll bring the Storm across the Galaxy!” Jetstorm declares. 

“And what is the Storm exactly?” Sky Lynx asks. 

Jetstorm ignores him. “Guard! Guard! Let me out! By the Fallen’s will I have a task that I must see done!” He slams his fists against the steel bars. 

Sky Lynx attempts to sit down, the restraints buckle. I could easily break free but…I’ve never been captured before, I don’t want this to ever happen again. He waits, the cycles slip by like marbles in a child’s hand. Jetstorm continues to pry at the bars, wedging them apart enough to stick his entire forearm through. He weaves his clawed fingers between the laser beams and begins to pick at the gaps in the cold, hard floor. 

The door swings open. A bulky black warden marches inside, in his hands he holds a cup of energon and passes it between the shield, laser, and bars to Jetstorm who straightens up, takes it and shimmies away upon his strut. The warden grabs the bent bars and pushes them back together. He pulls out two pairs of stasis cuffs nearly half his size and taps a control panel next to Sky Lynx’s cell, lowering the wall. He clasps the cuffs around the Autobots forelimbs and hindlegs while removing any redundant restraints. Sky Lynx’s legs go numb as stasis takes effect. “Walk.” Orders the warden. The rows of white light glow from grooves in the cuffs and the energy chain connecting them. The rim of the cuffs push against his lifeless limbs, catching on the convex edges around his elbows and ankles. The cuffs pull forward, puppeteering Sky Lynx’s legs into a stilted amble. 

The warden holds the door open for Sky Lynx. He enters a long, gun-metal gray, ovular coridor lit by rows of orange and red light. Occasionally, Sky Lynx hears the whoosh of jet engines and clinks of wings and tail fins hitting against the walls. The black seeker leads Sky Lynx to an interrogation room, barely large enough to let him sit down.

Sky Lynx crawls inside and the warden readjusts the neck restraints so that his neck is curved down and buckles underneath itself. His toothy jaw rests just above a table. Across from him is an empty seat and shelf with more stasis cuffs, various inhibitor chips, and cortical psychic patch. The warden stands solemnly against the door. “You look short.” Sky Lynx grumbles. 

“I did not give you permission to speak, Autobot.” Scorns the seeker. 

“You have delta-shaped wings, a wide cockpit, and one, two, four engine pods. You look like you’re made out of you’re alt-mode, some stealth bomber you scanned. You should angle your wings back and up and add a conehead attachment, maybe heel struts as well.” Advises Sky Lynx. The warden opens a missile compartment on his chest while he takes notes on a holopad. 

The door opens and a violet and teal femme steps inside, holding a datapad close to her chest. “Leave us.” She orders the warden. 

“So you must be the investigator Je…” Sky Lynx starts. 

“Do not speak unless spoken to. And not mention that traitor’s designation. He has his fate etched in steel. Yours will be decided if I can confirm that the claim you made to Silverspeak on Devisiun was true. But first to the matter at wing: Earth.” Says the seeker as her wings fidget, not at the base as expected for Seekers or any transformer with back-mounted wings but along the ailerons and air brakes as though she’s used to seeing wings as fixed, unmovable kibble bits. She wasn't a forged Seeker. What batch is she from? 

Sky Lynx stays quiet. He tries looking around at her panel linings and plates, trying to identify any modifications other than wing shape. Slight foldings around the torso and collar intakes, she has LEXs and strakes. 

“You may speak.” Permits the femme. 

“What do you want to know about Earth?” Sky Lynx asks. 

“Tell me everything relevant to the conditions of the planet; climate, natural history, indigenous lifeforms, topography.” Says the interrogator. 

“It’s wet.” Sky Lynx states. A tiny led lights up at the nape of her neck, shining along the metal wall behind her. It quickly turns off. An airflow sensor moderator, she’s familiar with the properties of lift, drag, and thrust but buoyancy instead of gravity. She must have been a boat or submarine originally and needs help converting the motor memory of cruising atop water to flying through the air. 

“That’s it? Well, you are a shuttle. Makes sense you only see the surface below as a blur. Second question; how familiar were you with Metalhawk and their research?” She asks. 

“Don’t you mean ‘are’?” Sky Lynx corrects. 

“No. Metalhawk was deactivated recently after failing to confirm the legitimacy of their own research. I saw it done myself.” States the femme. 

Sky Lynx clicks the gun barrels in his mouth. He sifts through the 54th Epsilon, Earth Pretender, and Sol Defense Division’s group chat. Most recent one from Metalhawk says blah blah humans safe blah blah seeker in my apartment blah blah dread and anxiety. Seekers aren't exactly known for stealth, especially if she’s from the Mind rank so she must either hired a slicer or already had access to their apartment. The only people Metalhawk would trust with the keys would be a roommate, deactivated or has her own spot in the Barracks, or a relative. A mentor… 

A dangerous grin splits along his snout. “I know who you are.” He smirks. 

“Introductions are not necessary for this questioning. Answer me.” She dismisses. 

“No. I’m going to prove to you why I deserve your job. Technically, I deserve every job in the universe: I have the strength of a Prime, the tactics of a master strategist, the prowess of a warrior, the grace of a dancer, the beauty of a model. But what I really have is the duty of a shuttler. It’s what I have always been. Maybe it was what I was made to do under the institutions of Functionism. But I saw more to it than that. It allowed me to connect with people. Provide them with guidance, solace, and connection. And with connection comes networking and influence.” Sky Lynx explains. 

The seeker interrupts. “I fail to see how this is necessary information.” 

"No! You listen to me because I am talking! I am doing your job for you! I once carried a detective, Nightbeat, from the Mechaforensics HQ in Slemex to a triple murder-homocide in Tetrahex and back. She taught me how to ask questions and keep a careful optic on things. Like how your lips keep quivering. You want to speak but you are so enraptured by my cadence. The command I have over you. Or just the fact that a 'beast' such as myself speaks with more charisma than your Lord has in thousands of years." 

"Years?" She asks. 

"Earthling unit of time. Equivalent to one standard stellar cycle. Where was I…I learned the art of speaking from Nominus Prime. Although he was not the only one I carried that day. I was the personal shuttle for Senator Starscream of Vos.’

“After he left office, he approached me with his vision, a Cybertron free from the constraints of Functionism. It was a very common dream at the time. Of course, being Starscream, he needed to be on top, so he had back up plans: financially back the Decepticon Uprising, stay friendly with colleagues in the Senate, announce support for Autobot activists, become a runner up for Prime. Meanwhile, I organized everything. Found a Cityspeaker, blacksmiths, and cyberologists who would be willing to turn a living Titan into a factory. Froze, aborted, or extinguished thousands of newly ignited Sparks. And I allowed him to take all the credit in exchange to see the faint light of his Spark and become Amica Endura.” Sky Lynx explains. 

“And then you threw it all away.” States the seeker. 

“I wasn’t the one who shot his own friend above the churning waves for the Rust Sea. Nor was I the one to think she offlined her own apprentice just because they refused to answer a question.” Sky Lynx deflects. 

“How did you know?” Her ailerons start flapping wildly. 

“You are Slipstream of Archon. Originally forged from Tortuga, you sold off your original body, a hydroplane, to be melted down and underwent a body transplant 5.5 million stellar cycles ago. No, Metalhawk never told me about you. But seeing as your own apprentice turns into a starfighter, it makes sense why you have similar modifications. Starfighters often have LEXs and sawtoothed wings to give a high angle of attack, to fly straight up into the sky and breach the atmosphere as quickly as possible. Although there are redundant mods on a Tetrajet, you already turn into a lifting body. You would probably fly as though you are cruising atop water. And, you have narrow vents and hydrophobic paint.” Sky Lynx deduces. 

Slipstream fumes silently. “Is the Earth Unicron?”

“Will you release me if I tell you?” Sky Lynx counters. 

“Perhaps that could be arranged. Now that it is confirmed by your own testimony that you were indeed formally known as Skyfire of Vos, your fate has gone from spark extinguishing and body meltdown to whatever Lord Starscream deems. Although, because you can split apart, only one half is needed to remain under our custody.” Purposes Slipstream. 

“I guess you got a yes from me.” Sky Lynx confirms. 

The Coda, Edge of the Galaxy

A cylindrical space telescope floats at the edge of the Milky Way like a lighthouse perched on a cliff overlooking the vast ocean. Its solar panels tilt to catch the distant light of the disk of billions of stars, planets, moons, nebulas, black holes, and cosmic dust that glitters in rebellion against the void. The space telescope is part of a network of other telescopes, planetariums, satellites, and outposts arranged around the edge of the galaxy known as the Coda. It was constructed over the billions of stellar cycles by the Galactic Council, the Shadow Proclamation, Core Assembly, Cybertronian Commonwealth, and other galactic scale empires, organizations, alliances, and businesses to monitor the greater universe for scientific advancements and as an early warning system. 

Sky Lynx gradually approaches it in his shuttle mode, missing the chunk of tread and feline kibble of his other half. The lynx remained trapped aboard that Seeker ship. Slipstream had been true to her word and staged an accident with the ship’s quantum engines that caused it to hop halfway across the galaxy and a hull rupture that Sky Lynx slipped out of. He triggered a purposeful severance with his milotic spark to allow his two components to survive so far apart. 

He transformed and flapped his way over to the telescope. The talons upon his wings and feet hold tight yet delicately to the gribbled surface of the satellite. His tail flicks around, rummaging through his compartments to pull out a floppy disk with the Matrix of Leadership’s energy signature downloaded onto it. In the weeks prior to returning to Cybertron then embarking on his own journey, he pored over his datatrax from when he and Orion dispersed the Matrix and its replicas across the galaxy. Thanks to some calculations developed by Metalhawk, he was able to deduce the Matrix’s location to the galactic edge. He needed the assistance of the Coda to verify his results and pinpoint the exact position. In order to access the Coda’s knowledge and sensors, he needed permission. 

A procession of starships exits Unspace. Two gagantuan green crystalships from the Shadow Proclimation. A tamed spaceray undulates with an andelite and two starfawns suctioned upon their bioluminescent skin and protected from the airless void of space by a bubble. A hopship carrying delegates from the Galactic council escorted by a red, white, and blue space cruiser bearing the Autobot insignia. 

The space cruiser detaches himself from a quantum engine docking ring and transforms into a large, winged mech with a faceplate and two longswords sheathed at his sides, one a Great Sword gifted by the Circle of Light that drew its power from the good willed nature of his spark and the other his own indivisible self, a targetmaster named for the blade once wielded by Prima herself, Star Saber!
“Let’s say go! And halt! How goes it, Sky Lynx?” The high ranking Autobot greets. Star Saber is the Autobot’s ambassador to the Galactic Council and other diplomatic hearings that required more tact then what the walking chin is capable of. He also led several Autobot rebel cells and militias, was a renowned pilot of himself and other starships, and led sermons that pronounced how we all should uphold the good will of Primus, a talented swordsman and tactician. Should something ever happen to Ultra Magnus, it was commonly agreed by Autobots that Star Saber should succeed him as Supreme Commander. 

“Alright, I’d say. Do you cast your vote ahead of time?” Sky Lynx asks. 

“Yes. Sky Garry is offering it my place. I’ll have you know that I voted in your favor. The Earth and the Universe at large needs to be protected. Tis Primus’s will that we defeat his dark brother. And that is why I am here to allow you access to the Coda’s power.” Declares Star Saber as he takes out a key and uses it to unlock the Coda. Pale blue light shines from the keyhole and the processors within the telescope hum back to life. “May you redeliver the Matrix back to its chosen Prime, Optimus. And may he light our darkest hour!” 

A small pentapodal organic in a life-support suit, visor, and thruster pack emerges from the hopship with their own key to unlock the Coda. They’re followed by a squadron of Judoon starfighters, squat dark ships carrying their pachyderm pilots around the satellite. A pair of robotic arms fold down from the fuselage of a ship with red bands marking it as the squadron’s leader. The arms hold a key and unlock another part of the satellite. Lastly, the andelite leaves the protective bubble and takes the form of a juvenile spaceray. They unlock the last portion of the telescope. 

“Thank you for your consent and assistance today. We, Autobots, will reacquire the Matrix and put Unicron back to sleep so he may not harm the Galaxy.” Declares Star Saber as the others return to their ships and prepare to jump back through Unspace to the Core. 

Sky Lynx pays them no mind. He slips the floppy disk inside the satellite’s disk drive and begins to interface with it. 

The Coda: Authorization: Granted. User: Sky Lynx. Signature: Matched. 

Sky Lynx: Location of signature?

The Coda: Relative to where?

Sky Lynx: The Sol System. 

The Coda: Calculating. Extrapolating. 1st Quadrant. Auriga Constellation. Capella System. Approximately 7 parsecs away. 

Sky Lynx disengages. Only Star Saber remains, circling around the space telescope in his vehicle mode. He stops and faces Sky Lynx. “Did you find it?” 

“It’s in the Capella system. That’s only 13 parsecs away from here and 7 away from the Sol System. The Matrix will be reunited with Orion by February if my understanding of the human’s Gregorian calendar is correct.” Says Sky Lynx as he thrusts away from the satellite and transforms. 

Star Saber’s smallest self, a tiny silver and red mech with a blue visor dislodges from the rest of his power armor and stands atop its canopy. He kneels down. “Sky Lynx, may I join you in retrieving the Matrix and bringing about a billion stellar cycle long slumber upon Unicron once again?” 

“Of course.” Sky Lynx accepts. He turns around and powers up his E.R.R. drives. Star Saber follows behind him. The journey continues!

Chapter Text

Some Small Town, Eastern OR

Hot Rod parallel parks between a moving truck and a white convertible. In his driver seat, is Agent Simmons. His jaw has been held agap as he watches Hot Rod’s steering wheel spin around, a response of his tires movement rather than a source of input and control from a human vehicle. Hot Rod settles close to the curb and opens the door for the man. “Uh, thanks.” Simmons says as he slides out of the seat and steps onto the curb. Hot Rod is parked in front of a butcher’s shop, a well renowned one by the way Simmons talked it up while not gawking during the drive over. 

“Of course, hope you find your sharp cutlery board or whatever.” Hot Rod replies. 

Simmons stares at him, indignant rather than perplexed. “It's called a charcuterie. Do you have any respect for this planet or me?” He corrects. 

“Sorry. I didn't know you were so particular about putting shredded servos into the creature’s own fuel tank.” Sasses Hot Rod. 

“I will slash your tires if you say one more bad thing about the one thing that brings me joy.” Threatens Simmons as he pulls out a switchblade from his pocket.

“Why would you willingly put rotting mold into something you are supposed to eat?” Hot Rod asks. 

Simmons’ face turns bright purple and he mockingly jabs the knife forth. Hot Rod folds in his side mirrors and locks his doors. The Sector 7 agent harrumphs and marches into the butcher’s shop. 

Hot Rod turns his attention to the street. A simple strip of the town’s ‘Historical Downtown’. Don’t know if I’d call a town that's only been around for two centuries, historic. It's all a matter of perspective. Keep your cool. Hot Rod reminds himself as he turns off his engines. Two story brick buildings line both sides of the street, broken up by a parking lot directly across from him. Green, red, and golden lights are strung across the street, twisted around lamp posts and the bare trees. Ornamental, miniature evergreens, fake hoofed herbivores with glowing red noses, and a large, bearded man are plastered up in store windows, fixed on rooftops, and skewed in front lawns.  A few humans bundled up in coats against the cold, dry air walk along the sidewalk, entering the small businesses and offices on street level or returning to their cars with wrapped gifts and colorful bags in hand. 

Joyride rolls up to him and leans against her kickstand, putting her festively dressed holomatter avatar into an idle pose. “Have you seen any signs of the Tracker’s yet?” He asks her. 

“Nope, but I’ll keep doing my laps.” Replies Joyride. 

“Yeah, go do that.” Says Hot Rod with a sigh in his voice. He watches her turn left at the nearest stop sign. 

The white convertible lowers its roof. For a moment, there’s no one in its seat until the hologram of a man with a blonde pompadour and a stiff orange jacket. His hands hover over the steering wheel as the car slowly backs up, a purple Decepticon insignia rises up on the car’s trunk. Hot Rod bites back the urge to launch his weapons out and instead sets off his car alarm. 

Blaring beeps ring around the street. The few humans on the sidewalk cram their hands over their ears and look around for the perpetrator with scowling faces. Simmons looks startled through the store windows to the butcher shop and marches back out. “What did you do to my car, man?” He shouts, pointing a finger at the Tracker’s avatar. 

The hologram puts its hands up. “Look, I’m sorry…”

“You just nearly hit my car backing up right now! Do you know who I am?” Before the hologram can respond, Simmons takes out his pistol and badge. “I am a government agent, you little punk ass bitch. Show some respect.” 

“Sorry, Agent. I hate how things have Runabout here.” Says the avatar. An identical convertible, except for her black paint job, drives slowly in the opposite lane. The white car, Runamuck, backs up even more, easing a tire onto the curb. His trunk pops open and a minigun folds out and aims at Hot Rod’s windshield. “Get across the street, Autoboob.” Runamuck orders. 

“Okay…” Hot Rod slowly backs up and shimmies on his tires out of the tight jam. The minigun follows along while Runabout watches. Her hood slightly raises and the barrel of a shotgun peers out at him as he crosses the street and settles into the small empty parking lot. 

Simmons stands on the sidewalk, pistol held in both hands as he aims at Runamuck’s tires. The onlooking townsfolk pull out their phones to record this covert battle or call the local authorities. “No! Don’t call the police! I’m a government agent! I got this. Just hang tight and let me handle this.” Hollars the agent. His eyes dart over to Hot Rod. I’m the ‘me’. 

Joyride turns back onto the street and hugs Runabout’s bumper. “What’s the plan?” She asks over their radio. 

“We drive these ‘cons out of town!” Hot Rod feigns boisterousness. 

A large orange pickup hauling a flatbed trailer pulls up into the parking lot, a black and red classic car sits upon the trailer. Jasper and Roadkill. The pickup pushes Hot Rod into the nearest parking lot as she backs up and decouples from the trailer. She pulls back into the parking spot next to her leader. Runamuck leaves his spot alongside the curb, grabs Joyride and tosses her in the middle of the parking lot. Hot Rod rewinds his short term datatrax, letting it play back in slow motion: Runamuck transforms, runs across the street, picks up Joyride and flings her upon the ground. Runamuck returned to vehicle mode and parks right beside Hot Rod. They’re so close together that if the Decepticon chose to open his doors, they’d scrap along the Autobot’s sides. Runabout joins her brother’s side. 

Joyride tries to get up, flailing her front tire and handlebars against the ground. A stream of water shoots at her, cast from the hose of a firetruck rolling into the entrance to the parking lot, blocking them all in. The firetruck’s sides change from listing the station of origin to a purple Decepticon insignia and the phrase "to punish and enslave" emblazoned. 

"Okay…what do you want?" Hot Rod asks as he pings his location to Red Alert and Tigertrack. 

“We want to do you a favor: ridding yourself of that rodent.” Says Jasper. 

“Where is Rattrap?” Asks Roadkill as he slowly drives up to Hot Rod. 

“Off planet. I’m acting leader of the 54th Epsilon Division. Anything you need to tell him, you can tell me.” Says the Autobot. 

“Pity. Your scrap metal wouldn’t resemble him. Hers however…” Roadkill alludes. Jasper backs out of her parking spot and approaches Joyride’s back tire. 

Hot Rod reverses and flings his rear bumper into Roadkill’s front doors, blazing out flames from his exhaust pipes. “Run!” He orders. Joyride transforms, climbs up the wire fence, and dashes into the alleyway. 

“After her!” Orders Roadkill. The firetruck pulls away and back onto the street. The lead Tracker dashes ahead and disappears making an abrupt left turn through the stop sign. Runamuck and Runabout volt over the fence faster than the optic could process. Hot Rod tries to exit, but Jasper jostles her way in front of him. He bangs into her side. He backs up and turns left. He partially transforms and readies his suspension and shocks. Then charges!

He drives over the curb, downs the fence, and races back onto the street. Simmons gives him a thumbs up as the Autobot dashes through the town. Hot Rod’s exhaust blaze, his tires burn, the small shops, ranches, and endless farmland becomes a blur. Finally, he sees Joyride again. 

She merges onto a ramp that connects up to the highway. Roadkill hangs back while the two Battlechargers nip at the dirt bike’s back tire. Hot Rod quickly catches up to the Lead Tracker and readies an energy arrow to launch from his partially transformed spoiler. If I could just aim at one of the siblings…

As the arrow launches, a groundbridge portal opens up. Hot Rod goes through. 

He finds himself on the side of the same highway, 25 kliks down road, surrounded by rolling golden-gray hills and small basalt cliffs. He dashes back onto the road, nearly getting sideswiped by an oncoming semi rig. He accelerates faster than a glancing shadow and swerves between the two lanes. He draws the ire of a state officer who pursues him. The brief chase ends as an ambulance tears down the road with sirens blazing, forcing everyone to the shoulder. A yellow sports car follows after. Red Alert and Tigertrack!

“What happened, Hot Rod?” The medic asks as he drives up to her. 

“Joyride’s in trouble!” He exclaims, fighting against the road and traffic to retake the lead.

“Then why aren’t you with her?” Huffs Tigertrack. 

“Roadkill groundbridged me out here! I think he wants to use her parts as a forgery for Rattrap’s remains.” Hot Rod says. 

“Huh. Let them have the rodent then.” Tigertrack scoffs. 

“Enough! We aren’t looking at a slaughter. Hot Rod, was Knock Out with them?” Red Alert says. 

“No. Just Roadkill, Jasper, two Battlechargers, and a firetruck.” Replies Hot Rod. 

“Then we aren’t looking at a dissection either. But taxidermy.” Red Alert states. 

Her fears are confirmed shortly by the sight of tire marks burned into the pavement near that same onboarding ramp. A few blaster shots stain the concrete walls and cats eyes. A trail of rapidly desaturating orange plastic shards leads to a life cord. A thick cable made up of wires, trains of circuitry, and support struts connecting the three most important organs for a Cybertronian, the brain module, the transformation cog, and the Spark held barely within its blooming casing. The rest of her body rattles in Jasper’s bed. 

Red Alert pulls up next to the life cord and opens up her doors. She projects her holomatter avatar, a frazzled looking woman wearing white scrubs. The avatar kneels down to inspect Joyride’s life cord. Hot Rod and Tigertrack park behind her. “She’s still holding on. Her spark hasn’t been extinguished. Yet. I’ll take her back to base and try to get her stabilized. But it might be many vorns before she ever has a body again with the ways things keep going.” Red Alert reports as her avatar picks up the life cord and bits of Joyride’s plating and puts it on her stretcher. She returns to the road. 

Hot Rod remains parked. I…I could have done something! Not get blocked into the parking lot, not invite her on this mission, fired that arrow sooner, swerved away from the groundbridge…

Tigertrack touches him with an open door. “Leave here, kid. I’ll watch over this town should there be any stragglers.” 

Hot Rod rumbles his engines in agreement. “Alright.” 

Autobot Base, Cascade Mountains, WA

Thick storm clouds hang low in the mountain valley beneath the dark, starless night. The doors to the right hanger are closed but occasionally a scream will ring out. Not audibly but felt in the spark as one of its sister’s fights to remain in the living world. Hot Rod sits beside a trio of oil drums. Leobreaker joins him, dropping a mouthful of firewood into the drums. Hot Rod reaches out and lights it with his exhaust pipes. Sometimes, Leobreaker will look at him and part open his jaw to speak but nothing comes out. 

“You are not the first Autobot to be in this position.” Says the lion eventually. 

“Way to make me doubt the cause even more than myself.” Groans Hot Rod. 

Leobreaker glances at him before softening his expression. “Take your time with your emotions. Better to feel them then to delete them.” 

The door to the right hanger opens and Red Alert appears in the doorway, beckoning Hot Rod forth. “Where’s Nightviper?” She asks. 

Upon hearing her name, the serpent slithers out of the left hanger, groggy from the torpor she found herself in between missions. “What issss it, Red Alert?”

“I have prepared enough engex for Joyride’s life cord to be preserved in. Now I just need to perform mnemosurgery on her to simulate stasis lock.” She leads the two bots inside, Leobreaker pads after them with a concerned look in his optics. An energon refinery dominantes much of the room, a composite of several machines that melts, purifies, deradiates, recrystalizes, and liquifies energon crystals into liquid energon sloshing around in cubes. More cubes are stacked along the walls. Red Alert stands next to a surgical table, Joyride’s life cord rests upon it with a plastic tote full of recently made engex right next to her. 

“Do you need me to do it…” Nightviper worries. 

“Oh! No! I need some of your cyber-venom. It will loosen the connection between her brain module and spark enough for me to carry through with the mnemosurgery myself.” Red Alert assures. She takes out a vial and holds it out for Nightviper. The Eukarian flashes out her fangs and snatches the top of the vial, milking out the venom. “Thank you.” The medic sets it down and dismisses the serpent. She carefully reaches up to her elongated helm piece and dislodges it a bit, taking it off completely. A side plait of wires and cables tumbles down, at the end of each cable is a small piece of medical equipment, scalpels, stethoscopes, thermometers, and needles meant for mnemosurgery. 

Leobreaker walks in, glaring at the medic. “Are you sure a patch wouldn’t work?” He counters. 

Red Alert shakes her head and picks up Joyride’s brain module. “The ports have been heaved off. Roadkill carved his way through her. Plus, mnemosurgery is more precise.” 

“And addictive.” Leo warns. “And deadly.”

“That's why I’m tolerating you two right now. I’ve trained you both on spark resuscitation.” Adds Red Alert as she drizzles Nightviper’s venom over the module. She unties her cables, allowing the needles to wiggle and roam as they search for an entry point…then jab! Red Alert’s legs begin to slack. Hot Rod holds up her arms while Leobreaker braces her back. 

“Couldn’t the memories of Joyride nearly being deactivated cause her to go offline?” Hot Rod asks. 

“She’s aware of that. She only resorts to mnemosurgery as a last resort and within a medical context. It's why she’s doing it rather then teaching Nightviper how to.” Explains the lion. I don’t need another dead on my watch. 

Red Alert comes back online and looks around at Leobreaker and gives him a curt nod. He unsheathes his claws and swipes at her wires, cutting off the needle. Red Alert hastily puts her wires and cables up in a messy bun and puts back on her helm piece. “Hot Rod, I need you to apply heat steadily over the life chord. It will burn away any remaining cyber-venom and promote healing of her metal.” Orders the medic. 

“Uh, on it!” He stretches out his arm and lights the end of his pipes, trying to apply the heat lightly and evenly. But. But he couldn’t bear to look upon what remained of her. The faint blue glow emanating from her sparkcasing like the light flicking in her optics. He closed his own. 

“Hot Rod! You’re burning her!” Red Alert shouts and shoves him aside as she pours a bottle of coolant along the cord’s length. 

“I’m…” Start the magenta and orange mech. Leobreaker gently rests his tail on Hot Rod’s shoulders and leads him out of the hangar. 

“You should get some rest.” Leobreaker advices. 

Hot Rod shoves the tail off. “Why aren’t you angry at me? I failed you all!” 

Leobreaker transforms, towering over the temporary leader and retracts his faceplate, revealing a long scar running from his right cheek down to his sharp jawline. “Stop trying to make this all about yourself.” 

Hot Rod gawks. “I’m not making this all about myself! I’m failing as a leader! Why don’t you feel the same way as me!” Oh slag… he’s right. 

“Fine, you want me to tell you where you failed? I’ll tell you.” Says Leobreaker says as he pulls up a holopad showing Hot Rod’s hastily written mission report. “You spent more time on street bicking with Simmons than scanning for Decepticons. You fell back on Simmons to fight your battles rather than fender bending Runamuck when you had the chance. Your only given plan was to ‘drive these ‘cons out of town’. A strategy that only works when one has the number’s advantage. Perhaps if you had invited Tigertrack, Red Alert, and the Sector 7 agents within vehicles, you might have had a chance.” 

“Stop.” Utters Hot Rod as his spoiler droops. 

“Trussst me when I sssay, sssssometimessss we need to get out of our own head.” Says Nightviper. 

To make matters worse, a groundbridge portal opens up. Tropical air billows and fights against the drizzle of snow flurries as Roadkill steps out, a wide grin upon his cervine face. Nightviper pulls out her scythe and Leobreaker holds a broadsword in his left hand while flaring out the red lion mane upon his shoulder pauldron. Hot Rod grabs his bow and energy arrows. 

“Like those would work again. Put those toys away. I have a declaration to make: a comrade of yours has returned.” Announces Roadkill. Oh no….

A pair of Trackers walk through the portal, Diabla and Jasper, carrying a mangled substructure in their arms. A mechanical skeleton made up of tarnished metal, protruding wires and pipes, exposed servos and circuitry, twitching joints and frostbitten edges. They toss the flayed robot to the ground before returning through the portal. The robot looks up at the Autobots and tilts its head up, cracked orange optics pleading. “It’s Tigertrack! Go! Take him inside!” Hot Rod orders as he takes Tigertrack’s hand and leads him over to Leobreaker. 

“You’re missing a piece.” Roadkill tosses a bag full of delicate parts, golden metal shards, careful circuity unchanged since forging, and luminescent blue biolights. A deconstructed T-cog. 

“Why are you doing this!” Hot Rod screams as he pockets the bag away and draws an arrow. 

“I need you to understand that we’re not so different! That’s why I am being so nice to you all.” Says the Decepticon. 

“Ripping someone’s life cord out? Plucking off a mech’s armor like it's an energon goodie wrapper?” Questions Hot Rod. 

“I could have deactivated them both. Let their sparks drift down to the Pit while their bodies become puppets for the Chaosbringer.” Counters Roadkill as the Autobots optics widen. “Currently, we do not align ourselves with Unicron. That is for Emperor Megatron to decide. However, the Terrorcons are an opponent of ours until then and I’d rather not add to their numbers. We are at the cusp of entering Phase 2. Direct engagement with Earth’s indigenous life forms. Thus’ we have decided that nonlethal incapacitation is the most pragmatic strategy. And it’s so pleasurable to carry out.” 

Behind him, the needles and branches begin to shake and a low growl reverberates through the trunks and ground itself. Roadkill vents out with a sigh. A blast of purple light shoots out at him. He falls back through the portal and disappears before it could hit him. 

Gnashteeth stomps out of the forest and looks down at Hot Rod. “Are we performing a funeral anytime soon?” She asks. Hot Rod couldn’t bring himself to say anything. “Ugh, I’ll go look for myself.” She stomps her way to the medic hangar. Hot Rod reluctantly follows. 

Red Alert had moved on from the life cord, now clamped within the engex-filled tote, and was now configuring things with the C.R. chamber. “Joyride has been stabilized. I have her entered on several body reconstruction, transplant, and protoforming waitlists. If we’re lucky, she’ll be able to see a specialist within a few decades. She’s still young so I don’t anticipate a designation change as a result. Tigertrack’s plating and t-cog was removed and his fuel tanks siphoned recently. He was protoformed, so he won’t regrow as much as a fully forged nor be as receptive to new parts as a constructed one. He’ll need to remain in the chamber for possibly quartexes and most of our energon reserves will need to go towards his regeneration. ” Red Alert reports. 

“I actually have it right here.” Says Hot Rod as he hands her the bag.

“I’m not Ratchet, I can’t reconstruct but I’ll try sending it to someone who can.” She says as she fiddles with the pieces. 

All the while Gnashteeth stares at him. “You look like you need to get something off your chest, yes.” She whispers to him. “In 45 minutes, I am going to ping you my location. Meet me there. I want to challenge you for leadership.” 

2 hours later, a Strip Mall parking lot

Hot Rod rolls into the hastily shoveled yet still slushy parking lot. It’s empty in the middle of the night. The strip mall’s neon is either turned off or flickering. He fails to see Gnashteeth's silhouette stalking around the perimeter. There’s only a few parked cars scattered across the lot. His engines slow and go silent as he feels tiredness tug at his tires and the airflow stall along his spoiler. Guess I should turn back…

A maroon muscle car charges into the lot, racing in front of him and coming to a slippery stop. The driver’s door opens and Gale steps out. “Good. You came.” She grins wildly. 

“Why do you even want leadership? It’s only temporary!” Hot Rod hollers at her. 

“You know Metalhawk isn’t even the leader of our division, right? That was Landmine’s job before he kicked the bucket. Since then, we’ve mostly been doing our own thing. No one respects Rattrap, not even himself. And only a week into your glorious run and ¼ of our ‘bots have been ‘incapacitated’.” Gale explains as she paces around, confidently stepping across the slick ground. 

“You don’t even know if you’ll be good at it.” Says Hot Rod. 

“All I need to be is better than you. I’ve already done what Metalhawk asked of me. And next week is my last show on the job. I’m here to turn in my application for the next. I’ll give it up when the others get back from Cybertron, yes. But Metalhawk will probably be riddled with guilt and anxiety about…well…everything, Rattrap won’t give a shit, and Deep Blue tends to get bored of things on Earth and will return starward with her ship. So I’d imagine I’ll be the most eligible pick. And, I’m popular. I’m basically a local celebrity with the humans. I’ll stay on good terms with Metalhawk and Fanzone. I played matchmaker for Marissa and Kelly. And I don’t have a track record of leaving people behind, like Simmons.” Gale prods.

“Oh, slag…” Hot Rod dreads, finally remembering the Agent. 

“He’s fine. Found a hotel to spend the night in and will get a rental car in the morning. Now onto our teammates! Leobreaker and Nightviper are both from the same planet as me so there's a kinship. Whirl and I atleast share some hobbies and I think I’ll be able to keep her in line. Rattrap will go along with me if I just threaten him enough. Tigertrack and Joyride are out of action. Cloudburst and I enjoy a good laugh. And Orion…” Gale lists off. 

“Will take control instead. He’s a Prime.” Hot Rod assumes. 

“He has no desire to hold the Matrix again other than to vanquish Unicron and then discard it again. His role in this amounts to a lucky gunshot, the final punch, the pinfall count to three seconds. Anyway, so long as I don’t do anything as bad as what the walking chin has tried to do, Orion won’t come after me. And then there’s you. I think, once I’ve beaten you in something you pride your skills for, you’ll finally accept me as your superior. Yes.” Muses the pretender. 

Hot Rod drives up to her. “What are your terms?”

She points up at the sky. “First one to see a star wins.” She clambers onto the hood of her car and leans back. 

“What? I thought we were going to fight or race?” The Autobot gawks. 

“Your main weapon seems to be that energy bow tucked within that hideous spoiler. As an archer, you must have a decent set of optics and internal scoping software. My alternate mode has some of the best vision to ever evolve. I figure it's an area where we might as well be equal.” She explains. 

“Ugh.” Hot Rod powers down his engines and concentrates up at the sky. A crooked, snow-covered tree obscures a corner of his view. Dark clouds blanket the cold yet soft blues of the upcoming twilight. His focus flickers between the shifting cloud cover, the flurry of a snowflake twinkling in the neon and falling upon his hood, the creaking of branches as an owl launches itself and flutters silently overhead, the brief moment of excitement then withdrawal as green and red navigation lights glow from a low-flying aircraft. 

Gale slides off the hood of her car and slips inside, turning on the engine and blasting the heat. Slowly her gaze is less attentive, her head bobbles and jaw crackles apart in a hored form of social contagion the humans called a yawn. Hot Rod rolls back, disturbed by the action and fearing a sparkeater would scramble its way out of her hollow maw. Instead she doses off to sleep. This is my chance! 

Hot Rod races out of his parking spot and begins to circle the parking lot, looking for a different angle or underneath the cloud layer to see a glimpse of starlight. “Watch where you’re going, Speed Racer!” Shouts a truck driver pulling into the lot. 

A burly worker in an orange vest nods and stares down the Autobot. “Either get out or park up!” 

Hot Rod returns to his parking spot right beside Gale’s car. The clouds above lighten to the color of rumble and ash covering a gold bar. Slowly more cars, trucks, and even the brave bicycle flicker in and out of the parking lot as signs are turned from closed to open. Humans hull themselves out of their vehicles and march into the stores, returning with nothing or several bags tethered by a single finger. 

Gale’s car turns off abruptly but she remains asleep. 

A mother and her child walk in front of him. In one of the child’s hands is a magenta toy car. The child twirls and stampers around while waving the toy around and mimicking the sound of an engine. They hit their leg on Hot Rod’s bumper, dropping the toy onto his hood and propping themself up with one ungloved hand. Hot Rod rumbles to life and gently rolls forward, pushing the child upright while their mother embraces them from behind and scoops them up while leaving the car behind to roll off his hood. 

Hot Rod deploys his holomatter avatar and uses it to pick up the toy car. He dashes after the mother and child. “Ma’am! Your child dropped this on myse- my car.” He hollers. 

The woman turns around and looks quizzically at him. “Uh, thank you.” She yanks the car out of his holographic hand and quickly wipes it down with the corner of her shirt before handing it back to her child. “Say thank you, Alex.” 

The child twirls it in their small hands before beaming up at Hot Rod. “Thank you! Your car is so cool!” They cheer and jump around before squinting in the sunlight… 

“Ha! The sun counts as a star!” He yells. The mother raises an eyebrow. “I mean your kid’s a real star!” He turns around and dashes back to Gale’s car and rattles his knuckles against the window glass. 

She stirs and steps out. “What is it?” 

“The sun’s out. That counts as a star. I won!” He declares. 

“Congratulations! Although technically, nearly all of the light on Earth is either reflected back or directly from the sun. But, I’m not Metalhawk so I won’t hold that against you.” She says. 

“Wait? You’re not going to try and hold a rematch?” Wonders Hot Rod. 

She crouches down and shimmies up to him, her voice a low whisper. “No. I just needed you to get out of your own head. See the bigger picture. This isn’t about how many Decepticons we can kill or Terrorcons we can prevent arriving. This is about making sure that if a little kid slips in a store parking lot, we’ll still be around to pick them up.” 

“Did the others put you up to this!” Hot Rod’s avatar begins to flicker as he gets angry. 

“Would you rather Leobreaker keep stroking your ego? Or Red Alert lambast at you? Or Nightviper assault your mind? See the hollow, doubtful look in Tigertrack’s optics as he limps into the C.R. chamber? Feel the slimy, squishy pelting of sausage and deli meat as Simmons screams at you?’

“Are we angry at you? Yes! Two teammates, friends, of ours were brutalized by the Decepticons. But they were not the first. The Razing of Eukaris, the Sieges of Cybertron, the abandonment of Devisiun, Titans going barren, etc. And they won’t be last. You fucked up, yes. But so have so many others. What you need to do is get off your trunk, do better and with a plan! And to not take things so seriously! By Primus! Might as well crinkle up your faceplate and replace your magenta with burgundy! Now, think you could help me jumpstart my car?” 

Hot Rod plays a sighing animation on his avatar and pops open his hood. “Sure.” 

Chapter Text

High Council Needle, Iacon

Botanica vents slowly as she steps onto the floating platform that carries councilbots from their personal offices to the meeting forum. She grasps the handle bars and inputs a few flash drives of her own into the platform’s computer systems, projecting some of her current research, and Perceptor’s notes and decisions on the outcome of this now revised proposal. She isn’t the only one to stand in place of voted in council member. Sky Garry, a proud shuttle-former with golden emblems like sunrays upon his navy blue chest plate, stands in place of Star Saber. Despite being routinely voted in by Iaconians, Alpha Trion had been absent with only faint sightings throughout the War, so his stead is Proxima, head Archivist of the Iacon Hall of Records. More bot’s join her. Well known figures of the movement and pillars of the Iaconian community like Chief Medical Officer Ratchet, Police Chief Prowl, Headmistress Arcee of Iacon Academy, their Supreme Commander Ultra Magnus. His conjunx, Pyra Magna, representative of Caminus, joins him on the same platform. Sentinel Major moves in unison with the rest of his supporters; Springer jumps off his own platform and circles around the open air in his helicopter alt-mode, Cerbros and Fortress Maximus focus on their work in keeping the city defended and operating smoothly, the Eukarian representative keeps himself hidden in the shadows while Override, Velocirtron’s leader, visibly gives her support to the walking chin. To Botanica's left is Jazz, flashing a smile and thumbs up to the biologist. To her right is Andromeda, a flashy pink reporter surrounded by three buzzing camera drones, representative for the News Media. 

Down below the forum, are the remains of an oilhouse, embedded pipes and barrels, a countertop with some glasses still standing, and several stools, seats, and booths ring out. A reminder of the Needle’s origins as the old housing of Maccadam’s Old Oilhouse. It changed ownership in the aftermath of the first Siege; the Decepticon’s had bombed out the Grand Imperium, original meeting place of the Senate, several Titans had descended upon Iacon, rebuilding it and providing sanctuary against an unpeaceful Tyranny, the Oilhouse moved into a likeminded Titan. Still, the furniture remained. 

“Botanica!” Someone whispers behind her. She spins around and looks down at a small organic lifeform, one of the humans holding a wooden box filled with colorful protein-derived integuments and a tiny ceramic mug with a constellation crudely painted on. She crouches down and finally recognizes the particular shade of blue the human is wearing. 

“Oh! That’s what you look like in the shell, Mel.” She says. 

“Yeah, I just thought I’d pass out goodie boxes to everyone. Except Sentinel. Anyway, yours has many different feathers. They’re used by terran birds as integument, display structures, and flight surfaces.” The pretender explains as they hand her the box. 

“Thank you. Did you grow these or collect them?” Botanica asks. 

“I collected these, I mean, I have grown a few, I don’t just have to look like a human but I’ve never been able to fly with them. Very strenuous on the arms.” They clarify. “Anyway, let Perceptor know I said thank you for her vote.” 

With that they dashed away. A few moments later, they reappear at the bottom of the forum in robot mode alongside the two humans, a small dark blue femme, and Orion Pax, founder of the Autobots. The uplifted glitch mouse from the Spaceport is absent. Ultra Magnus taps the staff of his massive hammer and lowers his shared platform to the midpoint between the ring of Councilmembers and the earthly ambassadors. Everyone’s attention turns to the Supreme Commander. “Let this emergency session of the Autobot High Council begin! We are here to listen to an important plea from our esteemed Founder, Orion Pax, the astrophysicist who predicted Unicron’s location, Metalhawk, the brave adventurer and defender, Deep Blue, and two human women, Agent Marissa Fowler and Kelly Murphy, who have faced the dangers of space and the intimidation of an alien world to tell their side of the story.” Announces Ultra Magnus. 

“We will now begin with the proposal delivery. Next, there will be a chance for any questions, proposal add-ons, and debate. Then we will hold a vote. Because emergency powers were invoked, the proposers need the votes of 15 council members and of our Supreme Commander to pass.” Adds Pyra. “Time is of the essence so we ask that no erroneous stunts be conducted in opposition to the matters at hand.” 

Nearly everyone stares over at Sentinel. “What? I haven’t done anything!” Retorts the Elite Guard Commander. Yet…

Below, Orion Pax bows. “Thank you, Supreme Commander, Leader of the Torchbearers. I will turn the floor over to Metalhawk.” 

Metalhawk steps forward and turns on their thrusters, lifting themselves several meters off the ground to better meet the gaze of the Council. “Four million years ago, I was supposed to address my research to both the Decepticon Science Division and the Senate's Science Committee. That never happened due to the outbreak of war and my imprisonment by the Decepticons. Luckily, my research was hidden away within the Hall of Records. I was freed in a prison break helmed by a rogue Titan attack and almost immediately was approached with the idea to return to Earth to monitor the situation as it showed the signs of a sentient species developing. I accepted, and along with four other Autobots, to follow through on a procedure to become Pretenders, overseen and reinvented by Wheeljack.’ The Chief Engineering Officer’s side crests light up at the mention of his name. 

“I have spent the past 100,000 years on that planet. Making and losing friends. Influencing and studying human history and culture. Becoming familiar and at home there.” A few councilmembers groan at the pretender’s show of sentimentality towards an organic, rocky planet. Finally, they understand there’s more to life than science for science’s stake. Metalhawk takes note and projects two graphs of nearly identical seismographic data. “On the left, a model generated by a co-researcher of mine of how Unicron’s awakening tremors would appear. On the right, a similar pattern can be found from these p-waves detected only a few deci-cycles ago by the United States, a prominent superpower on Earth, Geological Survey. Sadly, that’s where my skills end. Many of my collaborators for the research into Unicron have since passed away due to this ongoing War. Thus, I ask for a geologist to come on board with our mission to better identify Unicron’s emergence point. I will now turn my time over to Marissa and Kelly to better explain what is truly lost if we don’t stop Unicron at his source.”

They land and walk back over to Orion and Deep Blue, allowing the two humans to scurry to the center of the forum. An additional floating platform lowers down and extends a pair of stairs to allow the women to step aboard. Marissa climbs on. Kelly follows and the platform begins to falter and smoke. She climbs off and gives the agent a smile and a thumbs up. Slowly the platform rises and a camera and microphone drone dash over to amplify her voice and visage for the viewing of the onlooking Council. Marissa stalls for a moment. 

“Hi.” She manages to say. 

“Hello! We’re all audio receptors for what you have to say!” Jazz hollers back at her. Several other council members nod in agreement with the Chief Recreations Officer. 

“I’m 29 years old. I know all of you think of that amount of time as being very short, for me, it’s all I’ve known. It’s a funny age to be. Old enough to have been independent for years yet still young enough to have those around me doubt my skills. I even doubt my own skills. Old enough to not need my parents but young enough that I’m not worried about them passing away in the hospital while I’m a thousand miles away. Old enough to have experienced love but young enough to know I still want it in my life.” She pauses and looks down at Kelly with a soft smile. 

“If Unicron is allowed to emerge from my planet then no one else will ever be able to feel what I’ve felt, done what I’ve done, doubt where I’ve succeeded or persevered where I struggled. He will tear, consume, and destroy the entire Universe! I know you all have been through so much. Have had your cities, nations, planets ripped away from you and forced to retreat to this patch of land with whoever remains. You have all fought, sustained so much loss, and rebuilt your lives nonetheless. I ask that you all do that one more time so that no more will others feel what you have.” Marissa ends her speech. As the platform lowers, the Council erupts into applause, with even Sentinel and co. giving a beleaguered, salty clap. 

Deep Blue comes forward next. “Before Orion Pax explains our strategy to defeat Unicron, I want to illustrate the Decepticon threat within the Sol System. A Tracker Division with an estimated 15 to 20 members formally patrols this region. There also is a small, Seeker cult dubbed the Storm Seekers. There have been instances of both infighting and collaboration between these two groups. While our numbers closely match the Decepticons on Earth, we are at a disadvantage due to the Lead Tracker, Roadkill, being in possession of a groundbridge generator and several spacecraft. We’re unable to keep up with their movements and instead act reactively. Hence we request a groundbridge engineer accompany us. This will let us and our human allies better keep up with the Decepticons who we believe could now know about Unicron and intend to move on to Phase 2.” 

Fortress Maximus, the Chief Security Officer for Iacon, moves out of the ring to ask a question. “I see here a report from Metalhawk of a Decepticon encounter in their own apartment recently. But I’d like a source on a move to Phase 2 and further elaboration on both claims.” 

“My mentor became a Seeker. She still had access to the apartment we once shared when I was young and used it as a chance to find evidence of Unicron. She found nothing and the Decepticons still regard Unicron as a rumored, occult figure.” Metalhawk pipes up. 

“Hah! Convenient that a Seeker would have a N.A.I.L. of an apprentice who would suddenly change sides…” Sentinel shouts out. 

“Silence! Sentinel! Now is not the time for baseless speculations. I suspect it is Rattrap who believes the Decepticons are moving on to Phase 2?” Says Ultra Magnus. 

“Yes.” Replies Deep Blue. 

“The ex-con?” Utters Maximus with a quizzical look that is further exaggerated by Sentinel’s stifled rage. 

“I appointed him myself and his resuscitation, trial, and reformation were overseen by our Chief Medical Officer and Police Chief. There is no reason to doubt Rattrap despite his appearance.” Assures Magnus with agreeing nods from Prowl and Ratchet. “You are free to carry on.”

The platforms reform a stable ring as Orion Pax takes center stage. “Both the scientific models and myths of various Cybertronian colonies speak of only a few things that can put Unicron back to sleep.  Of course, Primus himself could do it but by reawakening he’d take away the freewill we’ve worked so hard to claim and protect after it was first gifted to the first Transformer, Prima, the Daughter of Primus. The sacrifice of a fertile Titan would release enough Primal code and rarefied Energon to poison Unicron at the loss of one of our great lifegivers and defenders. That leaves us with the Matrix of Leadership. I've personally appointed Sky Lynx to reclaim it and deliver it to me. I will use its power once again to become Optimus Prime and light this darkest of hours." Vows the historian. 

The Council is left in stunned silence. A few applaud Orion’s bravery. A few glower down at him, resentful of how he originally vacated the position without appointing a successor. 

Ultra Magnus taps his hammer. “We will now move on to the deliberations. Who would like to start?” 

A few platforms rustle out of alignment only to be pushed aside as Sentinel careens into the center of the circle and drops to the floor in a furious smash. “Magnus! Are we seriously going to entertain the begging of some monkeys, a mercenary, a reluctant Prime chosen out of nepotism, and an organophilic dove who's broken the Tyrest Accord?" Asks Sentinel. 

“Ugh, could we please have one Council Meeting where you don’t try to turn it into a bout of gotcha journalism?” Grumbles Ratchet. 

“Oh, I have proof!” Proclaims Sentinel as he uploads various audio recordings to each of the Autobot’s present. Botanica reluctantly accepts and moves them into a separate file for Perceptor to look over later on. 

“You’ve been spying on me?” Says Metalhawk after a few minutes. 

“Ha! An admission of guilt.” Sentinel smirks.

“All you’ve done is find out that I’m two million years behind on rent payments. I’m in debt and looking for a way to save up.” They explain. Across the ring of platforms, Prowl takes notes. It was a fairly common position for anyone who had only returned to Cybertron within the past million stellar cycles, as the War cooled down, whether after being captured or fled, to find themselves in a position of debt. One of the Old Senate's final decrees before dissolution (destruction) was to freeze several laws, including those involving rent control and property ownership. It was the haggling of Sentinel and co. that prevented the High Council from extending the pauses on rent payments and eventual free housing initiatives to the City-States beyond Iacon. 

 “Irrelevant. Can’t we throw this whole proposal in the trash compactor? It’s not enough isn’t it? Especially if you little monkeys really care about that dirt clog so much. Grimsy, show them how it’s done!” Shouts Sentinel as he points up at the Eukarian representative’s platform. 

“I prefer the term your Majesty, Senty .” King Grimlock corrects. His platform moves toward the center, a heavily-plated and armed mech stands atop it. Gunmetal, gold, and crimson plates tipped with talons, teeth, and scutes ripple and flare off his powerful frame. A gleaming red visor and hollowed out faceplate conceal his true emotions. The platform glides up to the flabbergasted Supreme Commander. King Grimlock holds out a datapad. Pyra Magna takes it. 

“A counter-proposal?” She asks. 

“Indeed. Sentinel! Return to your position before you make this any worse.” Confirms the Dinobot. “It is supported by myself, Override of Velocitron, Chief Security Officer Fortress Maximus, Senior Cityspeaker of Iaconus, Cerbros, Springer and Impactor of the Wreckers, and Elite Guard Commander, Sentinel Major. We wish to establish a more permanent position on the planet Earth, using its vast resources to both put Unicron back to sleep and reverse engineer his systems into a superweapon that could exploit the Decepticon Lords addiction to Angolmois energy, the blood of Unicron. With this we could end the War.” 

The Council erupts into conversation and murmurs. Snipits of speculation from Wheeljack and Arcee on the possibilities. Consideration from Silverbolt, Pyra, and Elita on if they could possibly return home soon. Blaster stoops to the floor under the crushing processor ache of trying to organize several dispert rebel cells into such an operation. Botanica stands by, uncertain. Andromeda poses and gawks in front of a drone. Jazz holds a flipped off hand behind her back, away from Sentinel’s gaze while humming to herself. Down below, Orion and Metalhawk start pacing and glowering up at the Council, the humans huddling close together. 

“Magnus, your thoughts?” King Grimlock asks. 

Magnus grips the edge of his platform. Pyra touches his shoulder, holding him back and whispering into his auditory receptors. Magnus straightens up and finally responds. “Sentinel, everybot is innocent until proven guilty. Your accusations against Metalhawk may have some merit, overstepping one’s influence when interacting with a developing species is not an rare occurrence within our ranks. However, such an investigation will have to be held off until the matters of hand are dealt with. If you two wish to settle this in private, please do.’

“King Grimlock, your counter-proposal has the necessary number of votes to be under my consideration and review. My first question is do you think the risk is worth it?” Asks Ultra Magnus. 

“I’m afraid I do not completely understand what you mean? We should be willing to risk everything to defend everything. We should spare no expense.” Declares the Dinobot. 

“We’re stretched too thin as it is! There’s a reason they shortened their proposal down to just asking for two additional people to their exaltation!” Shouts Blaster as points downward. 

“You don’t even have a proof of concept for how a dark-energon weapon would work. It’s just vaguely implied as a thing we could do rather than the war ender you make it out to be.” Adds Wheeljack. 

“Plus, dark energon is an illegal substance in Iacon. If we wouldn’t allow the citizens to have it then neither should we.” Prowl reminds. 

“Me and my people are tired of waiting!” Yells Override, a sleek and powerfully-built white and red femme with visible exhaust pipes and engine blocks. “We want to return home.”

“Your people are a few hundred speedfreaks with the highest percentages of crashes of any demographic. More of them are in my hospital then attend your races.” Huffs Ratchet. 

“Perhaps we should hear what the planet’s habitants have to say instead.” Says King Grimlock as he gazes down at Marissa. 

“Enough of this.” Shouts Magnus. He pauses for a moment as Pyra again whispers to him. 

She steps forward and resumes the declaration. “Are we forgetting who is involved with this proposal? A former Prime willing to sacrifice himself and the power of the Matrix to save us all. I put my faith in Orion Pax and hope you all do as well.” Her optic line shifts to Sentinel. “Let us not mourn what might have been but forge on like Solus Prime after the betrayal of the Fallen.”

“Agreed. I would like to call for a recess while I consider these options. You are all dismissed.” Magnus announces curtly.

Chapter Text

Cybertron’s Southern Hemisphere

A quartet of Tetrajets soar above the smog that blankets the Decepticon controlled portions of the planet. A black and purple femme, Skywarp, leads them, creating groundbridge portals in midair to allow the posse to jump several kliks in an instant. Behind her, a red jet flitters close to the smog layer, dipping his nose and cockpit beneath the snarling fumes to get a closer peak at the churning factories, impersonable residencies, and closely monitored roads. Starscream pauses his conversation with Thundercracker, his personal scribe and ghostwriter of his multiple autobiographies and sitcom ventures. “Red Wing! Keep up or you will have to fly all the way to Kaon under your own power!” Chastises the air commander as he charges up a null ray and aims it at the young Seeker. 

Red Wing jolts back above the cloud layer and stalls. “Uh, sorry sir.” 

“It’s Lord Starscream. If you are going to work with me you better learn to use it. Frequently!” He screeches back. He swishes his rudder in the young ‘con’s cone and dashes through Skywarp’s portal. “We aren’t at Kaon yet!” 

“No, my lord. Several short-distance portals are less draining then teleporting halfway across the planet. I have explained this to you several times.” Says Skywarp as she flies ahead of him. Thundercracker, a blue jet with red accents upon his wingtips and rudder, follows through as well. The closing portal clips Red Wing’s sides as he finally comes across and dives down to investigate his new surroundings. 

“You should have brought a leash for this new body double of yours, my Lord.” Chuckles Thundercracker. 

“No. He isn’t worth keeping around. He’s the wrong color, just plain red with some black and white. Most of my panels are dark crimson with accents of eminence and vermeil. His highest achievement under my service will be getting shot down by a sniper round through the Spark casing.” Replies Starscream over his private channel with his ghostwriter. Beneath them, the Sonic Canyons churn. Storms rage and ring, harsh winds and precipitation against the weathered shards, and spires sticking out from the canyon sides. Shrill shrieks and shouts echo and emanate from the depths, were they the final pleads of those who fell to the Canyon’s peril or coincidence caused by the interactions of the storms and canyon sides? Starscream prefers the former. For he would never falter, never fail, never fumble. Never be so unfourturnate and foolish enough to be the one to cry out. Unlike Red Wing as he circles around a towering spire that emerges from the screeching vortex. 

“How old is he even?” Asks Thundercracker. 

“Four.” 

“Four millennia? Centuries? Stellar cycles?” 

“Solar cycles. He was quite literally forged yesterday.” Says Starscream. A lie. No Decepticons had been forged since the War began. There was no need for communities, colonies, classes, cults, companies, and culture. No need for hobbies, rituals, and kinship that kept Transformers away from what truly mattered. Domination of the galaxy through deception, then tyranny for the ultimate goal of peace. The Titans were turned into factories, capital ships, and fortresses. The living metal and sparks they produced were frozen for later use in cyberforming or to bring more soldiers in constructed bodies online. Eventually, the Decepticons did away with mentors and apprentices. Such forms of kinship installed a loyalty between individuals that had the potential to become greater then the loyalty between the citizen or solider and their Emperor. Instead, various education programs, instructional videos, and even shell personalities were uploaded and the newly onlined Decepticon was given a few hours to acclimate to being alive before being subjected to a series of tests accessing their innate capabilities in transformation, combat, skills, intelligence, and tolerance in afflicting torment and turmoil upon another sophont. Depending on their test results, it would determine if the newly online would enter military service or a civilian career. Still the Spark wants what it wants. A frame and alternate mode that matches its source code and the Primal pulses of its Spark. A mind that thinks how it thinks. Sensors that sense how it senses things. Datatrax that uploads memories to it accurately and completely right before being extinguished. And a spark casing rich with innermost energon, that purchases tightly around it like a warm embrace yet secure enough in itself to let it go to join the Afterspark and return to Primus with all of its life’s knowledge. A nice thought. One that I’ll never truly know. There was only so much the Decepticon’s could do to control the sparks of their populus. Give them the freedom of expression and they’ll soon rebel. However, to not use Sparks at all and they would be no more than drones. It’s what distinguished the Transformers, regardless if forged, protoformed, or constructed, from all other mechanical beings, those were all created by or originally were organic in biology. Nearly all of the Decepticon’s ideology depended on the Cybertronian species being superior to any other in the Universe. The only thing they had going for them was a Spark. A definitive soul that could pass on into a proven afterlife. Still, the Spark liked to have a choice. It liked to have experiences separate from all others and truly its own. It liked to have an identity. And the Decepticons offer the Spark only limitations. If it weren’t for Primus’s ‘benevolent’ choice to grant his children freewill, then the Decepticons would surely be ejected from Cybertron’s surface for such a crime. “Luckily, he doesn’t care. There are no Gods. But if there were, I’d be one of them. I gave the people a choice. Granted, a heavily advertised, legally fraudulent, morally dubious, and potentially mentally scarring choice. But when asked, am I glad to be a Decepticon? Deep down I know probably not. Every empire must fall, eventually. Yet individuals do not need fall, they can fly again and on until welcomed by death’s tarmac. That is the way of the Seeker. I was forged as a Seeker and I will always be a Seeker.” Starscream monologues his thoughts aloud. 

“Wow… that speech. So authentic and honest in content. There’s self-criticism and reflection. Yet, your confidence and charisma prevent it from sounding treasonous. Permission to use such a statement in future projects, my Lord? It would provide wonderful insight for a character arc on Starscream: The Series or for the 9624th volume of your Autobiography, The Stars Scream Their Songs For My Spark. ” Thundercracker praises. 

“Nice to see you still have your self-awareness circuits installed, my Lord.” Skywarp adds as she flies ahead. 

“Of course, Thundercracker,” Starscream says. Her snark is at least tolerable given her age. His curiosity however… He targets Red Wing who whirls around above the twisting vortexes, running himself dizzy as he cheers. “Red Wing! Did you hear my latest and greatest speech?” 

Red Wing stops his aerobatic theatrics and dashes back up to the rest of the small squadron. “Uh, no sir… I mean my lord! But I’m sure it was great,” he sputters. 

Starscream falls back and flies close to the young Seeker. Their wings overlap with each other, normally a sign of closeness and trust, perhaps even intimacy in the right context. Any sense of a connection between the Air Commander and his new body double is obliterated as Starscream lowers a rotary gun from his wing and aims it at Red Wing’s fuselage. “I want you to accompany Thundercracker.”

“But, my Lord, I’m supposed to be your body double right?” 

“True. But that is really only necessary when we find ourselves in flight or in combat. Especially in combat. I will need you to be glued to me like a space ramora to a space whale. So that I can protect you and keep you unharmed. But during other, menial tasks you are not needed. So, that is why I am ordering that you remain with Thundercracker. He’s a skilled writer and an expert on myself. And the best thing about being a Seeker is me.” Explains Starscream as retracts his cannon and banks away from Red Wing. He returns to the private channel with Thundercracker, “When we arrive in Kaon, I’ll be having Red Wing follow you. Take him to whatever writer’s rooms and script readings you need to be at. Just make sure to keep a very close optic on him and what he reads.”

“Alright my lord, would your autobiography be appropriate? I’ve recommended it to all of your previous body doubles.” 

“Don’t allow him access to any volume that chronicles my life before the War. And include heavily censored battle descriptions. It is best that he doesn’t know his ultimate fate.” 

Skywarp projects a new portal. Through the swirl Starscream makes out a gigantic, dark tower rising against the smoky skyline, Darkmount, Emperor Megatron’s fortress. 

On the other side of the portal, Starscream is greeted by a cavernous pit that stretches on for a hundred kliks. Unlike the Sonic Canyons that were a naturally occurring structure, the Pits of Kaon were artificial, carved out of Cybertron’s metallic flesh by drills, shovels, and pickaxes held by countless generations of miners. A large structure balloons out of the Pits like a mushroom cloud, supported by a twisted trunk of springs, cables and pipes, this is Kolkular. Beneath its cap are hundreds of hanging buildings, antenna, and mining equipment, a holdover from the city-state’s pre-war industry. Atop, Decepticon infrastructure overruns the oilhouses, gladiatorial arenas, and warehouses of old Kaon like cooled, purple lava. Transformers outfitted with surveillance tech and flighted alt-modes patrol the skies, swerving between radio towers, satellite dishes, and featureless processor plants that sift through all the data collected and make suggestions for the it’s future applications. Shipyards and launch pads occupy the surrounding flatlands, personal shuttles flitter between the landing sights and Kolkular. Unlike Iacon, no city-wide force shields are deployed above Kaon. The Decepticons always took the offensive approach. 

Several Seekers rise up from Kolkular and watch on as their Air Commander, their Lord Starscream flies past them. Starscream allows himself to stall and pulls into an elegant spin. He receives the cheers and claps of his people as they all herald his arrival. Thundercracker joins in with the cheering, attempting to grab an interview with the greeters. Skywarp drops in altitude and flies faster. Red Wing slows down and shrinks his wings under the gaze and cheers of dozens of his peers. Starscream continues his spin, flying over the Kaonian sprawl and the caldera in the center of Kolkular. 

Darkmount rises above the caldera. Black spires dangle out and up of the central tower. Fusion cannons hide behind every nook and cranny, the very same weapon welded to the right arm of the Decepticon Emperor. Starscream curves upward into vertical ascension, forcing his jets into full-throttle. Skywarp and Thundercracker flank his sides while Red Wing hovers around every launchpad and satellite dish that protrudes off the tower. The Air Commander blasts past a launchpad leading to a convergence point for the Decepticon leaders within Darkmount, the Liege Lounge. He cuts his engines and transforms during the short fall, landing on his peds. 

Silver-gilt edges the plum plating of his cockpit, calves, shoulder pads, forearms, and wing tips. The rest of his plating is a vibrant, dark crimson, like the blood of some lowly iron-dependent organic. A broad grin parts his silvery face beneath a boxy helm. Thundercracker and Red Wing land behind him while Skywarp teleports away. Unlike before, there is no applause, instead the launch pad leads to a dark room.

Slowly, he takes a few steps into the room, making out the gleams of light running along a chaise lounge, stools, and a bar countertop, the reflections of polished metal and powered off screens. Thundercracker pulls out a stylus and datapad and begins to start writing again while Red Wing guawks and runs his fingers over every surface. Starscream feels a vibration shaking through the floor, rhythmic and orchestrated by someone cleverer than the producer of the vibration. Glowing red optics shine from beneath the furniture and atop shelving units. 

Pale violet lights turn on along the edges of the floor and ceiling, refracting off the steel gray and obsidian black of the furniture and walls. A large, curvaceous blue femme sits atop stool and gazes at the Seekers from beneath her iconic red visor, a snicker underneath her tight faceplate. Several minicons, micromasters, and tamed mechanimals gather by her peds or rest within an open cavity on her boxy chest. “Welcome back, Lord Starscream,” Lady Soundwave greets. Unlike himself, Soundwave was uninvolved with Decepticon Military operations, instead she leads Media Productions and tourism with her Sounds of the Cassettes Play Park, a massive amusement park and circus sprawling across the Kaon Flatlands. Thundercracker walks up to converse with her, the two frequently collaborate in the ongoing production of Starscream: The Series . She ignores him, her gaze fixed upon Starscream. 

Lord Shockwave joins them all, he is a purple mech with haggard plating, a singular clawed hand and a sensory nozzle on the other, his singular yellow optic stares blankly at Starscream. While he oversees the Decepticon Science Division, his main duty was in resource allocation, sifting through sensor readouts, industry statistics, and every ‘cons personal data to plot the best use of such information and its applications. The Decepticon Lords and Ladies each had stereotypes and humorous titles they were known by hundreds of billions of people across the Galaxy, from the humble asteroid miner to a Starfawn socialite. The source of such reductionist persona’s was a brief stint in Starscream: The Series that presented Decepticon High Command as a workplace mockumentary comedy. The best form of propaganda is the one that catches you unawares, through your favorite, uncomplicated comfort show. Thus, Megatron was the manager, Starscream his secretary, Soundwave the rambunctious assistant manager, and Shockwave the accountant. Lastly, Lady Shadowstriker drives in and transforms, her monocled optic penetrates Starscream like laser fire and tight frown draws over her lips. 

“Thundercracker, Red Wing. Leave us.” Orders Starscream. The writer nods, grabs Red Wing’s wrist, and drags him out of the lounge. “What is it you all need approval of?” 

“Operation: Recast! I’ve gotten everyone else’s voucher on who they’d like to see play them in the 1,000,025,235th season. Here’s who I have considered for both yourself and our truant Emperor. I just need yours and Megatron’s approval and we’re a go!” Announces Soundwave as a black and red condor flies over and perches on Starscream’s wing. 

“Video download request from Laserbeak,” States his onboard computer. 

“My latest budget proposal for the next kilocycle requires Megatron’s approval as well.” Shockwave says curtly in a tone of voice that to this solar cycle Starscream still didn’t know if it could show any sort of emotion beyond a detached politeness. 

Shadowstriker’s glare didn’t let up. She walks right up to him, brushing up against his plating and whispers, “Meet me at Trypticon, I have something urgent you need to know about.”

Trypticon Prison, Kaon Flatlands

Starscream slows his pace as he flies up to Trypticon’s reptilian head. Like many other Titans, Trypticon’s role had changed from being the birthplace of a community to a war machine, particularly a mobile prison that stomped around the perimeter of Kaon. He was visible for kliks as a reminder for every Decepticon of their fate should they step out of line. Thick plates and scutes of black, teal, and orange metal cover his hide, stubby forelimbs are held close. His feet are partially propelled by banks of tank treads while dragging behind a long tail adorned with missile turrets and antenna. 

The Titan’s jaws part, revealing a landing platform flanked by plasma cannons. Starscream transforms in midair, spreads out his legs and activates his thrusters, coming to a hasty stop at the launch pad. Two darkly-plated guards nod at his approach as Starscream walks deeper into Trypticon’s gullet. Orange biolights line the bottom of the floors as a staircase leads deep down. The walls close in around him, clipping at his wings as his peds rattle against the steps. At the bottom, he finds himself on a platform overlooking four massive walls lined with jail cells. The cells are jumbled together, each a different size to barely allow its prison enough room to transform. Fiery light and hot fumes billow at the bottom of Trypticon, a shallow smelting pool is all that remained of his hot spot. 

Shadowstriker stands at the edge of the platform with another Seeker. He recognizes the Seeker as Slipstream, a Seeker of the Mind in rank and recruited member. Shadowstriker turns around and beckons him closer. “So, what’s so important that I had to fly all the way to this slag heap?” He asks. 

“Two decicycles ago, one of my Trackers informed me that his squadron had encountered a Terrorcon on the Phase One planet he was stationed on and referred me to a series of papers written by an Autobot we had previously held captive here for 3.5 million stellar cycles until the Incident, the one with the turtle.” Shadowstriker explains. The other Seeker’s optics light up.

“So are we dealing with some sort of rogue Autobot bioweapon? Hardly their style.” Starscream wonders. 

“No, it attacked both Trackers and those puny rebels according to his report. The Autobot in question was part of a research group conducted by Polyhex University to understand Unicron under a scientific context. It was funded jointly by the Functionist Senate and the Decepticon Empire. However, all of the articles produced and models programmed were archived away by the Autobots in the Iacon Hall of Records and all of the original contributors have been deactivated.” Shadowstriker continues. 

“Who offlined the last contributor then? And what is their relevance?” He asks. 

“They were my apprentice, Metalhawk, long before I ever joined your service, my Lord. Lady Shadowstriker assigned me to investigate such claims alongside some of Shockwave’s scientists. They refused to give me any copies of their research that purported Unicron’s location.” Slipstream says. There’s a waver in her voice, a shakiness with her wings. 

“A sign of your loyalty and commitment to Decepticon surpassing your prior connections to traitors. You will be rewarded for this, if you tell me how you managed to seize the confirmation.” Coos Starscream. 

Slipstream regains her composure and resumes. “A recruiter on Devisiun claimed to have captured an Autobot shuttler from the same exaltation. We both went to the nearest capital ship for an interrogation. He gave me his confirmation. He is now housed in this prison.” 

“There’s something you're not telling me, isn’t there?” Says Starscream. 

“The shuttler has also confirmed his prior designation as Skyfire of Vos.” Slipstream admits. 

Starscream’s wings flare out in surprise, garnering a quizzical look from Shadowstriker. Skyfire had been many things for Starscream, a fellow Seeker, his personal shuttle during his time as Vos’s Senator, a networker, a confidant, a best friend, his only Endura. His most glaring betrayal. “Um. Please allow me a moment to speak with the Autobot prisoner and then we can discuss our strategy.” He leaps off the platform and hovers, scanning for all the Autobot prisoners. He flirts in front of the cells, inspecting each of the alt-mode stripped and fuel starved occupants. 

“Seekers above Seekers, reunited at last.” Purrs a voice from beneath him. Starscream dives down and faces a gigantic red, cyan, and white cat. 

“This is the form you’ve taken?” Starscream asks his former Amica. 

“Indeed. Isn’t it magnificent? Sadly the second half of it was destroyed. And the name’s Sky Lynx now.” Confirms the Autobot. 

Starscream looks away, almost wanting to put up a faceplate and visor on. Only a few lines into this conversation and he is unprepared. Not by Sky Lynx’s bizarre form but by the simple act of talking to someone who had something to hide. For the past four million stellar cycles, every conversation he had was with someone who would always tell him the truth. All the Seekers within his ranks were programmed to obey him and any other Decepticon was either beneath or of equal rank to him. Except one. There is no one to embellish, persuade, or ignore in the conversation except for Starscream. But now he is greeted by Sky Lynx. Someone who knows all his secrets, his history, his schemes and who isn’t enamored or disgusted but who has simply moved on with his life. Caged against his will to see the mech that shot down the prior era.  

Sky Lynx continues to talk. Before, his voice was a distant echo Starscream would hear as a door closed shut or engines whooshed. Now, the shuttler commands the conversation with a grating bravado and a cut to voice from the clashing of metallic teeth between speaker and voice box and the gap of his maw. Starscream hears but doesn’t listen, failing to distinguish between the Autobot’s six word stories and self-aggrandizing praise. “Is this what it felt like to be you all those stellar cycles?” The Decepticon asks. 

“Perhaps.” Answers the cat. 

“Is that why you betrayed me, out of annoyance?” He grasps at the outer links in the cage with one hand.

Sky Lynx shakes his golden head. “It wasn’t a betrayal. I was doing you a favor.” 

“A favor? You ruined my reputation and career!” Shrieks Starscream. 

“Oh please, you attempted murder. I publically canceled you in the optics of the old Senate. We are not the same.” Sky Lynx muses. “And yet look at how you’ve recovered! The most powerful mech in the Galaxy. Second only to Megatron.” 

“But why?” Says Starscream. 

“Because we were friends. We knew each part of each other. We’d seen each other’s bare, pulsing Sparks. Knew each other’s weaknesses. You are single-minded. Need to do one thing at a time. Need to be loyal to one thing. But you are also a patient opportunist. Willing to wait and see which side will benefit you the most. You had conflicting interests.  At the time, you maintained connections with old Senate colleagues, anonymously affiliated with the Decepticons, and voiced support for the Autobot Activists. I merely nudged you in the most beneficial direction. You were already going down that path.” Explains Sky Lynx. 

“You prevented me from achieving Primehood!” Smears Starscream. “My one chance at a peaceful end!”

“You’d be remembered like the Fallen. Perhaps the Saboteur.” Sky Lynx counters. 

Starscream quivers for a moment. He has so many more questions he could ask but Sky Lynx looks back blankly. It isn’t the look of a mech who feared for his life or even aware that it could end. He still has that other half, fluttering around the Galaxy. “Why weren’t you with the rest of your exaltation? It is to my understanding that you returned with them to Iacon to speak with the Autobot High Council. Yet you were found in a market on Devisiun.”

“It’s my new homeworld.” Sky Lynx shrugs. 

“You were after something that could stop Unicron! Weren’t you? It was Orion Pax who appointed you for such a task. It was him who tempted you away from me. It was him who stole what was rightfully mine!” Starscream shouts. 

“Congratulations on your masterful deductive skills. Well done. 10 points to Starscream and here’s an energon goody.” Sky Lynx brings his paws up into a clumsy clap. 

“Is that a confirmation?” Starscream asks. 

“No, an attempt to make things interesting. I’d rather deactivate than let this continue.” Sky Lynx’s metal begins to turn slick, like sweat on skin. His paint peels and panels crinkle under their own weight. The Autobot falls to the floor. The sharpness of his features dulls to soft, protoform-like features. Upon his back, a massive hole crackles open and a faint yellow spark rises then dissipates. 

Megatron’s Quarters, Darkmount, Kaon

It is finally time for Starscream to face his Emperor once again. He walks up the long steps lined with portraits of Megatron’s various clashes. He pauses in front of a photograph taken seven million stellar cycles, back when the Seeker brand was reputable and wouldn’t ensnare every passing spark who pulsating near a tetrajet, back when the Decepticon message was one of a better future and a rich cybertron. Megatron stands in the foreground, free from the drills, shovels, and caution tape that marked his earlier appearances in the gladiatorial arena yet without the permanent heavy plating and grafted fusion cannon, instead he holds it in his right hand, fingers off the trigger. Back when the cannon was just a tool used when force was absolutely necessary. His left hand is outstretched and open and the light dances along its length up to his squared off shoulders and to a soft yet triumphant smile. Starscream ignores the outline of the opponent’s helm visible at the bottom of the frame and stares up at Megatron’s face. This time, there wouldn’t be such a smile. 

He continues up the stairs. With each step, he feels more air get sucked out of his vents, more heat absorbed off his plating, more fuel siphoned from his tanks. As though the very walls were feeding off him. His spark flares in defiant annoyance as he stands outside the entrance. It's a simple door, just a hunk of thick metal and knob attached to a hinge. Starscream is the only one trusted with the key, such a crude method of entrance yet always kept on his person and never copied. He pulls it out, unlocks the door, and steps inside. 

On the official schematics for Darkmount, this room is listed as a war room and it maintained its history despite its apparent lack of occupancy. A holo-table rises in the center surrounded by several seats, now all covered in shrapnel and dust. Weapons hang on the walls, not at rest but embedded, twisted around the metal beams and plates. “What do you need, Starscream…” Asks a weak, raspy voice that pings around the room, not as an echo but from multiple faint sources. 

“It concerns Unicron, my Emperor.” Starscream starts. 

“Are Shockwave’s scientists' experiments with Dark Energon turning up practical results at last?” Asks Megatron. Since the Decepticons inception, the Functionists had accused them of being Unicron worshipers while portraying themselves as delivers of Primus’s divine order. There was an ounce of truth to this accusation, recreational Dark Energon consumption and application wasn’t unheard of among the rank and file that found themselves fighting in or watching from afar the gladiatorial bouts in Kaon. It would gain traction over time, distilled Dark energon consumed within chaoslymph and dark engex was a popular sight at galas or closed door meetings hosted by Decepticons Lords and many of Shockwave’s underlings seeked to find a more practical application for the Chaos Bringer’s blood. 

“No. It concerns his location. A Tracker division on a Phase One Planet called Earth has encountered a raised Terrorcon. Additionally, the articles of an Autobot researcher were cited. While we have yet to procure copies, we do have implied conformation from the original author and one of their cohorts.” Clarifies Starscream. He looks up, seeing two red optics stare down at him. 

“That’s a lot of ifs and maybes, Lord Starscream. I hate to have my time wasted.” He hears the humming of a fusion cannon ready to fire. 

“We both know what can defeat Unicron and who wields it. I believe that Orion Pax has sent out his false disciples around the Galaxy to reclaim the Matrix of Leadership. With it, he will become Optimus Prime once again and vanquish the Chaosbringer. But not before, facing you one last time. You’ve never needed the Matrix’s strength however you will need someone you trust to wield it. I’d be happy to take on such a role, my Emperor.” Starscream says. Overhead, the fusion cannon lowers as a wiry arm takes form, the red optics become framed by a strong nose ridge and a skeptical frown. A large helmet with three prongs emerges forth from the ceiling and plunks itself onto the forming face. Starscream scurries away as a pair of tank treads rise from the floor and attach onto the beginning of a frame being built. Sheets of red and silver armor fly out of the walls and reconnect to the body. The upper torso, right arm, and head fall down from the ceiling and twist back onto the lower half. Cables and hinges lash together and cover up the roaring red lights of his reignited Spark. Lastly, a rectangular piece of armor smashes onto his upper chest, branded with the purple Decepticon insignia. “I see that got your attention,” Starscream remarks. 

“The idea of seeing Optimus Prime vent his last exhaust is what got my attention. Now, give me the necessary reports.” Orders Emperor Megatron as he takes a few shaky steps toward the table. Starscream prepares a small flash drive and hands it over to Megatron. “Who else knows about Unicron’s awakening and location?” 

“Myself, Lady Shadowstriker, a Seeker tasked with investigating these claims originally, the Lead Tracker who originally reported it, the Autobot exaltation Orion Pax is currently a part of, and possibly their High Council.” Starscream lists off. Megatron nods along and taps the edge of the holo-table. A projection of Iacon and the surrounding lands coalesses out of shimmering light. “Do you intend to invade Iacon outright?”

“No, they’ve made substantial reinforcements during my immersment. Ultra Magnus and his followers expect an onslaught.” He points at the edges of the Autobot city. “They’ve positioned Titans on the outskirts of the city like a living wall. And one in the Rust Sea, a maverick, the one from the Incident. There must be at least a few dozen, all loyal and ready to lay down their lives. We only have eight war-ready Titans still on Cybertron, the rest are deployed on fronts we cannot waver on. We need to make it look like an accident.” 

“There’s a pod of Space Whales currently passing through the System. Carcer clansbots used to hunt them, perhaps we could convenience a few aligned with us to strike up again.” Suggests Starscream. 

“And make the whale fall near Tetrahex. When it falls into the Rust Sea, it would trigger a tidal wave to rise and break against Iacon. Their shields would need to reset before strengthening. An elite squadron of your Seekers could fly in between the reset and lay low for a few solar cycles. Afterwards, there would be civil unrest, whale hunting is quite unpopular. And because it was perpetrated by Decepticons close to Autobot territory and threatened the safety of Cybertron, it would call for a meeting between Elite Guard Commanders. During their conversation, I’ll have Commander Strika tell Sentinel Prime that we know what’s going on. He’ll tell Orion who will come to me with the Matrix in hand. And we’ll finish this.” Megatron plots. 

Starscream raises an opticbrow. “That seems rather dependent upon some specific conditions, Master.” 

“I’m still a wonderful judge of character, Starscream. Don’t you forget that. However, if things don’t go accordingly, you have my permission to seize the Matrix before it finds its way back to Orion. Deactivating him without it will still be a fight well won.” Megatron replies. 

“Wait, you want me to lead the squadron into Iacon?” Starscream asks. 

“Yes. A show of trust. In return, I expect your utmost loyalty and obedience should you become a true Prime. While in Iacon, I also expect your squadron to acquire copies of some very important writings from the Hall of Records. For Shockwave’s benefit.” Adds Megatron. 

Starscream nods. “And what of the Earth?” 

“A well-armed Saviorship should be prepared and deployed as quickly as possible. The Trackers already present have low marks in retention and unity, there's been extensive Autobot activity, sightings of neutrals, and some level of awareness from the local sapients. In addition to a Governor, I want you to present as a Prime, ready to ‘save’ the Earth from Unicron’s awakening, and a DJD agent to prevent any tomfoolery from our ranks.” Megatron says. 

“Yes my Emperor, it will be done with each flare of my Spark.” For my spark will never flicker nor fade…

Chapter Text

Celestial Spires, Iacon

“So how did the meeting go?” Chortles Rattrap as he walks alongside Orion Pax through the tangling and elaborate corridors of a Spire. Through his rearview mirrors, Orion catches a glimpse of Metalhawk’s glower as they look down upon their co-leader. 

“Sentinel did as I predicted.” Metalhawk grumbles.

“Sentinel did what he always tries to do but this time with legitimate support and ideas.” Orion adds. “What do humans think of it?”

“Kelly says it's 'bullshit'. Marissa originally said that she 'doesn't have the insight and authority' to know what to think about and then slept for 15 hours and then told me it was all bullshit.” States Metalhawk as they pop a can of clam chowder into their mouth.

“Are you engaging in a mastication protest?” Asks Orion.

The pretender blinks. “No! I’m stress eating! This has gone so terribly wrong that my internal diagnostics will physically not allow my control surfaces to move unless in-flight! I have to find alternative ways to stress out!” 

“Ha!” Chuckles Rattrap. “Good to know I’m not the only one with issues.” 

“And where exactly were you earlier?”

“Uh, I had errands to run.”

“Just convient.You know Ultra Magnus actually defended you, right?”

“Huh, that’s nice.” 

“Can you take anything seriously?”

“Can’t you go three astro-minutes without getting your turbines in a twist?” 

“Enough you two! Shouts Orion as he transforms, spins around, and looks at the two bickering bots. “ Go home, Metalhawk. I’m serious. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: you have given enough of yourself for this. Go home and let us handle it.” 

Metalhawk’s stance and stare softens. “Fine. Perhaps I'll give retail therapy a try.” They transform, fold their wings against their back, and taxi away. 

“Wait!” Calls out Orion. 

“Hmm?” Metalhawk turns back. 

“Could I have a copy of your research?” He asks. 

“Sure…” Says the blue and gold starfighter as they send him a download packet. 

“Ha! We got this.” Assures Rattrap as he leans against the wall. 

“Leave as well. I don’t need Metalhawk’s abrasive snark or your attention-seeking.” Orders Orion. 

Rattrap turns around with a shrug. “Alright.” 

Orion slowly walks down the corridor, alone with the clink of his pedsteps and thoughts. Hypocrite. Telling someone else that they’ve handled this enough on their own just to go and do it yourself. It’s different though, better I run my tires bald finishing what I started then drag everyone else down to the Pit with me. His path twists and turns until he finally reaches a lounge room within the Spire. A few ratchetedd recliners and a couch face a floor to ceiling window, showing off the skyline of Iacon and the surrounding metallic plains. He walks into the empty lounge and takes a seat. 

He waits for a while until three Councilbots walk in; Wheeljack, Silverbolt, a tall, pale grey, red, and orange mech with a stern face, and a familiar battle-damaged and winged femme with plating the color of freshly spilt energon. “Hello, Councilbots. Thank you for joining me in this discussion about King Grimlock’s counter-proposal. Elita, would you like to start?” Orion welcomes. 

The Carcerian leader smiles, an expression that still to this cycle Orion wasn’t sure where it fell on the spectrum from amusement to cunning. “I do admit the idea of this entire War finally ending upon a planet where Primus’s antithesis now lingers like an asymptomatic disease. It's kinda poetic. Unicron has been trying to influence us for billions of stellar cycles from some members of the Thirteen Prime to the Decepticon elite. Now you have the chance to shut him up.” 

Orion nods in agreement. “But we both know things are never quite that simple, are they?” 

“No they’re not. Obviously, we’d be violating the R.I.D. treaty. So then we’d have to conquer the Earth which goes against most of our basic beliefs of freedom, unity, blah, blah. Gosh Orion why did you have to make this all so sentimental…” Elita trails off, stifling down her laughter. Orion chuckles under his breath and shifts in his chair, at ease for once. “Anyway, the whole proposal is just a vague, logistical nightmare that happens to appeal to our core desires.” 

“The wanting for this to all be over. To go home.” Finishes Silverbolt, gazing out the window. They all had been down this road before, through variations of this exact same conversation. The Decepticons had completely and utterly divided every Cybertronian City-State, Prime Colony, cohabitating Titan, dispert outpost, and everything in between. Spark siblings, mentors and apprentices, Conjunx and Amica Endura torn apart from each other either by force, threat, or manipulation by a mech Orion once considered his closest friend. Still, the Autobots had rallied together, first with the goal of retaking Cybertron and for they were successful. Optimus Prime had led a successful counter-assault, reclaiming Iacon and much of the Hexian Gulf within half a million years. At the cost of beleaguered and resentful people who never wanted to become an army. So, Optimus Prime made one final order, to stand here in Iacon and rebuild something new rather than reclaim all that was lost. 

“What do you think of it, Silverbolt?” Asks Orion. The Aerialbot leader had once been the personal bodyguard of Devisiun’s old ambassador to the Senate, left stranded during the first outbreaks of the War. Now he served as the representative of the Devisiun Diaspora in Iacon and a component of the gestalt, Superion, one of the Autobot’s greatest warriors. 

“Devisiun wasn’t left in quite as ruined as a state as Eukaris or Velocitron. Like Carcer, we were divided from the inside out. That’s probably why there’s a division in approach between myself and the First One versus Override and his Majesty. Our people won’t come together through the simple reclaiming of a planet or even multiple, rather the acknowledgement that we are not all powerful, not in frame, processor, or Spark. We are all susceptible to deceptions. There will be last repercussions from this War: most Titans have gone barren as Energon is redirected into weapon systems and shield generators, the Transformer race cannot be trusted to be united front anymore on the galactic stage as we have given into the factionalism, how will we rectify between justice and atonement towards the Decepticons once they finally fall?” Monologues Silverbolt. 

“Well said.” Agrees Orion. Still the same talking points as ever though. “How about you, Wheeljack?”

The engineer stares up at the ceiling. “Uh, sorry, I got distracted by something. Gotta say though I’m conflicted. I ain’t a ‘cultural figurehead’ or titan-chosen leader like you two so there isn’t that same sort of expectation placed upon my shoulders to reclaim a planet or forge a new path. But I do have a job to innovate and I never like to back down from a challenge!” 

“Nor would we expect you to.” Says Orion, waiting until Wheeljack comes to a more direct conclusion before voicing anything discouraging. 

“But I gotta be careful when it comes to inventing something as potentially dangerous as Dark Energon based weaponry. That's the kinda thing that takes a hundred thousand stellar cycles of intricate and tepid testing to work through and even more time spent finding a suitable and responsible wielder to finish the job.” The engineer’s flickering side crests dim and he looks at Orion. Suddenly his gaze shifts to look past the historian as someone stomps into the room. 

“Perhaps I could be that wielder.” States King Grimlock. He quickly transforms into his beast mode, a large giganotosaurs with rows of sharp scutes going down his back, three talons upon his short forearms and a long, narrow head held like a freshly sharpened ax. 

“Uh, hello…” Warbles Wheeljack.

“Your majesty.” Greets Orion, giving a brief bow. “I don’t recall inviting you to this conversation.” 

“You’re in a lounge. It doesn’t seem as though you care much about privacy.” Retorts Grimlock. 

“Transparency is an essential part of a functional democracy. However, we’re not in the Needle,” says Orion. 

“Well, don’t let me stop you.” Grimlock collapses onto the couch, coiling his long tail around the arm rests while scratching at it with his talons. 

“Why did you side with Sentinel this time?” Silverbolt asks. 

“He approached me. I didn’t have much time to prepare.” Admits Grimlock. 

“Then why’d you do it in the first place?” Asks Elita. 

“Because I am tired of the complacency we’ve been held in since Prime’s final order.” His long narrow skull turns to let a single red optic cut Orion to the spark. “Our people can’t fully rebuild here on this sliver of land we share with our former oppressors and unappreciative non-combatants. Surrounded by an enemy who can squash us like insects upon your windshields. Earth however…” He stops and looks up at the ceiling.

“It’s an already populated planet.” Orion says. 

“So I’ve been told. Repeatedly. That hasn’t stopped us before however. Nebulos, Probat, Aquatron, Junkion, Omicron, Opulus. All of these and many more are planets that have seen successful and respectful cohabitation between their native sapients and Transformers for millions of stellar cycles. And as Autobots we’ve maintained that relationship and protected it from Decepticon expanse without overstepping our boundaries. I don’t see why we couldn’t do so again on Earth.” Says Grimlock. 

“That’s quite the simplification of history.” Orion reminds. 

“Many of those planets you’ve listed have only a single outpost and exaltation assigned to each. We put no more botpower into maintaining these planets as the ones we hide away on while fighting the Decepticons in disguised combat.” Adds Silverbolt. 

“Yeah, why the lack of faith in Orion about all of this?” Prodes Elita. 

“Why is yours so overinflated? He had his chance at legitimate leadership yet he threw it out to space. I bet you intend to abandon it again without finding a successor.” Rumbles Grimlock. 

“The darn thing might be out of power after knocking Unicron out. And we don’t exactly know how to recharge the Matrix.” Says Wheeljack. 

Orion grips his mouth and nose bridge. “Wheeljack, Silverbolt. Could you please leave us?” 

“Uh, sure.” Accepts Wheeljack as he walks out with the Aerialbot leader. 

Elita stands behind his chair, gripping the backing protectively. “This feels familiar,” remarks Grimlock. As the Autobots retreated from Cybertron in the aftermath of the Siege, they met up with Elita One and the Clans that remained loyal to her. Upon Devisiun, Optimus and Elita frequently strategized together and grew close. Before returning to Cybertron, the combined Autobot fleet touched down on Eukaris, the air still thick with smoke from the Razing, seeking to offer support to the survivors. What they found were the four tribes united under Grimlock, the only Eukarian Warrior who successfully defended his people’s territory from the orbital bombardment, bombings, and fires. In turn, he became their King and rallied a small yet elite army of Dinobot Knights. Both Grimlock and Optimus found a common enemy in Megatron yet differed in methodology. They fought until one would submit. Sadly for Grimlock, he didn’t anticipate Optimus Prime to be the one to cheat. A well-placed pause in the battle from Elita gave the Prime a chance to duck from Grimlock’s final blow, a devastating, flaming sword strike, and sweep his legs out from under him. 

“Why are you even going through the Council? It’s never stopped you before from raising a Titan and obliterating an enemy without so much as a whimper from Ultra Magnus.” Asks Elita. 

“Because I know that I won’t win in a battle against him. Better I wait it out and win him over.” Says Grimlock. 

“My faith lies with the others, not with your annexation.” Spats Orion. 

“Big word to throw around. One that would surely find its way into the history books. But it wouldn’t be an annexation of Earth, it would be a crusade.” Grimlock corrects. 

An audible thud comes from the ceiling panels. Orion ignores it. “The Eukarians haven’t done Beast Sightings in millions of stellar cycles. I doubt most even remember what it was like.” An Eukarian’s beast mode was chosen by them when freshly forged using the Triptych mask, an artifact created by Onyx Prime that could allow the wearer to see through time and space, even beyond life and death until they found a beast that spoke to them. The Eukarians used to embark on quasi-religious pilgrimages before the war to the native planets of their beast modes as a way of connecting to one’s Spark and frame. Due to a disproportionate amount of beast modes coming from Earth, it had made the third rock from the Sun a popular pilgrimage for Eukarians and other beast-formers. 

“Mostly due to your War, of course.” Growls Grimlock. 

“That doesn’t matter now that the Earth has its own sapient species. Only a few centuries before the Galactic Council or some other organization offers them membership.” Dismisses Elita. 

“As though we haven’t been doing that already. Considering what lurks within the Earth’s mantle, it will require constant Cybertronian surveillance until it burns in the Sun’s expanse in 5 to 6 billion stellar cycles. Even after we put Unicron back to sleep, who knows when or what will trigger his next awakening.” Says Grimlock. Another audible thud disturbs the loose ceiling panel. Grimlock looks up and parts his jaws, an orange glow shines along his teeth until a blaze erupts forth and melts the ceiling panels. Rattrap and Doctor Hawk fall out of the ceiling. Rattrap lands on Grimlock’s nose, his legs catching on fire. The pretender falls on their back with an nasty creak. “Seems as though we have spies in our midst.” The Eukarian king shakes off the Rattrap. 

“I think I have a hemorrhage.” Moans Hawk as they try to push themself back onto their feet. 

“Walk it off.” Says Rattrap as he shakes himself. 

Orion dashes up to them and offers a hand. Doctor Hawk shoos him away. “Please back up. You might want to get a janitor in here soon.” Metalhawk emerges from their shell, droplets of dark crimson cling to their plating. They take out a large towel and begin wiping it off. 

“It was their idea!” Blurts Rattrap, pointing up at Metalhawk. 

“No it wasn’t. Rumors will ruin the rat.” Retorts Metalhawk. 

“Why did you two come back?” Asks Orion. 

“I just wanted to see this all go to scrap.” Barks Rattrap. 

“I wanted to make sure you were representing the Earth and my research well. You’re failing.” Says Metalhawk bluntly. Orion gasps as they continue, “You three keep going around in circles, achieving nothing! And what is even the purpose of this conversation? You aren’t changing anyone’s minds. Wheeljack, Silverbolt, and Elita One all support you, Orion. While you, your Majesty have only given vague threats and indications of power-grabbing. This might not even come down to a vote. Everything you’ve worked towards might just get tossed down the rubbage bin! Ultimately, it is up to Ultra Magnus to decide.”

“Feeling better?” Asks Grimlock as he stands up and circles Metalhawk. “Remember this, anger is more constructive then you give it credit for. It might have been a better use of your energy reserves to invest in actual weaponry then that pretender suit and…” He pauses and sniffs. “Two sub-quantum engines you had installed? We’re just asking for you to jump halfway from here to Caminus and never return.” 

“Hey! Their a bigger, better bot then I am!” Rattrap defends. 

“Rattrap, that’s not the rebuttal you think it is.” Utters Metalhawk. 

“Is character assassination all your good for these days, your Majesty?” Asks Elita One. 

“I am merely giving advice in this instance. And contrary to my current alignment with Sentinel, I don’t agree with his invasive investigation into Metalhawk. Every bot is innocent until proven guilty and other nonsense about needing a warrant and probable cause.” Says Grimlock. “How are you handling the accusations?” 

“I provided context for each of the audio recordings when asked. That’s it.” States Metalhawk, looking away. \” 

“Well I guess that rules out anyone with built in or installed cameras from your spy suspect list.” Grimlock smiles. 

“I never suspected Gnashteeth, Nightviper, or Leobreaker.” Says Metalhawk. 

“Of course not.” Grimlock shakes his head. 

“Then why assume such?” They reply. 

“I need to understand how similar we are. Obviously, you are a scientist while I am royalty. We both want what’s best for the Earth. I do it out of a spiritual connection. You do it out of sentimentality and if recent accusations are to be believed, financial opportunity. We both know what it’s like to have D.N.A. influence your form and frame as much as the Primal code of your Spark. Mine’s innate, your’s is installed.” Espoused Grimlock. 

“Surface layer connections with deviating actions, goals, and philosophies.” Dismisses Metalhawk. 

“Perhaps. But you are the expert in this case, what will be the best method to prevent Unicron from awakening in the future? Should we leave the humans be or continue to guide them?” Asks the mechanical theropod. 

“The answer’s in my papers. Read it. I’ve had enough of this. Rattrap, let’s go.” They sulk away. 

“It’s blank.” Elita says. “We’ve assumed it was intentional censorship in the event the Decepticon’s acquired it. So that they would never know how to trigger an awakening.”

“Cloudburst must have done that then.” Metalhawk pauses then looks at Orion. Almost sorrowful and sorry. “I gave him a master copy. Now I’m leaving.” They transformed and taxied away. Rattrap scurried after them. 

The two Colony leaders look at Orion. Elita offers her hand while Grimlock’s tail wiggles impatiently. He takes her hand and projects a holopad. He flips past the abstract, introductions, methods, results, to the discussion section. “‘As retold in prior papers [46], the closest Unicron has come to awakening was 245 million stellar cycles ago when the Titan Gorgon and Corvus Prime went on a beast sighting pilgrimage to Earth. The pilgrimage procession came to an abrupt end when increased volcanic activity quickly pumped the Earth’s atmosphere with greenhouse gasses, aerosols, and other compounds that can negatively affect the climate and respiration of oxygen-dependent organic lifeforms. A mass extinction event ensued, causing the death of 96% of all of Earth’s species. This event can tell us many things. As established in Particlepoint of Praxes’ thesis defense [32], Unicron’s is not deactivated and may drift in between bouts of high activity and stasis. This would manifest as seismic and volcanic activity that would be hard to distinguish from what’s to be expected for a rocky planet with a hot core and tectonic system. Thus it may be coincidence or a reaction to his antithesis. The presence of a Titan and Prime is more than enough to stir Unicron out of stasis [2]. Perhaps even the brief presence of a former….” Orion trails off before he finishes the final word. 

“Matrixbarer.” States Grimlock, his brows falling harsh over his red optics. Elita’s handhold loosens. Orion felt hollow, like the thin, shiny skin of a rotten piece of fruit. Maybe this is conjecture. Speculation. He looks through the sources. The second one is the Covenant of Primus….written by Alpha Trion. Is this fate…or my fault….

Chapter Text

The Barn, Australian Outback

Shafts of dusty light filter through the cracked windows and cooked wooden panels and onto Devcon’s wings and fuselage. In the absence of a recharge slab, he took to resting in his vehicle mode. His wings felt heavy and his landing tire’s sag. The rafters above him shake and straws of hay sprinkle onto his back. “What is it, Balloon?” The bounty hunter asks. 

He is answered by a shrill shout coming from outside. “Keep away from me! You traitorous Autoclods!” 

“Dot! Just calm down. Let’s talk…” Matrix pleads. 

“The only thing we should talk about is your imminent surrender!” Dot shrieks and then the pitter-patter of pebbles hitting against metal. “Fear my stone bullets!”

Devcon rolls forward and pushes open the barn doors with his nose cone. A sandy path trails between the barn, a water silo Lapse stands behind as she lours down at the fighting siblings, and a shed that houses a small energon refinery, chugging along hard at work to turn the crystals they mined into usable cubes. Matrix stands in the thick of it with his hands above his helm as pebbles are rained down from Dot’s repeated throws. The little Decepticon sits on a crooked branch with a bucket full of stones hooked around her arm. Gun stands beside the door, his neck pulled forward and head tilted in a rare show of interest from the expressionless Targetmaster. Frisket barks up at Dot, paws on the tree trunk. 

“Are you going to put a stop to this?” Lapse asks him over a private channel. 

“They're just having a bit of sibling rivalry, that’s all.” Devcon says. 

“You two brought a Decepticon to the barn and now she’s destroying everything we have.” She exclaims. 

“She’s throwing rocks at him. It’s not as though we brought in Megatron and thought ‘Hey, I wonder if we could turn him, the Emperor of Destruction, into a peaceful, Autobot space captain’?” Devcon retorts. 

“I want to avoid this war at all costs. Any sight of fighting and I’ll…”

“Wait until you find out about boxing, wrestling and martial arts. A whole world of Sports Entertainment! That would give you a spark attack. Woops.” Snarks the Autobot. 

Lapse steps forward. A gush of water bursts out of the ground and hardens into a wall of ice between Dot’s rocks and Matrix. “Ah! You’ve mounted a defense!” Shouts Dot. 

“Enough. Dot, is it? We are not all Autobots here. Balloon and myself are just non-combatents seeking refuge on this planet and have hired Devcon and your brother Matrix for our protection. You have until sunset to renounce your Deceptibrand and be offered that same protection.” Lapse offers. The ice wall evaporates into a rush of wind that blows against Lapse’s wings as she transforms and takes off in a spiraling soar. 

Dot hops off her branch and holds her hands together, squinting her optics as she points at Matrix. “Fine. I’ll talk for a few cycles but then I’m returning to Roadkill and he’ll bring a whole squadron upon you. Ha ha ha!” 

“Dot, you don’t have to be a Decepticon anymore. We can be together again or we could help you find somewhere else you belong.” Matrix proposes. 

She ignores him and turns her attention to Devcon. She pounces forth and jumps onto his back, stomping around. “You! You destroyed my mode enhancers! Now you will pay!” 

“Stop.” Devcon says as he tries to transform. Red lights flare from his cockpit and his onboard computers beep in protest. Great, I have morning stiffness. He shakes her off and pins an engine pod on top of her. “What did you even do with the Trackers?” 

Dot stops her frantic slapping and pauses for a moment. “Mostly mechanical maintenance on Knockout’s behalf and devising sub-strategies. Ha! I will use my brilliant mind to deduce your weaknesses and free myself from your bulk!” 

“I have a proposal for you. I’ll let you go and can lead you to a nearby boneyard. It has a ton of scrap that, if you're as good of a mechanic as you say you are, you can make your own mode enhancers. Matrix will come along with us, give you two a chance to reconnect. What do you say?” Devcon offers as he leans the other way. 

“And if I refuse?” 

“I bet it's a long walk back to wherever you ‘cons hide from. And I bet I can get a pretty penny by following you all the way then ratting out your location to Metalhawk and their human friends.” Devcon muses. 

Dot clambers back up onto her peds. “Fine.”

“Excellent. It will be like that time we went to Pewter Plains with our mentor and we found that shipfall and you were able to restore one of the escape pods!” Matrix reminisces with an excitement that Devcon hadn’t seen from him but couldn’t help but be touched by. 

Balloon slowly creeps outside. “Who will be around to protect me then?” 

“Frisket, Gun. Stay behind and protect Balloon should a possum try to eat him.” Matrix orders. “Dot and I don’t mind walking.”

“I mind it!” Shouts the Decepticon. 

“I think you’d mind trying to recombine with me a lot more. Better to give you space.” Matrix admits. 

Devcon taxis forward. “Alright, let's move on.” 

The Boneyard

A thin fence is all that separates them from what could be mistaken for a macabre sight. Dozens of jumbo jets line up, cone to aft, wing tip to wing tip, in perfectly straight rows and columns. The landing gears rest half deflated on the dust-blown asphalt. Wings sag and shake in the light gusts. Windows and windshields cracked and caked with sand. White metal turns yellow beneath the belligerent sun like bleached bones. But these aren’t the hollowed out shells of a sapient machine’s disguise, rather the unused remains of man-made vehicles awaiting recycling. 

Devcon rears up onto his hind gears and pushes the fence down, letting the two siblings into the scrapyard. Dot pulls down a few additional heads up displays behind her neon green visor and sprints along the edges of the old airliners. “Hmm, none of these will be an easy conversion but I only need it to be an aerodynamic counterweight.” She accesses. 

Matrix follows after her at a distance. “Perhaps one of those engine pods could work.” 

“Bah ha ha!” Dot cackles. “Such a large engine isn’t necessary for myself. I can produce my own thrust. And it’s much too heavy. Unlike you seemed to have gotten. Either a higher density fuel or…” 

Matrix takes a laser saw out of his subspace pockets and tosses it in her direction. “Additional armor, that’s why. With that you should be able to carve one out and make it hollow.” He then turns around and transforms into the front half of a muscle car. A particularly prone situation as his hollow back scraps behind two powerful tires. Devcon and Dot slowly approach him from opposite directions. 

She picks up the saw and projects a holopad set to record. She takes pictures of the tabs and clips lining the edges of Matrix’s back where Gun and Frisket would connect into for their combined car mode. Where Dot used to tab into to let the siblings fly together. “Thank you.” She says curtly. The green femme turns around and activates her thrusters, pushing her up to the level of engine pods. She grips the saw and turns it on, a jagged blaze of fuschia roars along the length of the saw. Dot lifts it above her head and arches it down across the wing’s underside, cutting the engine pod cleanly and only leaving faint burn marks. She drops down to inspect her quarry. 

Her brother leaves her to her work and transforms. “How did you two end up splitting apart?” Devcon asks carefully. “You behave too amicably towards her for it to have been a betrayal and not shocked about her survival for it to have been during catastrophe.” He had met the Devisen mech several thousands of years ago on one of his rare sebaticals away from protecting Lapse and Balloon. He had flown to a hollowed out asteroid turned refueling station/oilhouse about 45 lightyears away from Earth. Matrix had shown up strutting around with a tamed steeljaw and a silent targetmaster, a sign of overcompensation in a bounty hunter so new and shiny. Before he could embarrass himself further, Devcon approached him with some advice and an offer of training and a simple job. 

“We both wanted to be engineers, me with software and her with hardware. I didn’t care where went so she chose to study under the Constructicons.” Matrix starts. 

“When did all this happen?” Devcon asks. 

“Only a few hundred thousand years ago.” Matrix says. “We’re both under a million stellar cycles old.” 

“I thought they were part of the Decepticons for way longer than that.” Devcon gasps.

“They’re not just a gestalt but a brand. A very popular one on both Devisiun and Cybertron. They have construction companies, built Crystal City, and started up a college program that Dot and I enrolled in. However, then they were bought out by the Decepticons, changed the name of the gestalt from Constructor to Devastator and started to undo all that they built.” He continues. 

“How’d you uncover all of that? Seems like the Decepticon’s would want to be under lock and key.” 

“Information requests were still legal on Devisiun and Dot was doing research at the time. But she didn’t care about the implications of the truth at the time and instead followed along.” Matrix finishes. “I turned my attention to programming mechanimals, Frisket was my first successful one and I later outfitted him with some minicon-alike batteries. Often my clients ended up being bounty hunters looking for a loyal companion or…” 

“You had to do domestications?” Devcon blurts. 

“I refused to do them. I reversed one done to a targetmaster without resorting to mnemosurgery, Gun. Afterwards, I had enough of it and we went off together.” Matrix admits. “I just want Dot to know that I didn’t want to abandon her. I know I can’t force what I know onto her but if I can just chip away at what the Decepticon’s told her, maybe be back in her life.”

“That is a nice thought.” Devcon shimmies back on his landing gear. 

“Do you have mode lock or are you trying to blend in?” Matrix asks.

“Mode lock I think but I’ve tried giving myself a debug and it came back negative.” Devcon explains. 

“Have you checked if it's a trait of the alternate mode you’ve scanned?” Dot shouts at him. Soot stains her bright metal. Each of her fingers is transformed into a different tool, tips of laser blades, screw and drill bits, and soldering irons. The engine pod lies halved in front of her, the external plating chinked and cut into while the internal hunks are torn out and lay half glowing in the sand. 

“Huh, could be.” Devcon says as he tries sifting through the primitive readouts produced by the replicated old computers of his alternate mode. 

“One crew member on board.” A sultry, feminine voice echoes through his interior. Ooh, I don’t know if I’m into that. He tries to tune out the outside world and its stimuli. “This voice was chosen specifically to get your attention.” The automated voice speaks again. He hears the scurrying of claws against ribbed flooring and leather seats. 

“This alt-mode is haunted.” He audibly whispers.

Dot shrugs. “I was never trained on how to perform an exorcism.” 

“Do you want to go back to the barn?” Matrix asks. 

“I think I might take a short flight.” Devcon taxis to an open stretch of asphalt and prepares his engines for take off. 

Above Northeastern Australia

The sun begins its final descent in the west, casting a soft, dappled green glow from treetops that reflect on Devcon’s underside and engine pods as he soars only a few feet above. Everyonce and awhile, he feels his mysterious occupant freak out and resettle within his pilot’s cockpit. Its movements are predictable yet erratic Devcon has found out over the hours he’s been aware of it. The movements of a startled yet helpless animal. 

He banks and rolls randomly, trying to force the creature to hop onto the pilot’s seat so he can activate the escape capsule. He pitches his nose cone upward and turns on his afterburners, rapidly accelerating skyward. The creature scrabbles underneath the control console. Devcon shuts his afterburners and pitches down into a dive. The creature finds itself weightless and crashes into his windscreen. Devcon catches a glimpse of fluffy gray fur. He slams up his nose again, pushing the creature onto the seat and ejects the escape capsule. 

The bounty hunter transforms midair, using the last of his moment to lunge forward and catch the capsule. He wraps his arms around it and curls his legs up as he crashes through the canopy, smashing branches and tree trunks as he lands with a muffled thud. 

Devcon holds an orange and white pod in his hands. He peers through the singular porthole and sees a small gray animal clinging to the seat edges, giant black nose twitching and rounded off ears raised. He pulls the capsule apart and allows the koala bear to crawl onto his hand. He stands up and ducks beneath the canopy. The blue mech holds out his hand to let the koala sniff the various trees. Finally, it climbs off his fingers and onto a branch. It gathers leaves in its little, padded hands and begins to feast. Another two koalas join it and nuzzle close, reunited at last. 

The Barn

To avoid drawing attention to themselves, the little group of Neutrals, bounty hunters, and new ex-con had no lights except for the glow of their optics, biolights, or energon cubes stacked within the refinery shed. This and the lack of a proper runway makes it difficult for Devcon to land. On his 45th circle overhead, he finally comes to a realization. I might as well stop and drop. The blue supersonic bomber cuts his engines, glides briefly, and then plummets into the scraggly bushes. In contrast, Lapse emerges from her protective clouds and transforms midair, almost dancing as the water vapor condenses against her metal, keeping her upright. 

“Ugh.” Devcon groans as he transforms. 

“I see you’ve finally returned and remembered how to transform.” Lapse says. 

“Yeah, got mauled by a dropbear. Did Matrix come back yet?” He asks, stretching out his limbs. 

“Yes, both him and Dot.” Confirms Lapse. 

“What convinced you to let her stay?” 

“She still has the insignia but then again so do you. But her first concern upon coming back to the barn was not to call me a clod but to point out the inefficiencies in our refinery’s setup. She’s giving it an overhaul now. And I suppose we could use someone who knows her way around repairs within our group.” Lapse explains, a small smile of appreciation on her face. 

“Well that's good, and Matrix?” 

“On patrol with Frisket and Gun. Protecting Balloon from all the dropbears, dingoes, and quinkanas.” 

Devcon stands in silence and thinks for a few moments. His optics drift up beyond the endless scrubland and to the twinkling stars condensing around the galactic disk. “Yeah, he has the makings of a good guardian for you three.” 

After a few more moments, Lapse says, “You three? Are you planning on leaving? I know you still have that unfulfilled favor for Metalhawk.” 

“That I do. You probably wouldn’t like what I have to say but…” He waits for her to say something. Some sort of interjection, protest, or snarky remark. “I think things might start to get heated here, on Earth. Things that will make you want to leave. And I have some amount of obligation to the other Autobots so I might have to go again. Like when I’m on break.” 

Lapse closes her optics and looks away, face scrunched up. The air felt heavier and humid, droplets condense against his plating. “Continue talking or just leave now.” 

“Alright. Keep my com-numbers in your logs if you need me again.” Devcon began to walk away. He sees the distant shine of Matrix’s highbeams illuminating the scraggly foliage and dusty ground before him, driving dutifully ahead. I don’t know if he has the bearings for bounty hunting, but he sure has the Spark of a guardian. 

Chapter Text

Sterling City Event Center, Washington State, Earth

Time seems to slow for Gale as she stands in the ring for the final time. She watches her opponent’s movements frame by frame, utilizing her own processors while within her human skin: the curve in Gemini Ginger’s body as she dives toward Gale from the top ring, the rush of her dyed orange curls, the delayed brace of Gale’s muscles, the reverbing cheers of the sold out stadium, the mile-a-minute accounting of Cyrus as he sits at the commentary table. Gemini pulls her right fist back for a Twintwist of Bliss Kiss, her signature move, a simple gesture for a simple face. Gale swings her arms forth and grabs Gemini by her shoulders and pulls her up into a fireman’s carry. Gemini situates herself accordingly, tapping Gale’s side with her knee to carry onto the next stage. Gale firmly grips her last challenger and holds her in a near vertical position before leaping up and slamming Gemini into the canvas. Gale stomps her boot onto Gemini’s stomach. “Stepping on those who are beneath her! That’s our champion, the Tyrant Queen, Gale!” Cyrus shouts. 

Gale doesn’t look back as she scales the ropes and balances on the top. She lifts up her right fist and grins savagely to the crowd, garnering their cheers and boos in equal parts. 

Gemini pounces upward at her, grabbing her thighs and waist and pulling her back into a clumsy suplex. As Gale crashes backwards onto the mat, the second commentator roars into the save, “A dark mirror of the Tyrant Queen’s own Yessuprtion signature move!” Gemini keeps her arms wrapped around Gale’s lower body and lifts it up and back, forcing the weight over Gale’s shoulders as the referee swings into the ring to count the pinfall. 

Each second is dragged out, one becomes five in between the crowd's slow, tense chants, the commentators’ exclamations of ‘OH MY GOD’ and ‘ARE YOU KIDDING ME’, and the ref’s meaty slapping of the mat after every second until it hits three. 

The lights change from harsh stage white to dazzling orange and yellow with flashes of pyro along the ramps, jumbotron, and ring posts. Gemini jumps up and runs her fingers through her hair in shock as the referee lifts up her hand and points to her as the winner of the match. Cyrus jogs over to the ring with the Intergender Championship belt in hand, he slides in and offers it to Gemini. The crowd erupts into applause, harshly contrasted by those who felt betrayed by the face’s last minute heel turn with her finishing suplex and booed accordingly. 

Gale lay there for a few seconds, recovering her strength after her long final match. The Decepticons only wished they left such an impact. She shimmies on her back into the shadows, dangles her lower legs over the mat’s edge and pulls the rest of herself by the hooking of her knees. She lands on the surrounding padding and slinks up the ramp. She doesn’t look back as shadows cross her face and she steps off stage. 

Back stage, an assistant shoves a water bottle into her face. She unscrews the cap and dunks the water over her head and shoulders, washing away her dark, runny makeup and sweat. In the locker room, she runs a towel over her sweat-slick body as she tears off her stretched and stressed uniform in favor of fleece-lined sweatpants and a puffy jacket. Her overheating is temporary as she slips out of the arena into the expansive, cold parking lot. She plugs in earbuds and holds a flashlight and keys in one hand. 

Twin lights follow her, casting gleaming ripples from the icy puddles and long shadows. Gale turns around and sees a green limousine following her, specifically Mr. Blackrock’s limousine. It’s a classic car with a boxy frame, fenders so curvy it makes anyone swoon, and immaculately maintained chrome along the grill, bumper, and door handles. The green paint shines almost minty on this dark, December night, festive even. Gale always assumed it had been held in his family for decades and taken well care of. She thought she was familiar with this car and its comings and goings. Blackrock isn’t supposed to be back until just a few days before Christmas, we still got time. She cast’s her flashlight over the car’s windows, no one looks back from those empty, pale leather seats. 

“Huh, so you’re one of us.” Gale realizes. Panel lines start to part along the limousine’s chassis, waiting to pop out weapons or transform. “Oh, don’t be like that. No. Now, who are you?” 

The car turns off its headlights and tries to sneak to the side. Gale slams her hands down on its hood. “No, you were sneaking up on me so you at least wanted to know what I was up to. Now, let me return the favor, yes.”

The limousine shifts into reverse. Gale pinches its bumper and lifts up its front half. “I’m only half-cheating. If you were a ‘con, you’d already shoot me and I’d have already eaten you. If you were a neutral, you’d be in Australia. And if you’re an Autobot, then who sent you?” 

No answer. The hood creaks open and a gun muzzle peaks out. Gale drops the car’s front half and sidesteps it as it rushes forward. She jumps back, snatching the door handles as the limousine attempts to race away. The pretender digs in her heels, causing the limousine to steer to the left and streak close by the rows  of parked cars. The limo stops and Gale pries its doors open with one yank. “How about you talk before I pull a ‘before he cheats’ on ya?”

“I am not a four-wheel drive, sweetie.” Replies the limousine in a haughty voice. “But I am quite ‘souped-up’.” 

The spy rams left, clipping Gale’s shin and forcing her to tuple inside. Seat belts lash around the pretender and pull her upright and tight against the front seat. The door slams shut and locks, trapping Gale in. The limousine revs up her engines and accelerates around the parking lot and onto the city streets. 

Gale grinds her teeth and thrashes her limbs and body around, trying to tear through the belts. It tightens around her and a pointer finger waggles in disapproval upon the installed console tablet. She goes still, aware that she could always emerge fully from her shell, however it would not only reveal her true nature to everyone but could also kill her current captor. Even if she’s here due to underhanded pretenses, she’s still an Autobot. I need to be careful with how I escape. Even if she isn't. 

The world outside the thick tinted windows is a blur of late-night lights, rain-slick reflective streets, and domineering buildings. Gale fails to make out the street signs, instead recognizing they were approaching the port by towering cranes and walls of shipping containers replacing the tight skyline. The limousine slows down and finally speaks again, “I will drop you off here. Should I ever see you again, you’ll be lucky to have a mind left at all. I’ll leave you like a feral beast.” 

The seat belts retreat and Gale looks around. Crashing waves surround them on three sides as the limousine parks at the edge of a dilapidated dock. The wood under tire is rotten and doesn’t do well to support the weight of the two of them. “Threatening me with domestication hardly seems to be the Autobot way.” Gale grunts. “I’d rather you just give me a straight fight.” 

She swings the door open and steps onto a narrow, wet strip of wood. The door closes tight behind her, knocking Gale over and into the cold waters below. The spy slowly reverses off the dock only for Gnashteeth’s jaws to emerge from the water and grasp her front bumper and pull them both beneath the waves. 

The tyrannosaur crunches into soft metal, sort of like sodium or moist clay, characteristics of a Shifter, a descendant of Amalgamous Prime and capable of taking on a variety of robot and alternate modes. The spy’s alternate mode transforms, the color drains from her plating as it reshapes into round curves that flow with the current. Her wheels angle out and back of their arches and turn into bladed turbines that push the two Autobots deeper into the depths. The green limousine is replaced by a sleek silver and white submersible. 

Gnashteeth kicks and thrashes her tail violently behind her, pushing against the spy’s engines. The spy shoots out harpoons toward Gnashteeth’s neck and shoulders, failing to penetrate any deeper than the outer crags of her armor. Instead, she manages to succeed in pushing the tyrannosaur into a strong upwell. 

Gnashteeth retreats into her shell, this time taking the form of shiny tuna fish that fights against the current effortlessly and trails the gleaming white submersible without suspicion. The sea floor drags up to an offshore island. The pretender’s smooth scales become large and craggy, the dorsal and tail fins divide into rows of scutes, pectoral fins thicken into short, clawed limbs, head flattens into a broad, toothy maw. An alligator sneaks behind the spy as she transforms into a tall, athletic, silver and white femme with blue accents on her visible fender kibble. The Eukarian pretender lunges at her heel strut, crunching down with jaws second only to her beast mode’s. 

The spy kicks forward, tossing the alligator into the air. Gnashteeth emerges into her robot mode and points a charging laser bolt at the spy. “You are persistent. I guess you’d like a reward then?” 

“Quickshadow? Is that you?” Calls out another voice as a blue sports car with red tire rims drives along the sandy beach. Dark evergreen trees sway in the sea blown-winds as orcas breach the gray waters between the island and dim glow of Sterling City. 

Gnashteeth recognizes the sports car as Counterpunch, a rarely seen Tracker. Her bolt charge doesn’t stray from Quickshadow however as she realizes their role as a double agent. The Tracker transforms, first with a bold purple Decepticon insignia upon their chest and wide shoulder pads, then a faceplate shuts across their mouth, the shoulder pads sweep backwards, and an Autobot badge fades in. Their blue optics light up in surprise. 

“What? You were always the one saying that we should reveal ourselves to the others.” Quickshadow says as she takes a few steps away from Gnashteeth. 

“Who are you two? Metalhawk never told me about you.” Gnashteeth asks as she powers down the plasma blast. 

“They never knew us. We are Agents Quickshadow and Punch of the Elite Guard, at Sentinel Major’s service. The Elite Guard’s role is to defend Cybertron and its people regardless of faction or function and Unicron poses the greatest threat to our duties.” Explains the white femme as she projects a holopad showing the Elite Guard seal. 

Punch visibly groans and rolls their optics. “I knew Landmine, we were assigned some of the same missions before the War. He even invited me to his and Waverider’s last Act as his Bestbot!” 

“Yeah, well, Landmine didn’t have many friends. Why are you here then?” Gnashteeth pushes. 

“Punch is a double agent under the pseudonym Counterpunch. They’ve been with Roadkill’s Trackers for the past two million years and not necessarily in the Solar System.” Quickshadow says. 

“I’ve mostly worked at finding the Decepticon’s weak points and using it to our advantage. This used to mean telling Landmine about it directly but now I try to identify those among their ranks who want to escape and give them refuge.” Punch continues. 

“Like Rattrap? So I’m guessing he knows.” Gnashteeth huffs. 

“Indeed. As well as the dirt bike and serpent.” Adds Punch. 

“Not so much of a spy then.” Gnashteeth remarks. 

“I only need to stay hidden from two sides unlike her duping all.” Punch glares at Quickshadow. Gnashteeth raises an opticbrow. What's her deal then? Gnashteeth came to one disastrous conclusion. 

“You’ve been collecting dirt on the humans!” Gnashteeth accuses as she transforms and crunches her jaws together. “Sentinel sent you here to find ways of discrediting our allies so the Elite Guard has a reason to sweep in and take over. Yes?” 

“What a way to take a mere facet of my assignment and blow it up into a predictable conspiracy in under an astrominute. After Landmine was offlined, Sentinel assigned me here to keep an optic on Metalhawk. At first that meant posing as public transit vehicles or taxis but then I saw an opportunity to become closer with their employer.” Quickshadow unveils. 

“The scrapling attack?” Gnashteeth guesses. 

“Indeed. I was in a self-induced statis lock and had several signal dampeners installed. You never knew I was there as you’d sweat in my third row, left seat. I was just recording conversations and sending it back to Sentinel. What he does with it is none of my business…”

“He’s going to blackmail them. Metalhawk is deeply in debt, missing about 2 million years worth of rent for a Polyhex apartment. So they’ve been biding their time until the humans join some intersystem trade agreement so they can convert Earth’s currencies to shanix.” Gnashteeth interrupts. 

Quickshadow’s optics briefly flash red, a cue that she was now recording their conversation. Punch takes a few steps back, crossing their arms. Gnashteeth continues, hopeful that this could somehow save her fellow pretender’s name. “If they wanted to play god with the humans, then they would have. At most, they've introduced humans to the 'm' and 'h' sounds because they've always used the same initials and how to shuck mollusks. But none of their actions have violated any pre-existing standards for how to approach a Preserve planet or the Tyrest Accord or the RID treaty. The Tyrest Accord prosecutes exploitations of a cybertronian biology, not the exchange of our technology or permission of energon access with other species. We don’t even know the conversion rate between the US dollar and shanix.”

Punch pipes up, “$3 to 1 shanix.” 

Quickshadow glowers at them. 

“A bot has to have a side hustle.” Punch shrugs then goes silent. 

“Anyway, this isn’t a failing on Metalhawk but on the system your Commander has refused to tear down.” Gnashteeth trails off as Quickshadow ends her recording. 

“Short soundbites go over better with Sentinel. Less stuff he needs to give a critical thought to the better in his optics  but I’ll forward it to Ultra Magnus as well. Now, Punch, what is it you called me here for?” Quickshadow asks. She extends out a hand, shooing Gnashteeth away, wishing for some more covertness but not an outright band on her presence. 

The pretender shrinks back down into her shell, this time in human form and paces along the beach, the strong winds blowing over any attempt to shield herself with a hood or umbrella from the rain. The two other Autobots walk beneath an outstretched tree branch and continue to talk. 

“I’ve identified two possible deserters among the Tracker ranks; Dot, she’s a mechanical engineer and strategist for them, at most she gives annoying laser fire in battle. Recently, she was incapacitated and captured by Devcon.” 

“Not his group’s style. And what is Roadkill's reaction?”

“I think her brother is Devcon’s partner, two micromaster combiners. Roadkill prefers self-reliance among his men. He won’t waste the energy on retrieving her.”

“Then she’ll be considered a DINO or neutral for the time being. And the other one?” 

“Very recently, a mech came into the ranks exhibiting advanced Deceptiwall symptoms. His name is Inferno and he turns into a firetruck. Doesn’t match anyone registered within Autopedia. A neutral perhaps?”

“A foolish one. Anyone who hasn’t already joined the Decepticons knows to carry debugging kits and the antivirus with them. If not, it's easily downloadable. Have you found any sort of shuttlecraft, docking ring, a stasis pod even that he could have came here in?” 

“No, my only clue to his origin is that he bleeds blue. He’s a Camien.” 

“That’s your big revelation? That some mysterious idiot comes from those religious fundamentalist isolationists?”

“He also has no memories of anything before coming to us. The Deceptiwall isn’t strong enough to override datatrax, just warp the replay of them. And his armor is soft. Not like yours. He’s young, incredibly young. Perhaps only months old. He’s fully grown so probably protoformed but what if…” 

“Stop. I don’t want to hear your wild speculations. Perhaps the Trackers have a stockpile of cheap stasis pods.”

“I would have seen the delivery reports. I keep my optics on everything I can get access to. Roadkill does keep his secrets but not when we're getting new Trackers.”

“Fine, then what do you think it is?” 

“I think there might be a Camien Titan on Earth.” 

Gnashteeth reemerges and stomps over to the two spies. “Earth has been thoroughly visited and scanned by Beastsighters, scientists, and naturalists for millions of years. Metalhawk themself have kept extensive, frankly obsessive records of this.”

“Not for much of the War however…” Punch explains. “Perhaps something has slipped through. Earth's been under cycles of glacial retreat and advancement and sea level change for the past million years. That could easily hide away a Titan. There’s only so much LiDAR, radar, and sonar can detect. This could be what’s caused Unicron to awaken.”

“Enough. We’d need more proof than a firetruck and a wild Titan chase. I’ll give you some stronger anti-Deceptiwall programming. Even if Inferno is freed from the shell program, he might remain a Decepticon.” Quickshadow hands Punch a small flash drive. 

“At Least he’ll be given a choice.” Punch says as they begin to walk away. 

Gnashteeth turns back toward the waves as the sun starts to rise, tinging the sky and water with dark yellow and teal. Quickshadow slowly approaches her from behind. “Unless you’re going to deactivate or domesticate me, I’ll be going. I got a plane to catch. Will you be there?”

Gnashteeth can almost hear the smile in her voice as she whispers, “Mmm, spoilers.” 

Chapter Text

The Tiny House Inside Metalhawk’s Closet

Marrissa wakes up slowly on her side of the bed, well two twin-size mattresses pushed together on the loft of the tiny house. She pushes back the blankets, made up of whatever the two women could find in this museum collection of an apartment. Probably why they’re saving all of this stuff. She thinks as she pulls her legs out from underneath a mammoth pelt, a quilt, and silk sheets. Pulling the silk scarf off her curls, she scoots up as much as she can beneath the shallow ceiling and looks over at Kelly. The blankets twist around her body, her dark hair almost pine-green under the right lighting, jumbled and obscuring her face. A piece of wood dangles precariously above her. An image of the messy perfection that seemed to surround Kelly’s life. Marissa reaches over her and tries to push the fallen strut back into place. It shifts loose and falls. 

Kelly stirs, kicking the 2-by-4 in half, shattering it into two equal pieces against her shin. Marissa’s eyes widened in surprise. Kelly yawns and rolls onto her back. “What day is it?” She asks through the morning yawns and mumbles. 

Marissa reaches for her phone. “Dec. 21 in Earth time. I don’t know about this place.” 

“I think the days are longer.” Kelly adds, straightening up. “And hey, aren’t we supposed to be leaving soon?” 

Marissa nods. She didn’t really know what her Christmas plans were. Her parents lived in Emerald City, about a four hour drive south from Sterling City and always invited her but never pressured her to come. Kelly’s employer, Mr. Blackrock often hosted a charity gala near the holidays however such an event sounded too fancy and public then what the agent was used to. Guess it will be that charcuterie board Simmons keeps talking up. 

“How do you think you’ll handle it?” Kelly asks, reaching a hand out and stroking her arm. 

“Apparently Sky Lynx won’t be flying us back.” Marissa says. “But what if the ship they find can’t even pressurize and or produce breathable air? And then there’s my inability to be on a plane without getting sick.” 

“Hey! Don’t panic. Worse comes to worse, Metalhawk will probably fly us back. And maybe we could find some way to knock you out cold. You could take a cocktail of drowsy drugs, get super drunk, or I could flash my tits at you!” Kelly shouts. 

Marissa blushes deeply and bursts into laughter. “Stop! That’s moving a bit too fast for my liking.” 

“Alrighty. Waiting for Valentine’s day? I’m a patient gal.” Kelly smiles and shrugs. Marrissa leans over to her and guides her into a kiss. 

The quiet moment is interrupted by the sound of loud, clinking steps and the swinging open of the giant closet door. The steps stop, replaced by the rumbling of turbines, twitching actuators and servos, and indecisive venting. Soles scrap along the laminated metal floors and there’s a tapping as heel struts are spun. The door closes with a slight crack. The steps grow quieter. 

“I wonder what they got out of the closet.” Kelly throws off the blankets, scrambles down the ladder and sprints out of the tiny house. “Come on, let’s go find out!”

Marrissa follows her but briefly stops in the kitchenette space across a futon on the bottom level. She takes out two plates, putting on a slice of fruit cake that had lasted from the Middle Ages, a can of mixed fruits, and leftover seaweed salad onto each plate. For Kelly’s, she drizzled on honey atop the fruit cake. For herself, she added a few deviled eggs from the fridge. 

Outside the closet, she felt like she was Barbie who fell out of her dream house and into the real world. The boxes of earthly archives the pretender had stashed here were like accessories pushed to the sides of the wall, unable to be vacuumed up. Kelly reaches halfway across the room, just in front of the couch’s first post. Metalhawk sits at the small kitchen table, staring down and fiddling with their hands. Marrissa tries to keep a good pace while the dishes shake in her hands, she’d never worked a service job, instead going straight into bootcamp. Sensing her trepidation and urgency, the floor pulls her along, like the conveyor belts at airports between terminals. Finally, she reaches the base of one of the stools placed around the table. “Here”, she offers Kelly a plate. 

“Thank you.” Kelly replies. The two women brace themselves as the floor beneath rises into a thin column. It stops at the top of the table. To one side, a pair of folding chairs with pillows and throw blankets draped across. A large plate of sheet metal covers half of the table, held down by an oversized airbrush and canister, and several vials filled with black, white, and several shades of red paint. Metalhawk remains fixated on their hands, twisting at the tip of each finger until each ring of plating falls off their shiny black endoskeleton, droplets of purple energon and red blood drip from the gaps between beams and joints. The plating falls to the sheet like beads off a bracelet. Marissa gasps, uncertain if the action should be seen as mundane or morbid. 

“Oh! It’s morning? Or I guess good morning to you two.” Says the Autobot as they hastily put on a pair of homemade gloves over their bare hands. 

“Several questions that I need answered now. Where have you been? Why are you bleeding? Why did you take off your hands? What's with the paint? And when was the last time you slept?” Kelly asks.

As Metalhawk arranges their finger plating by size and digit, they explain, “I went to the… Okay, you’d call it a hardware store but to me it’s like a make-up store. Basically, I view Home Depot like an Ulta’s. It’s Rattrap’s fault I have a hemorrhage and some O-Can ruptures. And I’m repainting my hands. I was given stock hands after being re-engineered and those turn your most common color. But I want them rufous, not ocean blue.”

“Gosh, so particular, like a sports team. Ever turned navy blue and neon green like a Sterling Seahawk, represent. When was the last time you slept?” Kelly repeats. 

Metalhawk looks away from her and picks up the paint viles, comparing each to the tips of their wings. “We don’t really do clothing, it easily gets caught up in panels, aside from cloaks and ponchos for some reason. So colors are important to us Transformers. They can tell alot about a bot: place of origin, temperament, occupation, personality, affiliations, etc. Some people have even made religions out of it. After I joined the Autobots, I changed my colors to bright blue, a yellowly gold, and fire truck red, colors closely associated with the Autobots and Iacon. I did it as a promise of my allegiance and an admission of my own lack of a path forward. But now I feel more myself. For better or worse.” 

Marissa can’t help but cling to that last sentence. Despite prior worries and doubts, she understood Metalhawk’s history and actions. They were just a young, stupid person fresh out of college who fell asleep for half of their life and ended up in a tremendous amount of debt due to powers outside of their control. I can understand that. But not everyone else. She doesn’t just represent herself here but the entire Earth. I have to consider every reaction and response. From every government official looking for my first account. From every average joe eating up soundbites and shitting out half-baked opinion cookies. And that means I need all the context I can get. Before Kelly could ask about their sleeping habits a third time, Marissa blurts, “There’s an acronym I keep hearing used towards you. Mostly by Sentinel, mostly as a slur. But I was just wondering if you could explain it further. You know? Keep us in the loop.”

“N.A.I.L. It stands for non-affiliated indigenous lifeform. In most situations it isn’t a slur, just a description. It came into heavy use as Cybertron became more factional. Some transformers, such as myself when I was younger, were weary or uninterested in joining one. For myself, I found that factions could harbor the combined toxicity, fanaticism, echoing, and sheltering of a political party, cult, nationality, religion, and fandom. I already found a positive community in academia and am not too fond of labels. But then that was gone and I was alone. Autobots try to be different. They pay me, which is good, takes an edge off the debt. Although they could easily change the laws if they expanded their influence throughout the Hexian Gulf.  It’s an inaccurate term for me anyway! I wasn’t even forged on Cybertron! I was brought here as a refugee when I was kid.” Metalhawk explains as they prepare the airbrush. 

“Then you're not a NAIL but a N.A.R.K! Necessary Autobot, Really Know-it-all.” Kelly shouts. She visibly evaporates under the shared stares from Marissa and Metalhawk. 

“Save the acronyms for the ecologists. Anyway, you two are free to stick around and watch me paint.” Metalhawk settles into painting on a base coat. 

“Sweet, I always get an oddly satisfied feeling from watching someone doing something menial yet skillful.” Kelly remarks as she scarfs down the rest of her breakfast. Marrissa does the same. “When was the last time you slept?” 

Metalhawk pauses, having made it to painting the top coat of red on their right thumb. “Three weeks ago.” 

“You need eight hours of sleep per night to be a functional human being.” She reminds them. 

“I’m not a human being. I only need to recharge once a month to maintain spark health and the metabolic processes that occur to a human body while asleep are carried out while I am out of my shell.” The pretender quickly explains. 

“Well, it's also an important part of maintaining good mental health. Which you are obviously failing at. It’s really obvious in the group chat.” Kelly snaps. 

“How’d you get into the group chat?” 

“There’s a group chat?”

Metalhawk and Marissa ask at the exact same time. 

“Gnash let me in. I mostly just lurk. And it's more like a discord server or an old chat room than a group chat. There's a whole locked channel called 'Co-leader Ls'. It's a gallery of Rattrap’s wet dreams, a bunch of stuff about Hot Rod that hasn't loaded in yet, and your worst anxieties."  Kelly says. 

“I’m sorry if…!” Metalhawk begins to raise their voice but stops and clenches their hand, looking away. “I am under alot of pressure right now, trying to save the universe. Alright? We do have ways of dealing with anxiety; I take circuit rerouters that take electricity from the my overworking brain module and put into toward my rudders and ailerons, causing my twitchy wings. However, those have decided to lock up when not in flight. I tried stress eating and now  retail therapy!” 

“Still not an excuse to try being an asshole with us. Especially when you don’t have one.” Kelly points out. 

Metalhawk leans back in their chair, face dark and sullen. “I’m sorry if I have been abrasive toward you two and the others. Before the war, that was my default setting and back then people had worse things to deal with than a rude co-researcher or student. After being freed, I was grateful and on Earth, I felt at peace, I had a purpose; just live and enjoy life. But whenever I come back here, it’s a hard reset. I hate this apartment. It’s just an anchor I forgot to drag back up when I drifted away, a piece of fishing line stuck in my throat. I’d leave this planet altogether if it weren’t for all of this!” Their bare fingertips scratch at their temples and side-prongs as bubbly tears escape their optics. Marissa gathers up her and Kelly’s plates, ready to give the Autobot some space when a rapid series of knocks rattles against the door. Metalhawk vents deeply, regaining their composure startlingly quickly. Tapping their comlink, they ask, “Designation and reason for knocking? Alright, you can come in.”

The door opens and closes like it was rattled by a tornado. The wind seems to continue to the other seat, leaving tire marks on the floor. Suddenly, a sky blue Autobot takes a seat, his thin plating breaks off against large vents and feathering flares on his helm and hollow wheel-arch valves like that helmet and shoes of Hermes. 

“Name’sBlurr,personalcourierfortheAutobotHighCouncil!IamheretogiveyouallanimmediatesummancetotheofficeofUltraMagnus,SupremeCommanderoftheAutobots.” He says incredibly quickly. With that, he rushes out. 

A slight smile graces Metalhawk’s face. “Um, who was he? And what on Earth did he just say?” Marissa asks. 

“Blurr, bearing a message that Ultra Magnus will finally deal with us now. And then we can go home. The corolla is too slow and I don’t have any more gasoline here. The trains are also too slow. That leaves…” Metalhawk plans. 

“Marissa can’t fly.” Kelly objects. 

The Autobot begins to screw the still drying finger plating back on. “The principles of flight are similar to the principles of boating. I’m originally from a water world so I’m familiar with both. Wings can easily be used as hydrofoils. I’ll give you two a half hour, meet me at the shore.” They get up from their chair and walk out to the balcony. By the time Marissa and Kelly are able to rush over, they’re gone, leaving behind barely a contrail. 

“Ugh, they left us again.” Kelly grumbles as she storms back towards the tiny house. 

“Don’t you think you were a bit intrusive towards them just now. They were your co-worker. If Burns or heaven forbid Simmons tried to psychoanalyze me like that…” Marissa says. 

“Ex-coworker. I don’t have to be professional towards them like that anymore. They didn’t have to let me in on all of this. But they did and now I have to make sure they live up to their end of the bargain. No more secrets between us and them, remember? Gnashteeth will answer anything I ask her. Metalhawk would rather sulk for two weeks. We can’t be having that. I deserve better. We deserve better. Earth deserves better.” Kelly replies as she sneaks around the closet door. 

Marissa stands outside, staring up at the second door to the locked hab suite. “What if you had lost me and then found me again and then I lost you and you had to deal with that for the rest of eternity?” 

“What are you talking about?” Kelly shouts from the tiny house. Marissa scampers back toward her. “You said it yourself earlier that you don’t like moving too fast. I am willing to wait and do have feelings for you but until we go on a few official dates then we’re still just friends.” 

Marissa pauses in the doorway. “I…am trying to get you to see that it makes sense for Metalhawk and the other Autobots to be not all alright. They’ve all basically been forced into military service because the alternative is dying or hiding and then dying. Even though my immediate family’s never seen active duty it still leaves it scars. The things my dad had to fly and crash through, the pressures of administrative work my mom felt, Sector Seven is putting me through the ringer. But I push through it for my country, for my planet, for people like you. Then stretch that out over millions of years and galaxy-wide. I’m surprised they all haven’t become self-righteous serial killers.” 

Kelly nods along while snatching all of their items. “Some of them seem that way. Or are really good at hiding it.” 

“Maybe. But what I’m trying to say is: give them all a bit of grace. We gave Rattrap some and hey now he’s equally rude to everyone and not just cars with curves. And…” Marissa starts to choke up. 

Kelly looks back as she zips up her suitcase. “And?” 

Marissa spits it out. “When we…if we… No. When we get back to Earth, I want to take you out on a date. I don’t care where or what we do but…”

Kelly glomps onto her in a tight hug, “Yes! Now get your suitcase ready and join me on the balcony.” Marissa nods and goes up to the loft to gather her items. She stuffs them back in her suitcase and sprints out of the tiny house. Kelly waits for her on the balcony. As the agent steps out, the sliding door closes and dims. “Still no sign of them.” 

Marissa looks around. The sea crashes against the metallic shores, more like a wave pool than the natural tug of tides between Earth’s oceans and the Moon. Yellow smog rising above Iacon from across the way pollutes the blue-green surface of the water. Occasionally, she gets the feeling that something large breaches the waves, displacing the colonies of rust algae. Far in the distance, she sees a large, torpedo-like shape fall through the sky. Smaller ships dart around and shoot it. Some sort of upper-atmosphere or near-space dogfight? 

Kelly walks boldly to the edge of the balcony. Some pieces of railing flip upside down and turn into an escalator that carries them down to the shoreline. “I’ll miss this part of this planet. It’s me-proof.” Kelly laments as the two women are dropped off. The ground underfoot is rust-red, fragile, and flaking. Marissa stomps down on the edge, shards of heavily oxidized iron tumble into the water but fail to sink, catching on the dense algae bloom. 

A sea otter pokes its head out of the waves, a small, mechanical orthocone in its jaws. Kelly grins and reaches out to pet the cute creature but jumps back as it morphs into Doctor Hawk. The pretender clambers onto shore, soaking wet, and holds the squid in their hand. “What are you doing?” Kelly gasps. 

Their eyes dart back to the water as something large rises, a teal plate of metal protrudes. “Some maintenance work, pest control really.” 

“Uh what’s that and do you have any idea what’s falling out of the sky?” Marissa follows up. 

Hawk shrugs. “Oh, just some old urban legend. Just go back to sleep. That’s nothing. I’m doing nothing. I’m doing fine! See! I don’t need your help, again. We don’t need ourselves another Incident.” 

Marissa looks over at Kelly and whispers, “Maybe you are right, maybe they are a bit…” 

SPLASH!

They jump into the water and rapidly emerge from their shell into vehicle mode. Their wings fold down and under while outboard motors emerge upon their downturned horizontal stabilizers. Metalhawk’s canopy opens. “Let’s just get going.” 

Just Outside Ultra Magnus’s Office, Iacon

Orion paces in front of the door to the Supreme Commander’s office. Two of Pyra’s Torchbearers, Jumpstream and Dustup, guard the door and exchange glances as the Autobot founder mumbles and frets to himself about Magnus’s decision. “Uh, if it helps, Pyra’s with him right now.” Jumpstream mentions. 

“And he chose this time because Sentinel Major’s away on a meeting with the Elite Guard Commander in the Northwestern Hexian Cities.” Dustup adds. 

Orion doesn’t verbally respond but it does ease his mind a bit. Then he’s not taking Sentinel’s ‘gotcha’ seriously at this point. And Pyra’s there to level him out. 

Rattrap is the first to arrive, rolling up with a sidecar of salvage that he pushes forward like a wheelbarrow upon transforming. Orion walks up to him. “I forgot to ask you this earlier but during the Council meeting, were you able to procure a ship?” 

Rattrap nods. “Yeah, a buddy of mine, the same guy who gave me the holo-generator, owns a freighter that he just offloaded and is willing to fly us back to Earth before he sets off scavenging again.” 

Thinking back to Rattrap’s struggles with his generator, Orion could help but ask follow up questions. “The freighter does have quantum engines, right?”

“Yeah, it has one.” 

“Only one?”
“Hey! It was hard enough finding any ship to begin with, especially with that meager budget you gave. I had to supplement with half my savings.” Rattrap’s voice goes low and quiet. “And ah, don’t tell N.A.S.A. or Metalhawk this, it’ll break their poor starstruck spark, but I ah included the Voyager space probe as part of the payment plan. I’m betting on that Golden Disk on being worth a pretty penny in a few million stellar cycles.” 

Oh, Primus. “You know what? It’s fine, we have a way back and that’s all that matters.” Orion says. Something buzzes in his audio-receptors. A com request from Deep Blue… “What is it ‘Blue? Are you on your way to Magnus’s office?” 

“No…I’m over in Tetrahex trying to stop something dumb happening involving three dozen drunk Carcerians, two Elite Guard Commanders, a rogue transtector, and space whale calf pushed into Cybertron’s upper atmosphere.” She replies. 

Orion briefly looks at the new headlines. Attempted Space Whaling Above Tetrahex and Protohex. “Think you’ll make it back in time? We hope to leave as soon as the meeting is over. Gotta be back for Crisis-mass and all that.” 

“Christmas. It’s called Christmas. And no, I don’t think so. Leo’s my second and I trust the rest of my bots to play nice. Don’t let anything happen to the Parable.” With that she signs off. 

“Deep Blue’s staying here.” Orion says. 

“Good for her.” Mumbles Rattrap. Metalhawk approaches the two mechs, hands cupped and holding Marissa and Kelly. “Ha! Why are you soaking wet?” 

“I hydrofoiled over here.” They say. 

“Is everyone here?” Jumpstream asks. 

“Yes.” Orion confirms as he leads them all into the office. It’s in a more disheveled state then Orion thought Magnus was even capable of. Stacks of datapads and flash drives surround his keyboard and holoscreen. His name tag and countless titles are all crooked by one degree. His hammer leans against the side of his desk. Magnus is out of his battle armor, revealing a white mech with green accents who is barely larger than Orion. Pyra stands behind him, offering a supportive hand to her conjunx’s shoulder. 

“Ah, good to have you all here.” Magnus greets. “I have decided to approve of the initial proposal myself, invoking Article 17, section 19, subsection 53, passage …” 

Pyra interrupts him. “Because of this, someone appointed by the High Council will be accompanying you to make sure the resources provided are being used properly. A short, private session was held earlier and it was decided among those who convened that Botanica of Polyhex will join the Joint Earth Divisions.” 

Metalhawk lightens up at the announcement. “Yes, she was chosen due to having prior experience working alongside several Councilbots such as Perceptor and Sentinel Major. In addition, we’ve appointed Beachcomber of Ibex as your geological expert and Tow-line of Iacon as your groundbridge engineer.” Magnus continues. 

“What are the caveats?” Rattrap snaps. “You two can’t just make three perfect bots appear out of thin air. No matter how high ranking ya are or how many strings ya pull.” 

“All three of the bots have classified themselves as non-combatants or pacifists. They’ve each been given stock weaponry and know the basics of self defense. But their primary purpose is for their skills, not their blaster shots. Additionally, Beachcomber is an active student, ze need zir time to study.” 

“So you’re saddling me with three more of them?” Rattrap points up at Metalhawk. 

“Not everyone in our ranks considers themself a soldier firstly or at all. Nor do we expect it.” Orion reminds him. 

“Indeed.” Magnus agrees. Pyra looks away, downcast. 

“There’s something else.” Orion starts. 

“Yes. There is always the possibility that Sentinel and/or his majesty, King Grimlock could act separately from my orders. Autobot High Command is in a tenuous alliance with the Elite Guard and the Dinobot Knights and their leaders have a history of acting on their own interests.” Magnus says. 

“They wouldn’t hurt humanity, right?” Marissa asks. 

“Sentinel’s policy positions seem to include shooting the homeless for sport.” Kelly snarks. 

“Such practices haven’t been observed since the Clampdown. And Sentinel Major did not participate in such things.” Magnus replies. 

“It was sarcasm, my dear.” Pyra points out. 

“Oh, my apologies. Sentinel is among the more organophobic of our ranks. I will encourage him to rely upon Lieutenant Jazz’s tact should he come to interact with your species in any further capacity.” Magnus considers. 

“Jazz deserves a major bonus for that.” Kelly mumbles. 

“Duly noted.” Says Ultra Magnus. 

“Wait, what?” Shouts the secretary. 

“Well, you are obviously a very astute and wise individual, if a bit polemic.” Magnus states. 

“Well, thank you giant robo dad.” Kelly thanks. 

“I have yet held the honor of mentoring anyone so I do not understand such a cross cultural comparison. Anyway, I have something I wish to give you, Agent Fowler.” Ultra Magnus reaches over, holding a flash drive pinched between his fingers. It shrinks upon reaching the humans. “It’s a message from myself to your earthly authorities should the Transformer presence on your planet ever be fully revealed.” 

Pyra interrupts again, acting as his concision translator. “It declares Earth as being under Autobot protection. Unless it becomes absolutely necessary, then there will be no new additions to the Autobots already stationed on your planet. And the Decepticon’s methods are less efficient when their victims are aware of their tricks.” 

“Is that everything? I believe that’s everything.” Magnus says. 

“What about Sentinel’s blackmail?” Metalhawk asks. 

“Prowl has chosen to dismiss it as unworthy of an investigation. If anything, I should apologize to you. I was part of the Old Senate when the laws were frozen and have remained neutral on proposals to extend the rental freezes beyond Iacon.” Magnus bows his head. 

“Apology accepted.” Metalhawk replies. “Where are Botanica and the…” 

“HIGH ALERT! HIGH ALERT! IACON CITY IS ON HIGH ALERT! PLEASE TAKE DEFENSIVE POSITIONS AS THE OUTER WALLS WILL RESET IN 10 ASTROMINUTES! HIGH ALERT!” The overhead speakers blare and red lights flash around the rims of the ceiling. 

“In the 10th Barrack’s lower lounge getting affiliated with each other! I will leave a small section of the shielding open so that you all can escape!” Orders Ultra Magnus as he rushes out of his chair and takes up his hammer. 

They all rush out of the door and transform, driving down the corridors for a way out. “Do we even have a ship?” Metalhawk asks, humans huddled together in their cockpit.

“Yep! I found one, he has it parked about 5 kliks south of the Barracks, we should make good timing.” Yells Rattrap as he weaves beneath the starfighter’s fuselage. “It’s got all you’d want, not too pricey, has a quantum engine, I know the owner.” 

“Is it pressurized? Does it have an oxygen recycler? Artificial gravity generators or atleast a mag-clamp?” Metalhawk asks. 

“Uh….no….” Rattrap admits. 

Orion tunes out the ensuing squabbles. Well meaning, yes, but not now you two… He speeds ahead, racing through the labyrinth of offices, bureaucracy, frantic workers. The ceiling shake above. But then he sees the swish of a galactic cloak, the warm smile beneath that long, silky mustache and beard. Alpha Trion!

“ORION! LOOK OUT!” He hears Metalhawk shout at him from behind as they and Rattrap stop. The roof begins to crack and fall apart. Huge chunks of sheet metal and twisted rebar smash around him. The truck dances around ruins until he sees the cause, a massive, columnar teal foot smashes through the building, dripping wet with sea water and algae. Before it can crush him, there's a weezing, churning, laborious sound and he is enveloped in darkness, marked by pinpricks of starlight. 

“Rest, my apprentice.” Alpha Trion calls out to him. 

Chapter Text

The Barracks, Iacon

Botanica goes through the confines of her suitcase one last time as the elevator lowers to the first floor: cleaners and wipes for her solar panels, a data pad and slugs with her ongoing research downloaded, a whetstone for her machete, a three gallon canteen of biofuel, and several charge packs for the stock blaster that hangs off her left side skirt. Her face clenches up as her fingers brush past the handle as she clips the suitcase to a recess on her back. She quickly smiles as the elevator doors open up and she walks into a lounge room. A holo-sign shines up off a side table, reading out ‘Additions to the JED’. Guess that's what we’re going with. Not enough time to come up with catchy acronyms. In the field of ecology, everything hinged on an acronym. 

A small blue and white bot sits at the couch closest to the sign, zir silver visor reflects the readouts of a paleontology textbook. “What do you think of the histology of opalized shells?” She asks, trying to get a conversation started. 

The geology student sputters but isn’t the first to respond. “Ah, great I’m stuck with a bunch of ‘academic’ types.” Grumbles a stout grey and beige mech who sits upon a garish wheeled bench that matches up with smattering of Autobot colors upon his paunch and shoulder pads. 

“You’re a groundbridge engineer, aren’t you? That’s still a STEM field.” Botanica asks as she notices the toolbox resting beside him. 

He shakes his head. “Nah, I learned everything from my old mentor back on…”

“Nah! I find it full of a lot of cropolite!” Shouts the blue and white bot in a delayed reply. “Woops, my bad!” 

Botanica burst out laughing. In the field of geology, everything hinged on a good pun. “Are you studying opalized shells within a cropolite?” 

“Uh no. I’m Beachcomber by the way.” Ze introduces zirself. “Currently doing some review. I have my final in two stellar cycles so it’s crunch time!”

“Hmm, inopportune timing I suppose. I am Botanica, representing the High Council in all this.” Says the xenoecologist. 

“Ur, why do we need that kind of oversight?” Asks the mech. “I’m Tow-line by the way.” 

“I might be tripping right now, I can hardly tell half the time, but I don’t see a winch on you. I see two on her, but none on you. You’re a broadcast van, not a tow-truck.” Beachcomber points out, obliviously rude. 

“All the best names were taken. I wanted ‘Tailgate’ because that’s my favorite hobby but some little muscle car conjunxed to a Tetrahexian noble had nabbed it and I didn’t want to be sued.” Tow-line explains. 

“There’s a bot on the Code Enforcement board called Towline. He goes on and on about ‘no-parking’.” Botanica adds. 

“Yeah, that’s why I added the little dash mark.” Replies Tow-line. 

“Why couldn’t you just add a dash mark to the name you wanted? Become Tail-gate.” Beachcomber points out. 

His yellow optics go wide. “Okay, what stuff are you on right now? Syk? Crysmag? Fully radiated engex? Whatever it is has made you a genius!” 

Ze brings zir legs up in a curl and shake zir head. “No, I haven’t been on anything that strong since coming to Iacon. I drank some salt water, that’s it.” 

“What? You think you’re a fish?” Tow-line scoffs. 

“Leave zir alone. And fish don’t drink salt water and neither should you. It’s corrosive. Make another dumb remark and I’ll explain osmoregulation to the two of you.” Botanica points to her two new teammates. “That’s why I’m here, I’m the mediator.” 

“HIGH ALERT! HIGH ALERT! IACON CITY IS ON HIGH ALERT! PLEASE TAKE DEFENSIVE POSITIONS AS THE OUTER WALLS WILL RESET IN 10 ASTROMINUTES! HIGH ALERT!” An order rings out over the speakers as blaring alarms crowd out any gasps of shock or the very perception of one’s internal readouts. The windows slam shut, leaving the commons in darkness save for the red and blue lights that spin in tune with the alarms. The other people in the lounge retreat to the halls that lead to their individual hab suites as the roof seems to lower, thickening and restructuring the Barrack into a bunker. Beachcomber and Tow-line transform in a panic. The dune buggy and van race around the empty common room, smashing into furniture and screaming. 

“Stop! We have to get out of the building and get to…” Botanica lashes out the grappling hooks on each forearm, snatching the two Autobots by the bumper and dragging them behind her as she marches out of the Barracks and onto the streets outside. She looks up, the blue skies above momentarily clear of the yellow smog and thick force fields. But this isn’t what draws her attention. There’s the smell of burning flesh, an uncommon odor on a planet made of metal. She peers through gaps in the skyline: a massive, segmented tailfluke streaked by flames and blood as it falls behind its massive, dying body. She can almost identify the individual Space Whale as it falls, making out its final song through the crackles of fire and collapsing of its void-worn exoskeleton. Botanica allows a few tears to run down her face before reaching up and com-linking to Metalhawk. “Do you want us outside or inside the city?” 

“Outside…” Their voice trails off. 

Botanica transforms, her rear treads easily overpower Beachcomber and Tow-line’s attempts at escape. “I’m assuming there’s a ship or are you planning on killing yourself to masshift and fly to Earth?” 

“There’s a ship, about five kliks south. But we lost…we lost Orion.” Metalhawk informs. 

“He’s offline?” Botanica shouts. 

“No, we lost him. Tortuga stepped on him and we couldn't find him in the rubble.” They stammer. “I don’t mean to be cowardly but, we’re leaving him, hoping he’s found and repaired and turns up with the Matrix on Earth in his own time.” 

Botanica’s motors grind to a halt. Beachcomber transforms and unhooks zirself. “Are you in contact with the others?” 

“Yes.” She focuses back on Metalhawk. “Is Tortuga following you?” 

A brief pause, she hears the rush of wind against their microphone, they were in flight. “Yes. But I don’t know why….maybe I’m Titan Blessed.” 

Botanica shimmies on her front tires and drives south. “I know you study mythology as well but there's always a biological process behind every cultural behavior, ritual, or superstition.” 

“I know…but this is…” 

“A form of kin selection. You are Tortuga’s last Forged. The only other living Transformer who shares some of the same source code.”

“There are others, it's been awhile but I’ve seen others like…” 

“It’s been 6 million stellar cycles of Clampdowns, Uprisings, and War. The starting population of refugees was 429 people…”

“I don’t need you to run through the statistics of it! I’ve read all 427 of the obituaries! And the odd one out became a Seeker.” They finally come into view, flying overhead and upside down with the uplifted glitch mouse and two humans huddled in a panic inside their cockpit. Metalhawk lands right beside her and folds up their wings. 

“Are you the leader?” Asks Tow-line. “Doesn’t matter. Where’s Orion Pax, Optimus Fragging Prime! The only reason I signed up for this swamp trip was because I would get to work alongside a celebrity!” 

Metalhawk’s cockpit retracts and the bucktoothed cycle-bot jumps down and marches up to Tow-line. “Nope. The founding father went and got himself squashed by Shellfish’s motherboard. We’re hoping he pulls a Prime and shows up unexpectedly at the last minute. Ya dig?” 

“Wait, their name is Shellfish? Neat.” Beachcomber says. 

“No, their Barnacle Goose, Birdbrain, and yes, Shellfish. And you’re Norville and he’s Paparazzi.” The glitch mouse decrees. 

“Rattrap, just lead the way. There will be time for introductions later. Let’s just get off planet.” Metalhawk orders. The tiny bronze mech transforms and pops a wheelie as he dashes down an alleyway. The Autobots line up single file as they all drive out of the city. 

An expanse of pockmarked, metal plains stretches on. There are no hills, valleys, draws, streams, or a large living spire like a tree, or fruiting body, or the exposed resonating chamber of a Golath Piklo from Unan 4. Instead, there are divots, dents, and gaps between the plates, left over from repeated Decepticon bombardment, wear and tear of industry, and natural erosion and corrosion due to its proximity to the sea. The characteristic blues and golds of Iacon dull to a steel-grey faintly illuminated by Allspark blue. “If I knew more about cyberology, I’d say this plain has the potential to become a hotspot or a Titan, should a distinct enough community arise on these grounds.” Botanica proposes

“Great, we’d get two Titans to stalk us.” Replies Rattrap. Botanica looks out her rearview mirror. Tortuga stands firmly outside of Iacon. She is small for a Titan, about 200 meters tall at the tip of her broad, beaked helm. A long neck loops down beneath her teal carapace, adorned with retracted awnings and balconies, projectors, and a waterslide? Four, columnar limbs swing back and forth, marching the giant teal turtle forward. A long, slinky tail flicks behind, knocking off a few escaping planes off balance. “What’s the story with her?” 

Metalhawk turns around and transforms, depositing the two humans on the ground. “I’m her last Forged, both chronologically and now. Everyone else either died or abandoned her. We lived on this small water moon orbiting a gas giant. At most we were notable as an obscure tourist location. A resort town. Then there was a slight change in orbit and the moon was sent on a collision course with the planet’s rings so we fled back to Cybertron. I was about 30 years old, the first time I ever flew in space.” 

“Ha! Beat you on that one!” Kelly remarks. “So are you all meant to be like workers to a queen? Like ants or termites?” 

“Very rarely is the relationship between Titan and Transformer expressed eusocially. Only with the Insecticons and some Eukarian offshoots is it observed. They're living communities.” Botanica corrects. 

“She buried herself beneath the Sea of Rust. For a couple decades, we’d all reunite and try to clean her up but gradually people moved away, died, or forgot. She’s small for a Titan and didn’t respond well to any of the Senete’s or High Command's attempts to assign a Cityspeaker and crew that would integrate her into an existing network. I think the Space Whalefall disturbed her enough to wake her. That and my own distress.” Metalhawk continues. 

The Titan’s beak parts as she begins to speak, distant and echoing with a reverb in every present Transformer’s spark, “ Not first time helped Hawkspark . Now help Hawkspark again.” 

Metalhawk steps back. “In prison, when I was held inside Trypticon, that was you. But, I…I… don’t want to sacrifice you to …him.” 

“Maybe you should hear her out. We are missing the Founding Father.” Rattrap suggests. 

Tow-line pipes up and blares his high beams, “Wait, the Incident, with the turtle? That was you two?” 

They nod. “I….I….don’t want to talk about it. Let’s just say that I wanted vengeance and she delivered it on my behalf.”

Tortuga’s legs hum and her clawed toes retract, replaced by downblasts of repulserlift. She hovers above the plains and tucks in her head. She remains quiet. 

“Fine, I guess she’s following us now.” Metalhawk accepts as they transform and taxi forward. 

“Would she follow us back to Earth?” Marissa asks as she clambers up into their cockpit. 

“Probably. I don’t want her to get too comfortable there though. There’s a difference between myself hiding amongst the humans versus her trying to harvest energon and start reproducing again, especially without a crew. If she feels like speaking more than two cryptic sentences, I’ll try bringing her somewhere else.” They think. 

They all drive towards a scrapyard turned launchpad. Dilapidated M.A.R.B.s, spare parts, chunks of walls, empty energon cubes, flat tires and moldy treads, upturned satellite dishes, and every matter of trash, rubbish, and waste is flattened into a level surface. Something that Botanica could call a spaceship. A crude, round freighter sits atop the scrap pile. The exhaust exit and singular red fuel quill of a quantum engine is the ‘spaceship’s’ only identifying features that it’s even space worthy. I don’t think it’s atmosphere worthy…it looks like a chum bucket for a Smeltbeast.

“Daytrader! We’re here!” Rattrap shouts as he transforms. 

A large mech shimmies out from beneath the scrap pile, having previously camouflaged alongside his hoard of junk. Buckets, pouches, weaponry, and a hooded cloak hang off his shabby platting, obscuring his kibble. Only a beard made out of beads and bolts and two blue optics shine against the rest of him. “How do you do, fellow bots? And fleshlings by the looks of it. Uh, Rattrap, you didn’t say anything about bringing onboard anyone dependent on air…” 

“We’ve noticed.” Says Metalhawk as they lock down their cockpit and unfurl their wings. 

“And you didn’t say anything about bringing this dashing starfighter with 1 more engine then my beloved W.A.D.” Daytrader circles Metalhawk. “Why don’t we have your mass shift and carry us instead? And what about that Titan, why don’t it spacebridge ya?”

“I can’t mass shift. Not unless you want me to immediately shrink and start bleeding on you.” Metalhawk snaps. Kelly hammers at their windshield and they open it up. 

“I’m sorry, but what does the W.A.D. stand for because the best I can think of is wet a…” Kelly is promptly interrupted by Metalhawk slaming their canopy down. 

“Well then can you act as a location linker? I ah don’t have the necessary navicomps for precision when hopping through the Warren. Often I travel with this tugship I know but then he got stomped on by a Combiner….I kid!” Daytrader asks. 

“Sure.” Metalhawk taxis before a stretch of flat land, their afterburners flaring open. 

“Good. Well then, everyone who doesn't need air, climb on board. Just find a big enough gap for ya, move as far away from the quantum generator as possible, and hang on tight!” Shouts Daytrader. 

Skies over Iacon

It had been four million stellar cycles since Starscream swept his wings into Iacon. The flight from Vos to Cybertron’s former capital city used to be constant when he was a Senator and even afterwards for lobbying, recruitment, and other less than savory dealings. It’s changed greatly; the Grand Imperium no longer stands, reduced to rubble atop which residential buildings, restaurants, and a race track replace it, Maccadam’s Old Oilhouse has relocated itself and instead the Autobot High Council uses the old tower as a meeting spot, and the Central Spaceport is reduced to a spindly tower with tight launchpads welded on. Five other Seekers join him; Slipstream for her insight, Skywarp for her focus, Red Wing for his body and not much else, Ramjet for his power, and Nacelle for her sensors.  They all fly in v-formation, sweeping over the city as buildings flatten into bunkers. Behind them, the Space Whale falls slowly, kept from plummeting outright by the pillowy fins that radiate off its burning body and its hydrogen bladder that keep it lighter than air despite its kilometer long body. Ahead of them, a giant teal turtle stomps through the city. Slipstream’s position warbles, her afterburners activating as she tries to keep herself from rushing to her original Titan. Starscream has to keep pulling her back, overriding her engine output and locking her targeting systems on him and not the rogue cityformer. She doesn’t struggle as much as Red Wing who drifts toward every shimmering spire, rotating dish, and car dashing for cover. At this point, his body double is practically stapled wing tip to wing tip to him. 

“Ah, still no sign of Orion Pax, my Lord.” Nacelle reports. Starscream examines her internal readouts. She has the strongest sensor mods installed and if she reroutes any more power to them then she’ll fall out of the sky. 

“Can we please destroy something, ah Lord Starscream?” Ramjet bemoans as the missiles and bombs hanging off his underside loosen. 

“No.” Says Starscream. “Slipstream, what do you know about the Titan ahead of us?” 

Her reply is controlled, measured, and tight. It’s a failing façade. “She’s unarmed. She has no Cityspeaker and really no one left except for…”

Your apprentice. The astrophysist. The one who predicted Unicron’s location and awakening and now is attempting to stop it. And they appear to be Titan Blessed. She’ll do anything for them, fight Trypticon to free them, follow them to Earth, perhaps even bleed out and put the Chaosbringer back to sleep. Starscream narrows in ahead of the Titan, noticing a blue and gold starfighter flying. “You had told me that your apprentice was deactivated.” 

Everyone’s target systems lock onto Slipstream, and with the exception of Red-wing, it is under their own vocation. “It appeared that way… I set my null ray’s to stun but they ended up atomized!” Slipstream tries to explain. 

“Ha! I wish that happened to my rays!” Ramjet laughs. 

“Silence! I thought you showed ultimate, unwavering loyalty to myself alone! But I was wrong about you…” Starscream speaks low and slowly. He accesses her reports of the incident as well as the energy usage of her null rays and emotion circuits within her brain module. Still isn’t a Seeker’s brain module. It shows an unusual tolerance for high salinity and humidity, she’s running better in this climate then the rest of us. Anyway, her null ray’s were set for stun and a 79% increase in activity to her surprise and sorrow circuits. Ugh, she was telling the truth. “Your ability to follow through…you must always verify your target is indeed deactivated.” 

“How can I make it up to you, my lord?” She pleads as the others relax and fan away. 

“Stay out of my way as I do what you could not.” The Air Commander charges forward, only stopping his afterburners before breaking the sound barrier as to not draw Autobot attention. Look at them all! Cowards hiding from a perfectly excuted infiltration of their beloved city! Then something catches his attention, a retracting billboard broadcasting a news story. Two reporters, one bright pink with drones orbiting around her and the other with two opposing spectacled heads, sit with mouths moving but no sound. Beneath them, the headline ‘Council Debates Response to Possible Unicron Awakening’ scrolls by. WHAT! It’s common knowledge to them! Has Ultra Magnus gone insane? How is there no moral panic? I’d turn this into a moral panic and then exploit it! 

A thin tail tip whips across his topside, stunning his sensors, splitting his rudder, and cracking his windscreen. He flies blind into the rebooting force field, transparent hexagons are generated and merge, slicing off his left wing, draining the power from his fuel reserves, batteries, and circuitry. His spark flares and fights against its casing. The Titans generate these shields, is this retribution, revenge for what I did to one of your own… It's the last thing this brain module thinks as Starscream’s spark arises from his prior body. 

The sensations of being a singular spark separated from a body is always unpleasant. It’s probably why everyone else is so anxious to evaporate and join the Afterspark. But not Starscream. He could still see and hear but it’s muffled, like being a stuffed toy tossed into a fishbowl, staring through unpolished optics, murky waters, warped glass, and the dappled light produced by your own fuzzy, protonic body. He could still feel the wind whipping around the lashes of energy that radiate off and orbit around his body but nothing more.

He had heard stories about how Primus created the first thirteen Sparks as an extension of his senses, a way to explore and understand this new universe he found himself in after the Big Bang. These first Sparks were persistent and persevering, able to exist without a body. Yet they soon found its advantages. Energon can be quite reactive with itself, crystals sting with deadly radiation and as a metallic liquid it would soon heat up into a smelting pool if not calmed by the gentle pulses of Titan’s hotspot. Other species can only use it in small amounts in their own technologies. To Starscream, it was a sign of Cybertronian superiority, Energon belonged to them and them alone. In actuality, it's a lingering incongruity and rebellion against the laws of physics and chemistry of this universe. In order to find solace, it is beneficial for Energon as a material to bond with a Spark, to allow its pulses to provide harmony and direction for the troubled and chaotic molecular structure. Within the first few generations of Transformers over which the Original Primes presided, a source code was developed, the exact frequency of a Spark’s Primal pulse could influence the morphology of it’s metal body. New bits of code were developed and tested as Titans spread across the Galaxy and Transformers adapted, now subjected to the burgeoning laws of evolution. Yet there was a problem. The Spark could still survive on its own, separated from joining the Allspark. Eventually, the mutualism between Spark and living metal frame intensified, becoming endosymbiosis. Sparks even became tolerant of premade bodies, protoforms, and fully constructed frames of regular metal, construction. Those initial generations of Transformers accepted their fate by going immersent, their sleeping bodies forming the reactive and living crust of the planet for which responsive building and equipment could be built from and Titans could emerge in response to a community. The Original Primes crafted a Matrix of their knowledge, wisdom, and consciousness for which would be passed on through the generations to give true Leadership. 

It was Starscream’s first battle when he found out about his immortal spark. It was roughly 20 millon sca., he was 100,000 stellar cycles old, fresh out of the War Academy and a member of the Aerial Corps. He got shot down by the enemy’s missle turret, a direct hit to the raw energon crystal sitting in his E.R.R. drives as he was about to make the retreat. He had collapsed and fought off stasis lock, trying to eject the crystal but to no avail. He awoke later in the body of his Commander, another Seeker. He sat watching the paint change from green to crimson. 

Some might classify him as an outlier or the next step towards the Transformer’s grand evolution! But evolution never works with grandeur, it works in good enough. It works in tradeoffs, reallocations, temporary acclimations, vestigial organs, self-sabotage, and inefficiency. What he was is a genetic throwback, an atavism. A line of source code taken out of the recycling bin, ran one time, then never again. 

He hovers above the remains of his rapidly depigmenting body. A groundbridge portal opens close to him and Skywarp flies through. She transforms and lands right beside his downed frame. Her cockpit opens and he drifts inside. “For all your lambasting of Slipstream, you sure know how to upstage her.” 

“I could possess you if I wanted to…” The Air Commander’s disembodied spark threatens. 

“Don’t be like that or I’ll dump your aft into the event horizon of a black hole, see if you survive that.” Skywarp finishes in turn. She takes out a laser scalpel and begins taking off the panels of his prior body. “No one else saw you go down. We got an order from Emperor Megatron.” 

“Well, what is it?” Starscream asks. Skywarp pulls out his black box and generates a series of groundbridge portals. Within a few steps, they're back in Vos, onboard Avion. Starscream floats out from her cockpit and inspects the rows of still, awaiting-life frames arranged on tables. Beneath them are plaques listing out batch numbers, metal contents, and mods installed. The room is lit not with any lights but with frozen sparks stacked on shelves beneath the tables, all weak sparks. It was his body double room, made up of the best made frames from each batch of Seekers and conversely, the weakest willed Sparks that ignited from Avion’s hotspot. Starscream chooses the one three rows down and two the right. 

“Waiting on a response to Nacelle’s observations. I don’t think he’ll be happy.” Says Skywarp as Starscream’s spark adheres to this new body’s dry casing. 

He sits up. “Just take us to…” 

He is interrupted by a direct call from Megatron. “Hello, Lord Starscream.” 

“Uh, Emperor Megatron, please forgive me for my Seekers inability to locate…” He stands upright, the shock sending the crimson, vermeil, and plum purple back along his body. 

“Hush. If Optimus Prime is not here then he might already be back on Earth and with a Titan no less. We will have to jumpstart the Phase processes and I need you by my side. Come to the Nemesis, immediately.” Orders Megatron. 

Sea-Tac Airport, Washington State

“That was a bad pilot…” Kevin grumbles behind Mr. Blackrock as he walks toward the baggage claim.

“I suppose you would be more of the authority on that.” Muses the businessman as he grabs his luggage off the conveyor belt. 

“There was jet lag! A good pilot wouldn’t let jet lag happen!” The pretender exclaims. 

“Really, or is it just the difference in the perspective of time between us?” Asks Mr. Blackrock, walking out of the airport. His eyes widen as he fails to spot one of his chauffeurs and green limousine. 

“Gnash!” Kevin shouts as he runs out toward the slushy parking lot. The now retired wrestler stands beside her maroon muscle car, hands in her jacket’s pockets and a solemn look on her face despite her friend’s return. Kevin runs into her, trying to wrap his arms around her in a hug. She effortlessly keeps him at a distance. 

“Good to have you back but now isn’t the time for reunions. No. Not yet.” She says. 

“I take it the others aren’t back yet.” Mr. Blackrock guesses. 

She shakes her head. “Nope, not yet. And we haven’t been in contact with them.” 

“I don’t mean to be curt but are you here to pick us up? Where’s my limo, my chauffeurs?” He asks. 

“Yeah, I was wondering that too…guess she chickened out on us. Basically, your limo turned out to be one of us. Switch out happened when the scraplet attacked. Sector Seven is trying to track it down.” Gale shrugs it off and settles into the driver’s seat. “Kevin, you go by Kevin right? You’ll be in the passenger seat and G.B. can be in the backseat.” 

“Alright. Thank you.” Blackrock accepts as he loads up his own luggage. It felt surprisingly humbling. He was never opposed to hard, manual, or mundane work but considering his status, it was a rare occurrence. Any positive emotion is sucked out of him by a horrid smell of several unwashed shaker bottles, sides stained with the remnants of protein shakes. “Why haven’t you cleaned back here! This smell is horrible!” 

“Huh, guess I’ve gone nose blind to it.” Gale says, turning around to peer out the back window and pull out of her parking spot. 

“How could you go nose blind to this?” Blackrock gasps. 

“I have to agree. It is quite pungent.” Says Kevin. 

“I’m sorry I haven’t spent all my life in a sterile, steely environment! Some of us like to get out, get dirty, and get greasy.” Gale protests. She exits the parking lot and heads toward the freeway exit. Unusually, it’s empty. “Where do you want me to drop you off?” 

“Actually, my building please. I have some essential things to pick up.” He asks. 

“Alright. Anyway, I bought a cabin not too far away from the base but very far away from Fanzone. Hawk wanted to be close but they also wanted a hanger nearby so they could be in their alt mode. I settled with a giant lean-to that then immediately collapsed. So…they won’t be happy.” Gale says. 

“You do know that Metalhawk can only recharge in their alternate mode, right?” Kevin says. 

Gale goes quiet. “Okay, that explains alot. Like why they never noticed me when I strap a wheel clamp on their front landing gear and tow them out to…nevermind.” 

“Be lucky they're a pacifist otherwise they’d…” Kevin trails off. 

“Actually, I’ve corrupted them. I got them to the point of making the second move in a fight. Give me a thousand more years and I’ll get them to do a premptive strike!” 

Mr. Blackrock ignores the rest of the conversation. He holds his phone close to his face and looks at what emails, quotas, and memos flittered across his feed over his trip to Italy. His mindless scroll is stopped by a text from Doctor Hawk. Before he opens it, the glove box begins to vibrate. Gale reaches back with one hand and takes out Hawk’s cell phone from it. “They just texted me, but how?” He asks. 

“Must be in range to communicate with Earth. What does it say?” She hands the phone over to Kevin. 

Blackrock opens the message. “It’s just a random string of numbers.” 

“Huh! I unlocked it!” Exclaims Kevin as he holds up the phone. It’s screen is dark save for…

“It’s the same string of numbers!” Blackrock says. 

“Wait, it’s better formatted here.” Kevin turns around and points at the message. “It’s not random. It’s coordinates for a … for their…. Brace yourselves!” 

CRACK!

An alien starfighter plummets onto the road before them. The right side of the fuselage scrapes against the salted asphalt, a red-tipped wing breaks off, a mixture of purple energon and blood drains out of the wound. The canopy pops open and Marissa climbs out and falls to the ground, shaking. Blackrock bolts out of the breaking car as his secretary is blasted out on an ejection seat. Kelly is catapulted hundreds of feet into the air. A parachute goes off then fails. Another opens then is struck by lighting. She quickly takes out her own chute but drops it. Airbags deploy from underneath the seat but rapidly deflate. An arm springs out from the starfighter’s fuselage to catch her. 

“Oh, hello sir! One moment!” Kelly greets as she unbuckles from the seat and climbs down the red fingers. “It’s still tacky!” She runs over to Marissa, helping to pick herself up. 

“Please stand back, sir.” Metalhawk whimpers. 

“Uh, of course.” He runs to the edge of the vacant street and turns back. He had never seen Metalhawk this close before, only images void of scale and glimpse of their jet mode flying away. Their panels seem to flip over, like tiles being replaced, as the starfighter changes into a Super Hornet. Gray metal accumulates over the zapping wound, like scar tissue. A blade like numb protrudes out and radiates into a new sawtoothed wing. The arm folds back in as thrusters recede into plating, eight separate engine pods contract and merge into two jet engines leading up to rectangular inducts. The nose cone narrows and canopy rounds. Only the colors remain consistent, a countershaded gradient from ocean blue to a sandy gold with tinges of a reddish-brown. They don’t transform, merely quivering upon three robust landing gears. 

Cloudburst emerges from his shell and taxis forward. His friend’s rudders start wagging back and forth and they jump back in surprise. “This is a dream. Or I’m dead. This is the Afterpsark isn’t it? I crashed and…”

“Shush, none of this is your fault. It wasn’t your fault that I went missing. It wasn’t your fault for whatever happened on Cybertron. It wasn’t your fault that Unicron is here. It was never, ever your fault.” Cloudburst whispers. His high wing configuration reaches over Metalhawk’s and he nuzzles his propeller blades between the jet’s leading edge extensions. 

The tender moment is broken as a giant, twisted metal cherry falls from the sky and crashes. More Autobots emerge from gaps in the ‘spaceship’. “That was Rattrap’s fault.” Metalhawk says between their sobs. Then a portal opens up and a flying, teal sea turtle the size of a cruise ship comes through. “And she was incredibly persistent.” Lastly, a heavily armed, purple capital ship enters Earth’s atmosphere high above Sterling City. “And that’s the fraggin… Nemesis. ”

Fear grips at Blackrock yet he stands defiantly, “The what exactly?” 

“The Nemesis. The Big Meg’s personal flagship. Ah slag! We’re all going to die!” Rattrap joins in the panic. 

Metalhawk retreats into their shell, now dressed in winter clothing and grabs Rattrap’s shoulders. “No, we’re not.”

“Well do you gotta plan, Barnacle Goose? One that doesn’t involve us all into slag.” Rattrap snaps. 

“And I thought my finals were going to deactivate me.” A blue and white dune buggy exclaims. 

“We really need Optimus Prime right now.” Adds a blue striped van. 

Gale gets out of her car at last. “No we don’t. Hawk, I trust that you have an idea.” 

They blink. “Actually, no.” 

“We have to evacuate the city!” Marissa hollars as she clings to Kelly. 

“I agree. However, I have some important research that I need to receive from my building.” Adds Blackrock as he takes a repree from texting city officals to begin evacuating Sterling City and launching his aid organization into action. 

His former science advisor stares at him, confused and slightly disapointed. “What kind of research?”

Blackrock looks down, face as downcast and somber as the sky above. “Refinements to Sector Seven’s anti-Transformer weaponry.” 

“I asked him for it!” Captain Fanzone shouts out his window as his jeep rolls up to the crash site. 

“What!” Doctor Hawk screams. Above, the giant turtle lowers its head in interest. 

“Not to betray you, merely to stand alongside you.” Blackrock assures. 

Hawk puts their hands up. “Fine. So we need to find some way to get you into the city and what…”

Gale looks up at the capitalship, the clouds increase in cover. She grins, “We go for the head. Simple as that. We aim for the head. Yes.” 

Chapter Text

The Kuiper Belt

Sky Lynx sees a familiar gleam fall along his windscreen, the Sun’s light, roughly 8 hours old by the time it touches him. Yet it holds no warmth. No air flows over his wings, just sparse vapor and thorny volatiles claw at the faint shields that protect his plating. Streams of energon radiation escape the ends of his engines, faint purple fires pushing him through the void of space. Internally, the hoards of energon cubes within his subspace pockets are compacted and crystalized, a 3m by 3m cube being reduced to a hyperdense crystal the size and color of a grape. The process of recrystallization was inefficient in all ways except economical, energon cubes were the cheapest commercial form of fuel-stock energon. The Seekers used synthetic crystals at the order of Starcream, a noxious green color that let off a reduced dose of radiation. Raw crystals produced the most efficient and longest lasting release of radiation that doubled as a destabilizing shield, protecting the starship from the rear during a dogfight. Sky Lynx never had the tolerance for it.

Star Saber flies about a half a kilometer away, a short distance in this empty field of ice, dust, and methane. They both take an unusual moment of silence, the diplomat so that he can ‘recharge on the wing’, powering down half his brain module and processors while the others steer him on autopilot, like the unihemispheric sleep of a dolphin. And for Sky Lynx so that he gazes at the Solar System at a distance. Are the other’s back yet? 

Something zaps at his half-spark and it becomes whole again. A rush of memories vague yet recent download into his datatrax. The faulty quantum jump, a cage hanging above a raging smelting pool, the scowl on Starscream’s face. Took you long to come back to me, took your sweet time, didn’t you. I thought I had a strong sense of self, enough to stand against the lies of self-deprecation and division. I suppose I’ll need to double down on my magnificence! An influx of messages from the group-chat, Gosh, Hot Rod as leader was a real mistake. Perhaps it should myself next time, and from Iacon. A flashing alert throbs his brain. A blue alert, marker of Iacon facing a natural disaster. 

“Something’s wrong.” Star Saber says as he stirs awake and banks toward Sky Lynx. “The comms are open again from here to Cybertron. Prematurely open again.” 

“Something happened to the space whales?” Sky Lynx asked. Space whales held an underappreciated role in interstellar ecology and to the Transformer species. They were massive organic beings, some being upwards of 50 kilometers in length, near-sophonts with skin made of layers of bone, asteroid embedments, salvaged metal, keratin, and keloid scars. They drank from the outer layers of a star, stored the hydrogen, and then used to burn the scrap metal, asteroids, dust, and other space waste to power their rocket organs. They traveled at sub-lightspeeds, seeking out weak points in space; wormholes, scars that led to Unspace, Spacebridges, so they could access new feeding grounds. Their sensory organs were weak to long-distance, subspace frequencies A mutualism developed between Cybertronians and space whales. The whales would follow Titans and capital ships, offering protection from smeltbeasts, the only macropredator of mechanical beings, and the raw energon crystals that accumulated along their internal lines and the Transformers would generate Spacebridges for them. Some pods would travel into the Tronian system regularly, bringing in vital replenishments of energon free from the predatory trappings of trade deals and capitalistic greed. This beneficial relationship fractured during the War. Many Titans ceased their travels and returned to Cybertron. The Decepticons, in all their hatred for organics, actively antagonized the Space Whales, only to be faced with retaliation. A 1km long calf could be slain but several bulls, each three times the size of a symbol ship, could destroy capital ships and War Titans with ease. It took thousands of stellar cycles of collaboration under the Elite Guard’s direction to get a pod to come back through the Tronian System. 

“Some Carcerians attempted to kill a calf, under provocation from the Decepticons in an attempt to regain their ‘prior glory as hunters’ according to a preliminary report. The calf fell into the Sea of Rust and it disturbed the Titan responsible for the Incident.” Star Saber reports.

“Ah, the one who bit Trypticon’s tail?” 

“Indeed.” 

The shuttle and the space cruiser stall upon receiving more updates. For the council bot, it’s more preliminary reporting on the Nemesis, Emperor Megatron’s personal capital ship departing Cybertron. And for the shuttler, its images of that very same starship floating above Sterling City flooding the group chat along with panic and planning. 

Sky Lynx transforms and beats his wings, the thrusters between his feathery panels and exposed drives above his haunches propelling him through the Kuiper Belt. His maw opens and chomps down any asteroid or comet that streaks by him, at every blockage to his path between here and Earth. Until a sword is plunged between his serrated teeth. Star Saber grips the hilt and tip of his Great Sword, the pulses of his spark burning with blazing justice! “Let me handle this. You have a duty appointed to you by a Prime.” The ambassador whispers over their intercoms. 

“But…” Sky Lynx tries to get in. 

“You must carry on Primus’s will in my steed, Sky Lynx. To aid you, I shall gift you my docking ring!” The ring floats around Sky Lynx’s body then clips onto the tips of his wings. “I have preset it to make two jumps, one to the location of the Matrix of Leadership as per the Coda’s analysis, and another straight back to Cybertron. Now let’s say go!” 

The quantum engines roar with power and Sky Lynx finds himself moving so fast, not even light nor his processors artificially adding the perception of light, dark, and color could keep up. The best he could perceive it was like a dark tunnel. He keeps expecting something to come into view, for something to feel: starlight, the fiery glow at the back of a Smeltbeast’s throat, the brush of Starscream’s wings over his, radio static, the light at the end of tunnel. But all he gets is more loops, the faintest glint of dark gray orbiting around the rim, indicating some sort of end to this maze. It’s all a crude render generated by his brain module based upon limited sensory input and desperately hopeful thoughts. He feels the journey coming to an end as he’s finally able to open his mouth again and whip his tail, the strength of his hydraulics and servos surpassing the speed of the quantum engines. Another turn, final, sharp, and to the left. The inertia snatches at his tail, dragging it into contact with the engines. Stabbing, blinding pain ravages through his body, turning his ‘vision’ cracky. His neck arches back, merging with the other engine’s generator. 

“Damn you, Star Saber! Robbing me of my chance for a ‘holding out for a hero’ moment! And! Forcing quantum generators on me while in robot mode! It’s not my fault I’m all wibbly-wobbly, I’m just blessed with amazing flexibility and articulation. It’s a feature, not a bug. But you made it into a violation of the first law into interstellar travel: never fling your tail and neck next to a quantum generator when it’s about to flout the laws of physics!” Sky Lynx yells out into the void as he exits the Warren. 

“Inclusions of foreign material found. Stasis lock is advised.” His onboard computer advises. 

“Override until after the second quantum jump. Prepare frame for interaction with a C.R. chamber and begin rerouting energon rations from drives to excess mass production.” Sky Lynx orders. 

He powers down his drives and thrusters, letting the faint gravity of the dwarf planet below him tug him to its surface. Through its thin, wispy atmosphere, he sees the galactic disk, shining, shimmering, splendid. He falls slowly into the center of a crater and turns on his flood lights. He bounces around awkwardly, the mangled docking ring enveloping his body. It’s like being an intoxicated gymnast hula hooping. Among the ice-rocks and ripples from the impact site, he finds an orange case. He balances on his tail and talons to stretch out another bearing a copy of Orion’s energy signature. The case accepts it and opens. Liberty blue light sparkles along each cut and facet of the Matrix’s photonic crystal, clasped within a golden holder. Two silver handles snake off and around it. Sky Lynx hooks around the handle between foretalon and hallux and grips it tightly. He hobbles around, facing back towards the dark sky, and braces himself. 

Tracker Base, the South Pacific

“Come along everyone. Our Emperor is requesting us.” Roadkill parks along the beach, the waves lapping at his tires. He projects a groundbridge portal, a dark corridor visible through the swirling ripples. Counterpunch watches from the back of the crowd as the Trackers transform into vehicle mode and line up single file to drive onboard the Nemesis, Emperor Megatron’s personal capitalship. According to internal reports from Kaon’s shipyards, she had remained docked for 3.5 million years, since Optimus Prime gave the order to stop fighting, turn inwards, and build up Iacon. Since then, Megatron disappeared from public view. He was still seen of course, on the frontlines of conquest, making empirical decrees, clobbering Starscream over the helm in state-made cartoons. But these were all produced, manufactured, propaganda: deep fakes, actors under the direction of Lady Soundwave, Governors, Phase Sixers, and Lords merely emulating the visage of their Emperor of Destruction. The Autobots often speculated the reason from the humorous (he was shy or hiding under your recharge slab) to the probable (he left this Galaxy to find some superweapon, Starscream or some other high-ranking ‘con' usurped him, or he lost the will to fight). That last one was modified under the analysis. Megatron hadn’t lost the will to fight but of someone worthy to fight. His feud with Optimus Prime was the datatrax of legends, spanning half a million years of battle across constellations. And then Pax gave it all up in an act so responsible and sensitive that it broke the Decepticon leader’s mind. If he is here, then it isn’t for the colonization or culling of the humans or even Unicron. He’d just delegate that to Shockwave’s scientists or a savior ship. No, this isn’t an invasion, it’s a challenge for Optimus Prime. While he called himself an emperor, a revolutionary, someone who stood against oppression, what Megatron truly is a bully who acts like this for no other reason than because he can. 

Counterpunch takes the anti-deceptiwall flash drive Quickshadow had prepared for them, now spray painted purple to hide its true nature, and grips it tightly in their hands. They spot Inferno, a tall red mech with silver flares coming off his shoulders and a hose-tip permanently expressed in place of his right hand. It was meant to be a waterhose but repurposed into a flamethrower. He use it now to attack crabs as they scurry along the sand. “Hahahaha! Yes! Die, burn!” He cackles as the flames boil the crab alive, turning it bright red against the blackening sand. 

The double agent walks up to him and taps his shoulder. “You should focus on your leader when he gives you an order.” 

Inferno turns around and slouches. “Ugh. But he didn’t even say what we were doing.” Good, he still has some amount of open mindedness left. Abusing the youth is a double-edged sword for the Decepticons: they can be easily exploited but just as easily tempted away and come to realize they’ve been hurt and then wish to seek justice. 

“Roadkill! Come hear this doubt from Inferno. Surely someone this foolish and faithless shouldn’t be allowed in the company of our extraordinary Emperor. He’ll make a mockery of our work on this planet. It is not good to have such doubts when we are on the precipice of Phase 2.” Counterpunch hollers, drawing the attention of the leaving crowd and their leader. 

“Indeed. Inferno is still young and unlike some other subgroups in our ranks, the Trackers value the privilege of education and leisure time. Counterpunch, for pointing it out, I’ll appoint you to stay behind. You and Stormsurge.” Roadkill decides. Beyond him, Storm Surge doubles back, having previously flown out to the mainland. 

Can’t have him here! “Not to overstep, sir, but wouldn’t Storm Surge be of better use infiltrating the human military should they strike a counter offense?” Counterpunch suggests. 

Roadkill grips his chin in thought. “You have ideas above your station, Counterpunch. I appreciate that. Very well. Remember to keep alert should I call you for backup.” With that, the antlered Decepticon walks through the groundbridge. 

“Great, more dumb learning to do….” Inferno grumbles. 

“Part of you education will be on how to most effectively dismember your enemies.” Counterpunch coerces him as they lead the misguided Camian to an empty shuttle. “But first, a message from our Emperor of Destruction.”

They stand behind Inferno as he takes a seat in the pilot’s chair. A HUD hologram lights up and the bucket-headed visage of Megatron takes form, tinged in purple. “Greetings. Sophonts of Earth, uh, the humans apparently. Decepticons under my care and service. Autobots who will soon be under my peds and treads. And Optimus Prime, who’s spark casing will soon be crushed by my hand.’

“It is for Optimus Prime that we come to this planet. He is a dangerous proponent of chaos and disorder. He has undermined the peace and security of your planet and implanted a geoweapon, Unicron, deep within the Earth’s mantle that he alone commands using a corrupted artifact called the Matrix of Leadership. After I defeat Optimus Prime on your behalf, I will bestow the Matrix upon my second-in-command, Starscream, and he will become the first true Prime in billions of stellar cycles.’

“I will give Optimus Prime and the Autobots three earthly hours to come forward for their executions. Then I will appoint Starscream and provisional Governess Lugnut to defend the Earth in my stead.” Megatron is traded out for a giant, cyclopic femme with heavy purple and gray-green plating. The transmission ends. 

Inferno tilts his head. “In my last learning session, it said that Unicron was an occult figure. Someone who the Lords and Ladies worship. Why would our Emperor disregard him like that?” 

“I know, such a glaring contradiction. Is it the first you’ve seen so far or are there others?” Counterpunch asks, loosening their grip on the anti-virus. 

“I….I…think so….oh I don’t know….I just want to go back and, and burn something!” The new recruit gets up from the seat and tries to walk away. 

“No. Stop. You can’t just go around burning everything you don’t like or when you don’t get what you want.” Counterpunch blocks the exit and draws a blaster. 

“But none of this makes sense! But I can’t explain why either!” Inferno cries. 

Counterpunch lowers the blaster and offers out a hand. “Take this and plug it in. It will give you definitions to these contradictions, these logical fallacies you are realizing exist.” 

Inferno takes it, looks back at them, then plugs the drive into a port on the side of his neck. He goes slack and closes his optics. Occasionally, his face scrunches up. He scratches at his neck, dislodging the drive. His optics open up, shining a soft green glow. It’s working. “It never made any sense. We just do this because we can! And all we do is hurt people and ourselves. Why am I even here?” 

Before Counterpunch could offer help, they hear two sets of ped steps walking up the shuttle’s ramp and the cutting of a laser scalpel into metal. “My, my it seems like an Autobot has poisoned the mind of our newest member. I guess it’s up us, Breakdown, to administer the cure.” Knockout observes. 

Breakdown charges into the shuttle, smashing Counterpunch aside into the wall and hammering Inferno over the head, rendering him unconscious without any dents to his helm. “Concussive crush, administered. Should I proceed to the second patient?” 

“I’m not a, not an Autobot.” Counterpunch pleads. 

“Lies! You’ve played your role well, spy. But I’ve known you were an Autobot since I first patched you up, remember that giant ground sloth? It slashed so deep into you, I couldn’t help but look upon your spark casing, it’s gray, every constructed ‘con’s is deep purple. The compounds in your innermost energon didn’t match those of your insignia. If you didn’t have any innermost energon, either being born dry or were exceptionally generous at funerals, then it is customary for the prospective Decepticon to kill another in gladiatorial combat and use the energon that dries upon your plating to make a badge. Your insignia isn’t made of stained energon either, its curdled engex, commonly used as a supplement for innermost energon when around company not privy to cannibalism.” Knockout deduces. 

“Fine, deactivate me then.” Counterpunch ends. 

“No, I’d rather…” Knockout rushes over to the pilot’s seat and fiddles with the controls, drawing up the ramp and activating the shuttle’s engines, “Aid you in your escape. Go on, show us the real you.”

Breakdown grips their shoulder and pulls them away from the wall. “We’re serious. If we wanted to kill you, we would have.” 

Counterpunch vents deeply. I can’t see a way out of this… “Why are you doing this then?” Punch asks upon transforming. 

“Simple. We’re Conjunx Endura and the D.J.D. will no doubt be here soon.” Breakdown says. Ohh, right. The Decepticons weren’t so much homophobic as actively against any sort of thing that could potentially fracture the fear they used to keep their subjects inline. Be that institutions, certain individuals, holidays, religions, or even the idea of romantic and familial relationships. Of course, there were exceptions, among the hypocritical high ranks or along the fringes. While the five-con band of executioners and torturers named after the first five City-states to welcome Decepticon control focused on high profile traitors, often a singular agent would be appointed for a situation like this. 

“Why did you even become Decepticons in the first place if you knew they’d disapprove of your relationship?” Punch asks. 

Knockout shrugs. “It was becoming increasingly popular back on Velocitron. More and more of my patients were coming into my clinic with purple badges carved from their own spark casing. It was the hot new trend. With my skills, I could have settled anywhere, perhaps even as Megatron’s personal physician but…” He looks up at Breakdown and wraps an arm around his waist. 

“I prefer the quieter things in life.” Breakdown says. 

“So we joined the Trackers and came to this backwater place. At Least the humans develop some sharp and sexy vehicles or I would have deactivated myself already.” Knockout continues, getting a glare and raised optic brow from Breakdown. 

“Please don’t self-deprecate like that. It worries me.” He says sternly. 

“Ah, that’s sweet. See? We’re sweet. We’ll fit right in with the Autobots. We even have a bargaining chip!” Proclaims Knockout as he takes a crate out of his subspace pocket. He opens it, the disfigured body parts of Joyride are jumbled inside. “Red Alert is a diagnostician. I’m a surgeon. Together, we’d equal one Ratchet.” 

They’re both serious. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do. When will Inferno wake up?” Agrees Punch as they settle into the shuttle’s pilot seat and flick on switches for the signal dampeners and stealth technologies. 

“Roughly two hours or so.” Says Breakdown. 

“Okay.” Punch grips the yolk and pulls it upward, activating the repulsorlift.

"What befall Dot? I assumed that was what your doing. I do miss her. She was a wonderful mechanic." Knockout asks. 

"With her brother in Australia." Says Punch as the shuttle lifts off.

"Uh! What a horrible fate!" The surgeon declares. 

Breakdown shrugs. "Could be worse. She could have gone to Florida." 

"Oh! You are right! Perhaps there are worse things than that!" Knockout realizes.

 “Enough chatter. How do you two feel about faking your own deaths?” Punch asks. 

“Didn’t work so well for Rattrap. We had to do it twice and even then it was shoddy.” Replies Knockout. 

“I’ve always found the idea of deactivating peacefully in our recharge slab together to be the most peaceful and appealing way to end.” Breakdown remarks. 

Through the windshield, the skies and ocean blur together into streaks of blue as the shuttle accelerates to 30 times the speed of sound, any faster and they would reach escape velocity or burn. Within a few astro-minutes, the towering glaciers of Antarctica come into view. “Do you intend to pull away?” Shouts Knockout. 

“Nope! I’m giving us an icy fate!” Punch shouts before the shuttle smashes into a glacial wall and plummets into the freezing waters below. 

Chapter Text

I-90 Westbound for Sterling City

It feels like he’s driving into the past: a highway leading into a metallic city held hostage by a Decepticon Captiolship looming high above, only held back by the orders of its Emperor and a thin force field projected by a Titan. The eastbound lane is under tight gridlock as thousands of cars, trucks, and buses evacuate Sterling City. Helicopters airlift other people and fly overhead. They escape southward for Glass and Emerald City or around westward onto the peninsula or brave the mountain passes to the semi-arid east or even further to Lilac City. Tanks and armored cars pass by the exaltation of Autobots, quickly establishing a perimeter around the city should the Decepticon’s send down anything more than a squadron of Seekers. Sometimes, Hot Rod catches a glimpse of the driver and passengers inside the vehicles either escaping or joining the fray, the humans all give the same look: eyebrows raised, eyes wide, and mouths split open at the very ridiculousness. 

The humans now know about the Transformer’s presence on Earth. Megatron himself had addressed the whole planet by hacking into every radio transmission, fiber optic signal, and through loudspeaker sourced at the Nemesis. Almost simultaneously, Sector Seven sent out a debunking of their own, a prerecorded message from Captain Fanzone:

“Hello, people of Earth. My name is Agent Carmine Fanzone of Sector Seven. I’m part of this secret government agency that deals with monitoring and protecting our little slice of space pie from aliens. Yep, they're real. I’m sitting with one right now, keeps glaring at me. Shoo then. If you’re hearing me right now then that means shit’s gone sideways.’ A slight edit in the audio to a later recorded segment, ‘Now, I want to tell you something about the Transformers. They’re these giant alien robots from the planet Autobot. Sorry! From the planet Cybertron. But Autobots are one of the main factions…no! I’m not going to list the…4792 other planet’s you’ve colonized or cohabitate or list the other 49 major factions! Why? Because that isn’t important right now! No, I’m not being disrespectful to your species’ range or cultural diversity. I dare you to list every city on this planet, then! Oh, you can? Because you were here when every single one of them was founded…right…Go take a walk. This is why I hate machines and I bet you also are starting to hate them if you are hearing this message. You might even think ‘Holy Frijoles! Is my car one of these Transformers?’ No, probably not. If it was then they’d probably squish you by now. What I ask of you now is cooperation. Get out of there! Listen and follow the directions given by your local law enforcement and emergency responders. If you find yourself in the situation where you got to fight a Transformer, first identify it: if it has a red frowny face badge that’s an Autobot, if it’s gotta purple downturned arrow that’s a Decepticon. The Decepticons will try to kill you, the Autobots will try to defend you. If you have a weapon, aim for its joints and glowy bits. If you have nothing, then spit, sneeze, spray, and scat on that thing like your life depends on it. Because it does.” 

Hot Rod leads the way, driving as fast as possible upon the wet roads endangered by black ice and slushy shoulders. Red Alert follows closely behind, her sirens blaring and shining lights over the snow. Nightviper alternates between sidewinding, lurching her tail end up and sliding her neck over, and sprinting in robot mode while hunched over as not to expose herself to the humans in the opposing lane. Leobreaker makes no such attempt, galloping with ease with claws outstretched and guns popped out of his mane, shoulders, and haunches. Tigertrack rides atop his back, similarly decked out with twin rocket launchers on his shoulders and machine guns in each hand. His armor has only sparsely grown back, yellow plates barely cover his uninsulated wires, motors, and mechanisms. Lashes of ammo packs and chains are wrapped around him to make up the difference. 

Beyond the prerecorded message from Fanzone and location beacon from Rattrap, Hot Rod doesn’t know what to expect beyond the obvious. “I hope the ‘cons put up a good fight. Can’t leave this all up to Pax or Prime to fix.” Tigertrack grumbles. 

“I still think you shouldn’t be here.” Red Alert warns. “You belong in the C.R. chamber.” 

“Pfft! It’ll belong to someone else by the end of this. Your ‘preventative care’ won’t stop me from living out my life to end.” Tigertrack retorts. 

Hot Rod ignores the other division members bickering. He looks eagerly ahead of the road for any sign of the returnees from Cybertron. Nightviper’s gaze is similarly transfixed though above as the Titan hovers. “Are you establishing any sort of connection with it?” Hot Rod asks as he switches into the left lane. 

Her head veers to stare at him, her eyes glow a pale blue like moonlight on water and her mouth parts, forked tongue held back, to speak with a voice not her own, “ Stop prying Vipervoice and do not fear future Prime. Here to help my brethren and child.” 

Hot Rod slows down as he processes how the Titan-possessed Autobot addressed him. A future Prime… The Titans were old beings capable of living for hundreds of millions or even billions of stellar cycles, traveling around the Galaxy, producing new generations of Transformers who then in turn produced a culture and a community that the Titan seeked to embody. Using their vast knowledge, they could create strong predictive models not unlike Nightviper’s own foresight. Hot Rod himself had never felt a strong connection to them. In Nyon, there were three or four Titans taking the form of warehouses and garages. He forgot which one he had been forged from. In Iacon, several Titans came together to rebuild parts of the city and redirected their precious energon towards a thick, impenetrable shield thus very few new Transformers had been forged or protoformed since. But there was something different about this Titan. Rust lichen and mollusk-like mechanimals cling to her underside and shell, barely affected by the trip through a Spacebridge, now rapidly fading as the rain starts. Her shell is a jumble of balconies, awnings, empty pools, boutique fronts, and the remains of a waterpark hang over her long, whip-like tail. Four giant paddles undulate with fumes of repulsorlift swaying over to keep her aloft. Looks like she supported some kind of small resort town. Hot Rod guesses as he tries to recall various urban legends that spoke of a sleeping, wild Titan waiting within the Rust Sea. Lost in thought, he’s caught unawares as a winch lassos arounds his spoiler and lifts him up. 

Transforming and clinging to the rope, Hot Rod looks up to see Whirl carrying away. “What’s going on, Whirl?” Hot Rod shouts up at her. 

Below, Leobreaker leaps up, claws missing the magenta and orange Autobot’s peds by microns. “Whirl! You better have a good explanation for this!”

The attack helicopter rumbles with laughter, shaking the length of the rope and reverbing along her quickly chopping rotors. She pulls up into a steep climb and fires a few short-range missiles, not aimed at anything except individual raindrops. Hot Rod holds on the rope tightly as it dangles at the whim of the explosive charges. “Whirl! Tell me what you’re doing! That’s an order! I’m a future Prime! The Titan told me so!” He shouts. 

Whirl’s laughter quiets as she navigates through the turbulent cloud layer with an unbecoming precision and focus. As she breeches above into the thin-aired blue sky, she finally replies, “That Titan is the craziest thing in the Universe. She’s the only thing to do what the Wrecker’s would not. That’s the turtle that bit Trypticon’s tail! But it’s nice to see your confidence back, kid! We’ll need that for this mission.”

“What mission?” Hot Rod asks as the ex-Wrecker makes a beeline for the Nemesis. “Whirl! What mission?” 

Personal vessel of the Emperor of Destruction and flagship of the Decepticon fleet, the Nemesis strikes dread right to the Spark of any Autobot. The thickly armored, gribbled surface of the ship is streaked with burn marks from repeatedly exiting and entering the atmospheres of dozens of planets subjugated by her alone. Her bridge is tapering and triangular with dark purple spikes arranged atop and equatorially. A watchtower rises above, a long cannon barrel extends in preparation for air-to-air combat. The fuselage slopes downward and radiates into four, massive wings, each adorned with additional stabilizers and laser turrets. Her underside and rump hold round quantum engine exhausts, sickly green fuel quills full of nucleon and synth-en, and the half-alive frames of K-class cons and crudely made Seekers.

The Decepticon’s warship aims its autocannons on Whirl. She ducks and weaves around the laserfire, blasting apart those that get too close with a barrage of bullets from her machine guns. The larger, manned turrets come online and begin shooting at Whirl. She dives towards one, Hot Rod able to make out the look of terror on the genericon’s face as he swings beneath her until…

Whirl transforms and falls onto the turret. She unsheathes her rotor blades, cutting the rope connecting Hot Rod to her. He falls and watches her stab into the glass and scopes of the turret, and plunge her swords into the gunner’s chest and tear him apart. 

Hot Rod forces his arms to his sides and ignites his exhaust pipes, succeeding in keeping himself aloft. He flips down a visor, scanning the wing’s edge for Whirl as she takes out each turret one by one. Something dashes across his vision, a small falling figure with limbs outstretched. “Gale! What are you doing here?” He hollers as he rockets toward the pretender. Gale puts her hands behind her head and crosses her legs, relaxed even as she falls from a height of 8,000 ft. 

Beneath them, a blue supersonic bomber flies. Hot Rod reaches out his arm, catching her as she falls. The plane steadies and slows, allowing Hot Rod to land and magnetize to the fuselage and delta wings. He holds Gale underneath himself and lowers his profile in line with the shaking plane. “Devcon! Get a hold of yourself!” She shouts. 

“Sorry, I’m not used to carrying anything heavier than a few micromasters.” The bounty hunter apologizes as he flies beneath the Nemesis, drawing the ire of awakening K-cons. Crystalized sparks slam and defrost into explosive-rigged bodies. As color floods the newly-constructed, they demagnetize on mass, plummet, and transform into bombs. Devcon pitches upward alongside the lines of the Nemesis. The K-cons follow but don’t detonate upon their mothership nor relocate to the city below as Megatron had yet given the order. So instead, they turn on each other. Dozens of newborn Decepticons crash into each other. They fall a few hundred feet before exploding. Twin sparks rise out of the dust, some with crystal shards still hanging off of them before extinguishing. From all to one to frozen to defrost to one to all and with only moments of life to show for it. 

“I see an entrance point!” Gale shouts as she pushes Hot Rod arm away from her with a strength he didn’t think persisted while in her shell and skin. She points at a hull breach between the main fuselage and a powered down engine. As Devcon flies toward it, Hot Rod realizes the miserable state the capitalship is in when viewed up close. The hull is pockmarked with deep gouges and reentry streaks hastily cared for with clumsy welds and flickering shields. The reliance on autocannons, k-cons, and reject Seekers. No one seems to retaliate with blasterfire as Devcon lands within the hollowed gap. This was a rush job, no doubt fueled by Megatron’s obsession to fight Optimus Prime one last time. Two are standing but one must fall eventually. Ugh, regardless he has no plan aside from threatening the humans in an attempt to draw out Orion. But, he hasn’t heeded the call yet…So I guess I must have to and prove myself worthy of the…

Gale charges ahead, sliding off Devcon’s wings and skirting around a support beam. Hot Rod gets off and tiptoes after her. “What do you want me to keep doing?” Devcon asks as he rolls back towards the edge. 

“Draw out the ship’s fire.” Gale orders. “Hot Rod, get into car mode.”

“Uh, alright.” He says as he transforms and rolls behind her. “What are we even doing? What’s the plan?”

“Huh, you’re not really one to ask. No.” Gale sneaks into a corridor, the ground under tire slopes downward. 

Hot Rod shifts into neutral and powers down his engines as much as possible. “I’m being serious.” 

Gale turns around, eyes and smile wide and sinister. “We’re going to kill Megatron, yes.” 

The Nemesis’ launchpad, Skies Above Sterling City

Only the nearby, snow-capped mountains and a few skyscrapers protrude out of the dense, gray cloud layer above the human city. The Titan that had previously taken his prior body offline hovers between the Nemesis and the ground, her flippers undulating slowly, generating a blue force field over herself. She moves back and forth over the highways as thousands of humans flee the city, the evacuation in full process. A few fighter jets launch from massive aircraft carriers across the Sound. So far, no bombs, missiles, bullets, or laserfire had been shot from either side. No casualties. Yet. 

Starscream turns around as he hears the powerful footsteps of Megatron. “Care to watch the sunrise on a new Decepticon colony, my Emperor?” 

“What nonsense are you talking about, Starscream? Do you need to get your optics repaired? It is quite plain to see that it is mid-afternoon.” Snarls Megatron. 

“Huh? My mistake, Emperor Megatron.” Says Starscream. “Any word on Optimus Prime’s surrender?”

“More so on his very appearance. So far, only one of the Autobots has made any sort of offensive counterattack: an blue helicopter keeps waving her swords and guns at our auto-cannons. We have had to blast her off three times and yet she persists. But she is of no concern to us.” Megatron admits, staring intently at the city below. 

“Should we take a more antagonistic role against the humans? A single blast from the ship’s fusion cannon could destroy the city below.” Starscream suggests. 

“No, Starscream. That Titan below, it’s the rogue Titan isn’t it? The one that bit Trypticon’s tail?” Asks Megatron. 

“Yes. Tortuga is her designation I believe. One of my Seekers and the astrophysicist who first pinpointed Unicron’s location within this planet were forged from her. I believe they might now be Titan Blessed.” Starscream explains. 

“Then she’d rip my ship apart.” Megatron realizes. “That and Lords Shockwave and Swindle have petitioned me not to obliterate human civilization. Shockwave sees…worth…in these organics’ agricultural methods. And Swindle believes that the preexisting economic and social media infrastructure are ripe for exploitation and profiteering.” 

“You still want to make an example out of these fleshings though?” Starscream prods. 

“Just so everyone knows I haven’t gone soft.” Megatron holds out an arm and Laserbeak lands upon it. The bird’s mistress, Lady Soundwave, hadn’t joined the Nemesis but had sent some of her mini-cassettes ahead to watch the situation in real time. However, a broadcast (or adaptation) of the invasion of Earth wouldn’t be unveiled to the Decepticon public and codified within history for some time. The camera upon the bird’s beak turns red for record and bobbles in front of Starscream. “I want you and your Seekers to make an example on any stragglers. Any humans who don’t immediately embrace Decepticon rule or flee without complication. Those who will foolishly antagonize you.” 

Starscream nods. “It will be done, my Emperor. Seekers! To me!” The Air Commander runs and leaps off the launchpad. He transforms in mid-air into his new, earthly alt mode, a dark crimson stealth fighter with strips of gilded silver and dark purple along the leading edge of his wings, tail fins, and elevators. He dives down beneath the turbulent cloud layer and glides above the empty skyscrapers. Red Wing, Nacelle, and Ramjet converge on his right, each taking the same alternate mode as him. To his left, Slipstream and Skywarp form up, each taking on slightly outdated altmodes: a variable-sweep wing fighter and a sabre jet. “Search the streets below. If any humans put up a counterattack, capture it and allow Laserbeak to broadcast it’s easy…AAHHH!

A human piloted fighter jet flies upside down, the buzzcutted, square jawed head of the lifeless vehicle’s pilot staring down at him, unfazed and brave. “This is Agent Burns from Sector Seven on behalf of the U.S. government. I am giving you, identified as Lord Starscream by our Autobot allies, 30 seconds to surrender and leave in peace.” 

Starscream scans the piloted plane. Air to ground missiles, cluster bombs. But that’s not what worries me, it's the proximity. One bump and I’ll be sent cone over aft! “And what if I don’t heed your warning, Agent?” 

The human pulls his plane up and away. “Then I won’t warn you about the impending bird strike.” 

A birb strike? 

A brown, winged organic honks angrily at him right before getting sucked into his left engine. Feathers, skin, meat, and bones are torn apart and explode between the blades within his turbines, gunking it up with fresh flesh and brittle bones. Starscream stalls and brushes up against Red Wing as he reconfigures for flight with one engine. More of the same flock move overhead and proceed to defecate upon Starscream alone. Starscream transforms and saddles up to Red Wing, resting his left foot atop the young Seeker while his right thrusters are pushed out. “Ow…, sir, I mean, my Lord, could you please get off me?” Begs his body-double. 

“Silence! Most Seekers would consider it a tremendous honor to carry their Lord and Savior, Starscream, into battle,’ he reaches out and snatches one of the birds mid-flight. Its long neck dangles and loops around. “Ha! Even the non-sophonts of this world are defiant towards us, proof of Unicron’s pervasive hatred…AHHHHH!” The bird’s bill burrows beneath the gaps of his finger plating, touching the sensitive pressure sensors. He waves his hand around, releasing the bird only to receive more defecation. Ramjet, Nacelle, and Slipstream drift or bank away from the no-longer maintained formation. A few chuckles of amusement from Skywarp ring over the squadron’s comms. Red Wing’s flying falters. “Enough dealing with the lowest of the lowest! Take to the streets!” 

Starscream plunges off of Red Wing’s back and flares out his wings, gliding to the crowded streets below. Lifeless cars and trucks barge out of the way as his thruster powers down and he lands. Through the windshields and windows of those still fleeing the buildings, there are looks of awe and terror, some of disgust, yet none of defiance. His null rays swing forward and charge up. “Um, Lord Starscream, you are aware that null rays have no effect on organics, right?” Slipstream informs as she lands behind him. 

“The humans won’t know the difference. They have simple, primitive processors of meat in their skulls barely capable of generating 20 watts.” Starscream dismisses. 

“We can hear you! And you're in desperate need of an organic chemistry class.” Shouts a human, dressed in a puffy blue overcoat and a red scarf with a shotgun slung across their body, from the sidewalk. Hmm, an act of defiance. It will do. Starscream walks over to the human and crouches down, arm outstretched. They hold their shotgun up but their finger never reaches the trigger. Starscream picks them with ease until the human’s very physiology seemed to change within his hand. Feathered wings flap furiously against his fingers and sharp talons drive into his palm. 

“AAAHHAHH!” Starscream shrieks as he opens his hand. A large bird climbs up his arm by digging in its talons and short, flustered hops powered by feathered wings. The rest of its plumage is blue-grey. Red eyes stare at him with an uncharacteristic intelligence. This is no natural lifeform. 

Streets of Sterling City, Close to Blackrock Building.

It was often due to situations beyond his control, influence, or action that caused Rattrap to routinely go against the grain. While coming of age on Velocitron, Crumplezone and him were denied the chance to race for whatever reason: unmarkability, too slow, not the right size, accounts of cheating and fraud. Thus they had to become janitors together. Within the Decepticon ranks, he had been content, no, rather lazy, and remained a lowly Tracker then seeking dominion and upward mobility despite his early embrace of Decepibrand. Upon deployment to Earth, he finally became aware that these things he once thought were completely beyond his control were, in fact, affected by him. An equal yet opposite reaction. As he watched the millennia on Earth pass by, he was forced to recognize the changes around him but not within him. And perhaps that things would be better if he’d changed. And yet, he finds himself back at that initial thought, that all too common scenario he was so quick to assign himself into. But this time it feels accurate. 

His silver-cerebral helm bangs against the car seat as G.B. Blackrock slams on the brakes of Gale’s muscle car. She had lended it too them after she descended into the skies with Whirl for the fool’s crusade of trying to beat Megatron into submission. Honestly, the two of them are probably so stubborn and strong that they’ll be able to do it. Somehow. It had been an hour since Megatron challenged Optimus Prime for the Earth. Since then, the evacuation of Sterling City was ordered while aircraft carriers from the Puget Sound Naval Shipyard arrive to enact a defense while other plans were drawed up. The chaos on the streets causes cars to see every lane as a one-way road. “My apologies!” Shouts Mr. Blackrock as he flings his hands off the steering wheel. A procession of fleeing vehicles dashes by, nearly clipping the bumper. 

“Watch it! Marissa’s still recovering.” Kelly hisses as she cradles the other woman against her shoulder. 

“Ha! Be lucky you had a pressurized cockpit and comfy seats. I was clinging for my life as we tumbled around like rocks in a polisher!” Rattrap squeals. 

Blackrock clamps his hand over the cycle-bot’s mouth. “Hush! You two! We have bigger things to worry about. But perhaps Marissa would be better further away from the fray. Back with Fanzone and the ambulance, the one with the final, and the serpent…I’m sorry, I forget your names.”

“Hello Nurse, Norville, and Slinky. And yours's ain’t to far off, Muskbucket!” Rattrap corrects as the man returns his focus to the road, one set of wheels clambering over the cluttered sidewalk, the other on slushy shoulders. We’d be better off walking.

“I know those aren’t their names! Please don’t compare me to lesser men.” Blackrock retorts. 

“I’m feeling better. I just…” Marissa claims then pauses. “Was hoping that traveling through space a second time would finally get rid of my airsickness. And I wish you two weren’t here. You’re civilians.” 

“You should probably extend that wish to everyone else. There’s no going back now.” Says Kelly.

“Perhaps…but if so we can still make a stand! We just need to get to my building!” Blackrock decrees. He turns a corner onto another crowded street. Leobreaker and Tigertrack assist the humans: leaning against buildings and allowing the citizens to clamber down their bodies to get to the ground. A smile crosses the lion’s muzzle as a family slides down his back, the children dangle and play off his tufted tail while onlookers pull out their phones to record and share in the playful sight. His injured division-mate is remarkably less enthusiastic: scowling as he drops humans from his hands as soon as they fall to a neutral position. He turns his head and notices Rattrap in the passenger seat, his scowl turns into a vengeful sneer. Taking up his machine gun, Tigertrack marches toward the muscle car. Rattrap squishes against the seat and tries to slide it back. “Some sort of problem between you two?” The businessman asks. 

Kelly protests and pushes back. “This is on you.” 

Tigertrack stops in front of the car and kneels down, staring through the window with resentful yellow optics. “Rattrap! It’s your fault I’m like this! Come out and explain yourself!”

Rattrap vents out a sigh and rolls down the window. “What do you want…huh? I don’t think I ever gave you a nickname. That means I don’t value your opinion.” 

Offense makes Tigertrack’s face even crosser. “It’s because of your glitchy decision to make Hot Rod the temporary leader! His utter lack of planning got myself and Joyride incapacitated! She’s been reduced to a pickled lifecord in a box and I can’t transform!” He shouts. 

Oh, so that’s why she’s not here. “Well congratulation on your transition. Truly, you were always meant to be an Action Master.” Rattrap mocks. 

Tigertrack put his gun barrel through the window. “That’s it? That’s it! All you can do is crack jokes? You’d be better off…” 

Rattrap takes out his blaster and shoves it beneath Tigertrack’s jaw. “What! What were you going to say? Better gone than a con? Well! Too bad!” 

Mr. Blackrock gets out of the car and glares up at the yellow Autobot. “Enough! Have you no sense of the situation at hand? We are in battle for our very lives and yet you two squabble like school children. When I first heard about your kind, I was amazed. I thought it meant the next step in human society: advancement, prosperity, and equity between us and the other sophonts of the cosmos. But now, I stand disappointed. You are not Gods, monsters, or even aliens. But men. Or at least as fallible, flawed, and pathetic as any man. You all are just people! Troubled, frustration-inducing, yet promising people. Don’t let me down!” 

Rattrap and Tigertrack’s guns part and the two mechs stare at the man. It was the kind of speech meant for nobler audio receptors, for someone who knew honor but lost their way or were terrified. Neither mech met that description: Tigertrack had been a soldier for millions of years before the war had ever began, you don’t live and fight as long as he had without experiencing the erosion of your sensitivities, and Rattrap only cared that he continued to live and do as he wished. The two mechs erupt into laughter, a hearty rumble from the yellow bot that betrays his injured, half-regrown frame, and a shrill snicker from Rattrap and the chitter of his buck teeth. Blackrock doesn’t seem offended by this, merely waiting for a genuine response. Kelly rolls down her window and pokes her head out, a wide grin on her face. “You two just agreed on something.” She points out on behalf of her employer. 

“Fine. I’ll put up with you and set this aside for now. However, I do wish to talk with you, Rattrap. I have concerns about Hot Rod, not just his recent failings but future ones as well. Something…something happened to him as we were driving into the city, before Whirl snatched him up. Something changed his demeanor…” Tigertrack informs. 

“Shove it into your tailpipe for now! Zuckerbrain over here says he’s got a mystery weapon that changes the tide of this whole thing. Made it behind our backs. It’s got Shellfish all stirred but when are they not? Me? I can’t help but admire it. You all are dirty rats, like me!” Rattrap replies. 

Blackrock’s eyes narrow as he gets back into the car. “Again, don’t compare me to lesser men. And I didn’t mean to go behind Hawk’s back. My inventors made an untested prototype in a few short weeks in response to that attack with the…Fanzone called it a zombie of some kind?”

“Terrorcons. It seemed to be sandstone and these dark crystals coalesced around a Transformer’s corpse.” Marissa explains. 

“Hey! If this whole thing’s about Crumplezone not going down, that’s because of two things: he’s Velocitrionian, so he reboots back really quickly, and he’s really stubborn.” Rattrap adds. 

“Exactly! Its that ability of your kind to so readily acclimate and overcome that needs to be dealt with succinctly and swiftly if we, at least us humans and Autobots are to stand a chance…” Blackrock’s voice wavers as he continues to drive ahead, the crowd thins out. Tigertrack sets off at a steady jog to keep up. 

“What does it do?” Tigertrack asks. “Maybe I could help get it to work…I worked as a weapons tester for this notorious Headmaster weapon’s maker. He created these things so horrible we’d call them the Unmentionables. This sounds like one of those.” 

“You’ll have to introduce me sometime!” Rattrap grins as Blackrock hangs his head over the steering wheel, perhaps out of shame. I wouldn’t know. There should be no shame in living. 

“It was…based on an idea that Joyce had…he thought that there must be some way to stabilize the transformium, err…energon. So that more of it could be used in any future products. He worked backwards and found a few potential pathways on how to undo whatever controls energons structure. I had some of my inventors apply that to some laser pointers that transfer that information into its target.” He explains. Tigertrack’s optics narrow and a shadow falls over the car. 

A dark nose cone pokes above the windscreen, landing gears bump against the sports car’s roof. “Hey Nacelle! These two are going deeper into the city! That’s a sign of resistance, right? Someone we need to make an example of. And look! One of them has humans in them! How disgusting! You really are a traitor.” Shout a black and white conehead Seeker with maroon wings. He lands, transforms, and pulls up his null rays. 

Tigertrack kicks the car to the side and launches himself at the Seeker. “Get going!” He shouts. 

Chapter Text

Iacon

The shadows cast from the mourning Space Whales as they gather in Cybertron’s upper atmosphere do little to dissuade Ratchet from his important work of preventing further grief within the Autobot ranks. A row of stretchers and portable recharge slabs are laid out before him, deployed for those minorly injured during the rogue Titan rampage that wrecked several static buildings. Others suffering from severe injuries received his brief assessment before being rushed to the ER by someone else. Thankfully, no one seemed to gone offline, yet, by this event. But there were two bots who toed the line, one willing to overexert herself at the risk of those closest to her, and a mech who had gone unaccounted for. 

“Ratchet, she’s awakening again.” First Aid, a visored and mouth plated medic-in-training, points out, dragging the Chief Medical Officer out of his thoughts. “Should we administer more circuit dampeners?”

Ratchet looks down at his current patient, Stormclash, a red and cyan copter-bot. Several spot forgers are arranged over her limbs while clamps, molds, and other supports force the crushed plating back into its natural position. Similarly, external restraints are placed over her joints to keep them locked in position for operation, now shaking as she wakes up. The light behind her visor shines and the rotors on her back spin. Ratchet puts a firm hand over her head and exchanges his regular fingers for a welding torch, a small mallet, and a cool air blower. “Put her back under. We’re almost done so nothing too strong. Also increase the slab’s output to 40%. Then get your hands ready, we’re going to weld over any cracks, tap the little imperfections out, and quench.” He accesses. 

First Aid nods, takes out a small drive running a cooldown program, and injects it into the Torchbearer’s neck. They turn his fingers into the same tools as Ratchet and take off the clamps around her head and neck. “Why is her slab set to such a low charge outage? And why not have a metallurgist doing this right now?” The young medic asks, tilting his head curiously. 

Ratchet inspects her face, no cracks, just raised up globules of partially melted metal from where it was bent back and reshaped. “Start polishing her visor, we want her to be able to see upon coming back online. I’ll handle the flashing and quench.” Ratchet first orders as he cools down the plating with his blower and cuts away the excess with the gentle touch of his laser scalpel. “It's because she’s a Camian, came here with Pyra and the rest you often see about five million stellar cycles ago for whatever reason. There’s two things you need to know about them: their theatrical fanatics and they bleed blue. They come from the rogue planet of Caminus, located at the edges of the Halo. All they got for energy is imports, geothermal, and space winds. So they run efficiently, have no energy weapons, and bleed blue. Here, those adaptations aren't so necessary here so there are side effects, gotta dilute liquid energon and underpower the recharge slab or else her batteries will be overloaded, she’ll be exhausting heavily, overactive, and hyper. Like giving a turbo fox a shard of Red Energon.’

“As for why a metallurgist isn’t doing this? It’s because they aren't willing to. Most, the ones who haven’t deactivated at least, either switched professions to become medics or blacksmiths or bartenders. Or now they ask for exorbitant prices just for a consultation. Believe me, I’d love to have a few working under me, would take away on the number of dents I have to bend back into place or electrolysis procedures I need to prepare for common rust infections. If you’d want it to improve, then go ask your peers to change careers. And do try to keep up, First Aid, I’m down to her bicep swivel while you’re polishing her lips again. You can always ask her out when she’s up and moving. Worst she can say is no, the best you two can do is powerlink and form a nice pair of pants.” Ratchet says. 

First Aid’s visor lights up in embarrassment. “I’m only considering becoming a gestalt component! Just an idea I had with an aerophobic Rescuebot. Besides, I’m more enraptured by your words and work.” 

“Optics down on your own digits, First Aid. Maybe one day you’ll be as good as me.” Ratchet says as he goes back over and cools down Stormclash’s left upper body for a final time. “How about I quiz ya? What are the main differences in treatment for someone who was forged, protoformed, or constructed?” 

The young medic hastens their work, the fidgeting of his fingers matching the rhythm of their voice as he recalls a mnemonic device, “Protoform, polish and flash. Construct, reconstruct. Forged…” 

“Yeah, that’s where everyone hits the snag because it doesn’t connect back up. Basically, they can heal themselves given enough time and energy. So we use a C.R. Chamber and let it handle stuff. Chamber the forged or something. Sounds like an archaic, genocidal command.” Ratchet laments as he works his way down to her knee joint, First Aid lingers at her waist. “Hurry up or you’ll be clinging to her feet when she wakes up. Unless you want that.” 

“My Torchbearers have had many admirers over the millennia. You wouldn’t be the first, young medic.” Says Pyra Magna as she walks over and hovers above Ratchet’s shoulder. 

First Aid gets flustered again. “I…I…it's just a crush!” 

“Are you dishonoring the slightly dead? She was crushed!” Ratchet exclaims, stifling back a wheezing laugh. “Fine, I’m just kidding with ya. Why don’t you go access and chart the others up while I finish Stormclash.” 

“I’ll tell her that it was you who repaired her.” Pyra adds with a playful grin as First Aid backs away and checks on the other patients. 

“More like repaired ⅓ of her. Anyway, what do you want, Pyra?” Ratchet asks as he goes over First Aid’s work, meticulous, careful, but slow. 

The Camien femme vents out a sigh and there’s an edge of regret to her voice as she asks something she already knows the answer to. “Would she be ready to form Victorion soon?” 

“Nope. Even if we’d make her look pretty, her servos and motors are still sore. She’ll need to take it easy. Especially with her hip and upper thigh joints, those become elbows or knees when you all become Victorion. So either Victorion has knee buckling or a weak grip.” Ratchet dismisses as he moves down to Stormclash’s feet. “Has Orion been found yet? He’s the last one I gotta treat here on site before going back to the hospital.” 

Pyra shakes her head. “No. But Magnus wants him found. The Galactic Council has been able to intercept Megatron’s demands for Earth. He’s demanding a fight for the fate of the planet from Optimus Prime.” 

Ratchet gasps, not so much out of astonishment but more so the fidelity of this all, how predictable the Emperor of Destruction would behave. “Stormclash was two floors above Pax when Tortuga stepped into the building. She made three footfalls, everyone else, that’s been found anyway, was sent to the ER, except for Stormclash because she protested against it. When Pax is found, there isn’t any way he’ll be able to fight Megatron. Much less walk a few steps.” 

“My, my, that is tragic news.” A staticky voice remarks. Ratchet looks over his shoulder, Ultra Magnus approaches his conjunx and the medic, a large hologram is projected from his forearm. Upon the hologram is the flickering image of a blue-green Krixian, a radial-symmetric organic species with three weight-bearing limbs, three eyes stalks, six feathery antennae, and a large sucking organ on top now covered by a pompous, beaded hat that seemingly makes up for its meter tall height. 

“This is Rivlet the 984th of the Galactic Council. She’s been tasked with assisting us and the humans in defeating Unicron.” Magnus introduces. 

“Isn’t that a violation of the R.I.D. Treaty and the G.C.’s own stance of neutrality towards the Cybertronian Civil War?” Huffs Ratchet as he quenches.

“Unicron has been deemed a threat towards galactic survival. The Council has taken similar actions towards reestablishing Spacebridge lanes, relocating species facing planetary destruction, and warding off stalking Smeltbeasts. We are grateful.” Magnus dismisses.

The Krixian’s antennae lift upward in pride. “What of this Matrix of Leadership? Has it been found yet?” Rivlet asks. 

Pyra begins to shake her head when suddenly Sky Lynx pops out of unspace and crashes into the rubble. 

Ratchet’s body moves on its own. He transforms into his ambulance alt-mode, sirens wailing and rushes from the stable street, past the caution tape and onto the shaky ruins. Sky Lynx lands in the death pose of his beast mode’s fossil, wings spread out, tail and neck curled back, and talons held close to the body. The ragged remnants of a docking ring lock his neck and wing together where they’ve gotten to close the quantum engines and had merged in. If it had happened to a smaller bot, he’d be dead. For Sky Lynx, it is just a disastrous new fashion accessory. The medic transforms and takes out an array of sensors. He’s already in stasis lock, he knew this was going to happen. Ratchet walks around the downed shuttler, taking notes of his vital signs and making diagnoses for treatment. “Huh? What do you get your talons around, ‘Lynx?” Ratchet asks as he looks over the giant bird’s legs. 

“Racing on the thunder and rising with the heat…” A heavy-synth ballad is played over Sky Lynx’s speakers as the medic carefully pries apart the shuttle’s talons. “ It's gonna take a Superman to sweep me off my feet, yeah…” The song continues as Sky Lynx’s talons release suddenly, dropping an orange case. Pyra Magna and Ultra Magnus race over and stand back in astonishment as the Matrix of Leadership emerges from the cracked open case. The artifact hovers on its own accord, “I need a hero.” 

The Matrix rushes over the rubble, the twinkling photonic crystal held within it searching like a holy eye. Ratchet, Magnus, and all the active Torchbearers follow after it until it stops atop a piece of collapsed roof. “I'm holding out for a hero 'til the end of the night. He's gotta be strong, and he's gotta be fast.” rings distantly from Sky Lynx. Ratchet transforms and steps closely to the rubble, accompanied by Skyburst, Stormclash’s twin sister. He hears a faint, wheezing noise and something displaces the roofing from beneath. The helicopter lashes down a grappling hook along one corner while Ratchet yanks at the opposing, pulling the panel off Orion Pax, “And he’s gotta be fresh from the fight.” 

“He’s nowhere near where we found Stormclash!” Skyburst exclaims as Ultra Magnus, Pyra Magna, and First Aid catch up. Through the gaps of the rubble, Ratchet can swear he sees some sort of blue box and the ruffling of a galactic cloak. Alpha Trion? 

“Doesn’t matter. First Aid, go get a stretcher. Magnus, tell Rivlet that she’s psychic.” Ratchet huffs as he tugs Orion’s stasis locked body onto more stable ground. It's as though Orion had been yanked away from his prior location beneath Tortuga’s heel and to calmer pastures. It's hard to tell where the initial shrapnel and scratches are amongst the wear and tear of Orion’s plating, befitting an impossibly selfless leader, he put others before himself even at the cost of his own health and appearance. “Perhaps now you can get some crucial rest.” Ratchet whispers as he picks up Orion, the Matrix follows, steadily watching its host. 

“I’m from a diplomatic clone line, no one has taken an interest in futurism since Rivlet the 213st. But if I could hear your expert opinion, Chief Medical Officer, what of Orion Pax?” Asks the three-footed diplomat. 

“Simply put, he’s out  cold. Physically he’s fine, a bit world weary but aren’t we all?” Ratchet turns his fingers into input plugs, nowhere near as tactile, invasive, or morally ambiguous as the effects of the mnemosurgery, but they did the trick for giving a preliminary diagnosis. He inserts one into Pax’s neck. “He’s in stasis lock, probably from the shock of the impact.” Ratchet partially lies, the stasis lock was induced by someone else, someone who deadbolted it from being reversed until it would be unlocked. The Matrix seems to bore the collective gaze of all who have worn it into Ratchet, its facets glinting warmly in thanks and harsh cold like an icy cave or making small talk with Prowl. Don’t be like that, I saved the lives of some of the Sparks that swirl within you. Just hope you return the favor. “He’ll wake up when he’s ready too. If it's not soon enough, well there are ways to drag him back out but for now we still have time.” 

“When it comes to Unicron perhaps but not Megatron.” Ultra Magnus reminds. “Star Saber is already onroute to Earth but it will still take several more cycles for us to prepare a ship to launch. Rivlet, I’m open to ideas.” 

The Krixian’s antenna lower and her eye facing the camera looks away. “I do have a contact within the Sol System. She considers herself a huntress of Capitalships.”

“How so?” Magnus asks, voice low and stern, optics narrow skeptically. 

Rivlet looks back. “She’s a Starfawn. They’ve managed to train Space Rays and Whales. Well, she tried and succeeded in taming a Smeltbeast.” 

Inside the Nemesis

The Nemesis is seemingly vacant as she tiptoes through its engine rooms. Giant quantum generators hum and recharge on either side of a suspended walkway that Gale sneaks upon, pausing beside every post and support beam. Hot Rod drives behind her, windows darkened, tires partially deflated, and engine barely louder than a mouse clinging to wheat. She finds his silence both welcoming and troubling. Is he seriously trying to be stealthy or still upset by his failings? 

The walkway leads up into a large corridor entrance, 20 m in diameter. Gale crouches down just before the entrance and peers down its length. Ribs of gunmetal gray plating and pale purple lighting fixtures make up the corridor’s construction. Like the rest of this ship, behind the threatening image there is rot and rubbage. Dust gathers on the floor, undisturbed until Gale steps and Hot Rod drives onto it. Broken panes from energon cubes, bullet shells, and body parts gather beside the creaky joints and unscrewed rivets holding this tube together. The lights above flicker, not for the villainous atmosphere but out of disrepair. 

The tube takes a sharp turn right, a shadow falls, and tinny footsteps echo along the corridor. Hot Rod shifts into reverse and Gale presses herself against the wall, briefly entertaining the idea of turning herself into some small, innocuous animal. “I know you’re there, Autobot.” Knockout’s silky voice echoes. 

Gale sprints ahead, about to burst from her shell when the Decepticon surgeon looms over her. One hand is transformed into a long syringe filled with two liquids. “Ready for a second round!” Gale shouts as she leaps up, about to transform. Knockout activates the syringe, injecting some of the first liquid into her mouth. 

She falls to the ground. Her limbs feel heavy, struggling until the weight of her robot mode is sequestered within subspace. Even afterwards, her muscles tire easily upon standing up. Her eyelids tug downwards and it's as though her body is enveloped in a warm, heavy blanket. Some sort of sedative? She tries to turn into an alligator, bits of her metal pop out along her skin however the cells of her suit fail to synthesize the necessary keratin in time to form osteoderm armor. “Don’t want to have you try that jaw to heel strike again.” Knockout remarks. I’ve never used that attack on him…

Hot Rod makes a u-turn and charges at Knockout. He prepares an energy arrow and fires. The red Decepticon sidesteps the attack and prepares for the next injection. Hot Rod transforms and ignites his exhaust, swathes of flame spray froth from his pipes as he waves his arms around at random. Knockout makes no effort to weave around the fire blasts and preserve paint job, instead marching forward through the fire and permitting it burn on the finer details. The needle’s tip elongates further and the Decepticon wields it like a fencer’s foil, allowing it to bend and dance along the flame’s licks while searching for an opening. 

Gale gives up her attempts to change forms, instead rummaging through her pockets for any sort of energy bar or drink. Hot Rod runs to the other side of the corridor and spins around, becoming a temporary firenado, pushing back Knockout and singeing Gale. Forced beneath the flames, she shouts, "Is friendly fire part of your plan too?” 

Hot Rod pauses, “Sorry!”

Knockout capitalizes on the repree of flame and thrusts the syringe into Hot Rod’s neck. He brings an arm up, trying to burn away the injected liquid. “Oh please, that won’t work. I’ve already corrected your biggest mistake. I’ve done you a favor. Now be thankful, sweetie.” That last word clues Gale as to the identity of Knockout’s imitator. This isn’t the Tracker’s medic but rather an Elite Guard spy. The shifter shoots up in height while her figure thins out, kibble rearranges and reshapes, red optics cool to blue as her plating turns white and silver. Quickshadow takes out a steaming cup and sets it down in front of Gale. “A stimulant for you to counteract the tranquilizer. And I injected you with an energon ethanol blend laden with nanites delivering my strongest signal dampeners. You stand out as much on the scanners as you do visually.” The spy explains. 

“Who are you?” Hot Rod asks. 

“Agent Quickshadow with the Elite Guard. Decided to sneak onboard the ship to get the skinny on it. And now, to stop you two from your fool's errand of what exactly?” She transforms into her sports car vehicle mode and begins to drive back the way they’d come. 

“I’m here to challenge Megatron.” Gale says as she sips the coffee, black and bitter, it stings her tongue and lacks the powderiness and sweeteners that often laced her protein shakes. Still it does its work. The caffeine jitters combat against the tugging tiredness from the tranquilizer, returning her to some semblance of normal metabolic function. 

Quickshadow tries to stifle down her laughter. “You can’t be serious! He went unbeaten in the Pits of Kaon for 3 million years either through submission or deactivation of his opponents. He murdered Zeta Prime. Every time he fought Optimus Prime came with a chance of mutually assured destruction. Our most skilled and applauded Autobot leaders: Ultra Magnus, Pyra Magna, Star Saber, Elita One, Sentinel Major…”

“I have strong doubts about the walking chin.” Gale says. 

“Regardless, none of them have ever challenged him in the meantime. What makes you think you're any different?” She asks. 

Gale smiles. “Because his time is up and my time is now. He won’t see me coming. He’s had his buckethead buried in the rust while I’m shining now. Yes.” 

“That’s it, a clumsy parody of a sellout theme song?” Quickshadow scoffs. “Just get off this ship while you still function and let the professionals handle this. Communications have been reinstated between Earth and Cybertron. Star Saber is on route, Magnus is preparing a ship, and perhaps even the Galactic Council will send a representative.”

“It will take days for anything meaningful to be done but we have barely hours..” Gale walks toward Quickshadow and slams her hands down on the Elite Guard’s hood. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned from being on this planet and living amongst humans is the importance of urgency. Their lives may barely last longer than a vorn but eventually, they make the most of it. The High Council may say they valued Metalhawk’s research but they left us underutilized and were unprepared when that day finally came. Some of them, like your commanding officer, even try to undercut real action.” 

“As did your King.” Quickshadow points out. 

Gale shakes her head. She was forged in Dinobot territory just before the Razings of Eukaris and thus protected from it. Her earliest memories were of tussling and teething with other sparklings as their mentors grieved upon becoming refugees. Eventually, the Autobots touched down upon Eukaris, looking for allies. Gnashteeth had gone with them and enrolled in Iacon Academy as part of its first freshman class just before Optimus Prime relinquished the Matrix. There was an expectation for her to have some amount of respect for her King, loyalty even. But she would never bow. The Dinobot Knights and their King were protectors, not rulers. Unlike her. And they did their duty. But she had yet to do hers. “I owe nothing to him. No. But I owe everything to them. Yes.”

“Hmm. Do you actually have a plan?” The agent asks.

“Yes. Unlike this hothead.” Gale points to Hot Rod who flashes his high beams in alarm. “Could you imitate Orion Pax?” 

“I suppose I could. Although I’ve never interacted with him personally so apologies if I seem more like Sentinel’s crude imitations. He does that alot. Plays darts with our founder's portrait.” Says Quickshadow. 

“Wait, does that mean he’s gone?” Hot Rod finally asks after being lost in thought. 

“Apparently. Both he and Deep Blue didn’t return from Cybertron.” Gale recalls from the crash site.

“Preliminary reports from Cybertron suggest that he was stomped on by the Titan now floating between here and the city.” Quickshadow suggests. 

Hot Rod seems to deflate even further, almost as if he’s been betrayed. “Oh.”

“Anyway, your Knockout impression wasn’t perfect either. I just need you to stand there with Hot Rod and turn yourself into Megatron and let me handle the rest.” Gale continues to walk down the corridor. 

“That’s it? You’re not going to explain your battle strategy or approach?” Asks Quickshadow as her paint turns red and blue. The sleek, aerodynamic curves become boxy and rugged. Tires pump up and gain a thick tread, further exaggerated by an actual suspension. The trunk hollows out into a long bed. 

Gale allows Hot Rod and the disguised Quickshadow drive past her. “I don’t have to. I just know that I’ll win. Yes.” 

Chapter Text

Streets of Sterling City

The bird’s hooked beak smacks together as it whistles, as if it was trying to speak. Red Wing and Slipstream stand close behind him, heads tilted in confusion. The bird then starts to vent heavily through its beak, hoarse and ruff until, “Finally, got it. Sorry. Takes a while to atrophy a H.sapiens larynx and then synthesize the syrinx of a M.novaehollandiae so that I could actually speak while in the form of a R.sociabilis. ” 

“Metalhawk?” Slipstream asks, recognizing her apprentice through the organic disguise. So they became a pretender. Makes them even more of a traitor to their species. Still, they contain much knowledge about Unicron and this world and have command over that Titan. I will entertain them further. 

“Drop the prefix.” Chortles the Autobot. Autobird?

“You wanted my attention. Why?” Starscream asks. 

Hawk shrugs. “Mostly to do what you do.” 

“And what is that? Please do tell me. Enough praise and I may consider your reimprisonment as opposed to immediate execution.” 

“You just did it. Annoy the slag out of everyone until the wish for deactivation.” 

“URGHHHH! You take that back! Slipstream! Tell your insolent, little, organophilic apprentice about all my grace and glory, all my charm and charaAAAHHAH!” Starscream shrieks as Red Wing falls onto him, a small blade plunged in his back. A red and light-gray winged Autobot stands behind him, blaster drawn. Slipstream gasps and takes a step back. Great, someone else she recognizes. Well, she’s compromised. Hawk leaps off his shoulder and plunges their talons into his face, pulling the foil off around his mouth and breaking the glass over his optics, rendering him blinded in this body. He hears the flapping of wings grow quieter around him, replaced by the dull hum of a blaster, ready to shoot. Starscream fires out a null ray at the Autobot. “Leave, Slipstream.” He orders. 

“But, Cloudburst just retreated…” 

Of course she knew this Autobot as well. “You know what your problem is, Slipstream? Your universe is far too small for my liking. Allow me to reduce it to atoms and trigger a big bang for you!” Starscream proclaims. 

“Urr…alright, my lord.” Her thrusters power on and air rushes over her wings as she flies away. 

The streets are quiet. There are no more gasps of awe or screams of fear. No more rushes of inanimate vehicles. Just the wind and the pitter-patter of liquid falling from the swollen gray clouds overhead. It’s raining. Add corrosion to all the ailments this nanocycles-old body is already riddled with. This planet seems determined to kill me. Luckily, I can’t die. “Let me help you up, Red Wing.” Starscream offers his unscratched hand. The young Seeker takes it. 

“Thanks my Lord. Gosh, what a weird planet. The clouds are leaking as are those flappy things.” Red Wing observes. 

“Yes, this planet is weird because it’s disrespectful towards myself and my power. To establish any form of normalcy here, I need to put on a massive show of strength. I must prove to this world that I will not bow to its barbarian, backwards ways. I need your help with that.” Starscream says. 

“Oh, how can I do that, my Lord?” Asks Red Wing. 

Starscream takes out a spark extractor. “Just stay still, and stay quiet. And know this, Red Wing, that you are one of the lucky ones.” He puts the young Seeker on mute and locks up his servos as he holds the extractor over Red Wing’s cockpit. The extractor activates and phases through the glass and into the layers of armor, insulation, and sub-circuitry to reach and tug at Red Wing’s flaring spark. The extractor’s four taser-tipped claws squeeze around a pale blue spark. Starscream command’s the shell of a body, barely more than a drone under his control, to hold the extractor above his own cockpit, ready to force Red Wing into this defiled frame. Starscream’s spark disconnects from its casing, closed petals of plum-purple metal and tiny capillary tubes filled with synth-en, the constructed excuse for Innermost Energon, something his Spark hadn’t felt in twenty million stellar cycles. Panels and canopy glass swing open and retract to allow his Spark the chance to drift out and into Red Wing’s original body uninhibited. His Spark settles into the body-double, grasping tightly to the casing and gaining complete control. 

The drab red-and-black color scheme darkens and gains complexity with rich crimson, silver-gilt, and a dark royal purple. Fearful red optics glow orange in step with the fresh pulses of the new Spark in charge. The frozen silent screams of terror as his very soul was robbed from the only frame it knew closes up into a sneer. Starscream holds the extractor in his hands and positions it before the empty frame of his former body, turned gray like a disregarded statue in a ghost town square. 

He plunges Red Wing’s spark into the sullied Seeker frame. It takes on his colors, though dulled by the overcast, rain, and bird droppings. Red Wing’s head turns and shakes as he gasps. Still put on mute, he can do little more than worry his mouth open and close, cracked, blind optics wide open, hands feeling around the change in frame, fingers picking out the bits of charred meat and downy feather that poked from his thrusters and jets. 

Before Starscream looks forward, he gives his body-double a smile. “I want to thank you, Red-Wing. You’ve done better than most in your position prior. Most try to fight or flee, one tries to unite everyone against me. But you were simply too curious to know what would happen that you just walked in blind. Literally! Now, if you are still intent upon serving your Lord and Emperor, as you should be, then fly back to the Nemesis. If you’d rather run, defect, well, my attention lies toward concluding our mission, not hunting you down. I will leave that to the D.J.D.” 

He closes his optics and turns around, almost humming some old rendition of the Aerial Corps anthem; a song meant to be graciously performed by a grand orchestra and synchronized afterburners. “Ahh, care to explain to me what just happened, Hawk?” Asks a voice. Starscream opens his optics, watching him a few meters away is the bird and a dark-skinned human. 

Hawk unfurls their wings, flaps, and hovers precariously. “His spark is persistent, atavistic even.” 

“Then, that will make it impossible to deactivate him.” 

“Not necessarily.” 

“And what do you think you’ll do? I’ve faced my fair share of assassins, murderers, interrogators, and usurpers over the millennia. I doubt two moss coated Autobots will do much to remain relevant in my datatrax. Try it! I’ve been shot down with missiles, carpet bombed, stabbed, crushed, exploded, imploded, forcibly combined with, trapped within my own mind, assaulted by a thousand spark eaters and then I possessed them all.” Starscream challenges. He then stops. A tingling sensation riddles along his circuitry, slows his Spark, and his rectifier coils begin to ferment under high doses of radiation. Energon radiation. 

Hawk’s talon unclenches, dropping a raw energon crystal to be pinched between their claws. “Would this do the trick?” 

“AAHHAHHA!” Starscream’s jets ignite and shoot him up six stories high in a second. He transforms and climbs with a high angle of 60 degrees. The blue and gold jet chasing him achieves 70 degrees. Their left wing is grayed over, either they suffered a traumatic injury there or are in the process of healing. Possibly both. No weapons either…nothing attached to their hardpoints and nothing fired from a supposed rotary cannon. Instead…oh…just sensors. Expected for an out of place, out of touch, scientist. 

Instead, the offensive came from below. A high-wing propeller plane launches a volley of blaster fire from a particle beam cannon connected to his back. Starscream rolls out of the way of Cloudburst’s laserfire, at the expense of his climb. He plateaus and switches on his afterburners, quickly losing Cloudburst with his superior speed while Metalhawk climbs above the dark, dense cloud layer, out of sight. Technically, it is agility and firepower that matters most in dogfight. Speed is advantageous only when one tries to escape. 

But Starscream fails to find an escape point to capitalize upon. Behind him, more human-piloted fighter jets take to the skies, escorting large helicopters and cargoplanes to the ground and back to evacuate or provide aid to civilians. Above, the rains turn freezing, icing over his plating, stiffening his ailerons and thus requiring mighty force to break and rebreak the layers of ice. It weighs him down as well, refuses to melt as he ignites more fuel within himself to offset the gaining weight. A downside of constantly changing bodies meant that it took awhile for his new frame to synchronize with his subspace pockets. He tries to resume his climb. Heavy winds and snowfall pelt down on him, obscuring his vision and sensors. Hailstones hit him, denting his wings and rattling over his fuselage. To his sides, endless wilderness and raging blizzards. Below, evergreen trees swish and sway under the strong winds, their branches becoming replete with snow. Cloudburst valiantly keeps up with Starscream, occasionally firing off a short-range missile or more beam shots. The cloud layer is forced lower and lower as the land below steepens into foothills and then mountains. A light pops on in his cockpit, warning that he only had 20% of power remaining between liquid energon in his fuel tanks and battery charge. 

Damn you, Red Wing! Probably forgot to top off while the Nemesis was on route to this Primus-forsaken planet. No wonder Unicron took up residence here. A shadow falls over him, literally as Metalhawk flies overhead yet underneath the still shining afternoon sun, and figuratively as Starscream activates his comlink. “Skywarp! Do you read me? I need a groundbridge, immediately!” 

Nothing but white noise and radio silence. “Ramjet! Nacelle! Slipstream! Red Wing even! I am in dire need of backup! Whoever comes to my aid will get….to wear my crown and cape for a kilocycle! Get to drink the most expensive and aged engex in my private vault! Will become an honorary Seeker above Seeker rank!” Starscream pleads again. 

Only Ramjet responds in static-riddled, broken phrases, “Nah….-already—offlined—-Autobot—errk—-good.” 

Starscream’s flaps go ridged with rage. “My very existence should be enough validation for you to be spurred into action! Ramjet? Ramjet, are you there? Urrgg!” 

He transforms and hovers for a moment. 18% power left, I don’t see any sort of power lines. Just sharpened cliffs lined with trees, snowfields, and glacial erratics. The valleys deepen as they lead up into the mountains, the maws of glaciers chewing at the rubbly ground. The Autobots had worn him down, pursued him like wild steeljaws hunting a singlehorn, after the chase came the kill. Two options flicker for him from his onboard computers: retreat or fight, both would end in stasis lock. And possibly abandonment…

Cloudburst catches up with him, rotary cannons drop down along his wings and aim at Starscream. He allows the Autobots bullet rounds to hit, a hundred tiny hits peppered upon his body, not deadly, just annoying. Like myself allegedly. Starscream lifts up his arm to counter attack with a null ray before lowering it. He’d just retreat into his shell as soon as I fire. And the damned Red Wing forgot to load in some bullets for these alt-mode’s cannon. We’re at too close a range for missiles and bombs. 

Starscream finally establishes a connection to his subspace pockets, he takes out an energon cube and ceremonial rapier. He pours the contents of the cube quickly down into his fuel tank, not much but enough to keep him aloft and fly back to the Nemesis after this sure to be easy skirmish. 

Cloudburst banks around him, shooting out more particle beams. Starscream dances around them, only catching the edge of his wing or sword tips. He shoots out a few plasma blasts. Cloudburst transforms, his wings come together to form a shield, protecting him from enemy fire at expense for lift. He plummets several hundred feet before transforming and fleeing beneath the canopy of the trees. Starscream gloats, “Ha! I fly triupjhHHHHHHHHH!” 

Metalhawk dives down at him, transforms, and hooks their arm around his neck. The sharpened, trailing edge of their wings cut into his neck, severing the wires to his speakers, rendering his voice to a soft whisper against the snowstorm. “Be quiet, we wouldn’t want to trigger an avalanche, now would we?” 

Blackrock Building, Sterling City

Kelly reaches the top of the stairs, key card in hand, and wearily swipes it to open up the KSI lab floor. She holds the door open as Mr. Blackrock and Marissa join her. The building is completely empty, the last of any essential or janitorial staff having fled as soon as the Nemesis descended over the city. There’s a sudden new chill as the power goes out again, casting the stairway into darkness. Kelly’s feet begin to shake. “Brace yourselves! It's happening again!” 

The agent and the businessman clasp their hands on the hand rail and crouch down. Kelly rushes beneath the doorway. The floor trembles as a magnitude five earthquake strikes Sterling City. Marissa stumbles and her ankle falls out from under her. Kelly’s heart seems to bolt out of chest but she remains flattened to the door frame as a wheeled cart tumbles out of the hallway and down the staircase. The cart crashes into something halfway down the stairs, stuttering against the steps, clinking into metal. “Ah, slag!” Rattrap yells as he dings and drops further down the stairs. Kelly ignores him and extends a hand, Marissa and Mr. Blackrock grab hold of her, and she pulls them over to her beneath the doorway. Reunited with her friends, Kelly should feel some semblance of calm and relief. But the dread and danger doesn’t let up as she becomes aware of the shiftiness of the building. Nearly all the city’s skyscrapers had been built to withstand a magnitude ten earthquake with shear walls, cross braces, diaphragms, and movement-resisting frames that redirect the forces from the foundation and first story up the height of the building. Slowly, it subsided and Rattrap was able to climb back up onto the top of the stairs. “What a load of slag, this planet.” The Autobot curses. 

“I imagine the worst is yet to come, Rattrap.” Says Blackrock as he takes the lead. He quickly stops in confusion and turns back to look at Kelly. “Um, you probably know your way around the KSI labs better than myself.” 

“Yep. No offense, but you barely come down here. And neither did Hawk because ‘scientists aren’t engineers’ or something like that. Honestly if Joyce hadn’t pulled the shit when he did, I wouldn’t be surprised if he tried to spin off KSI into his own company. Do you know who was in charge of making this laser pointer of death?” Kelly says as her eyes dart from door to door, searching the name tags. 

“It was either Arkeville or Meridian. I don’t remember. All I know is that both of them are trying to be on my shortlist for a new science advisor.” Blackrock admits as he, Marissa, and Rattrap follow behind her. 

“I know Arkeville, or at least his daughter, met her at a company dance and we dated for a few months but then she wanted to travel the continent as a nurse and my permanent bad luck doesn’t translate well to a life on the road.” Kelly comments as she finds Arkeville’s door first. She grasps the handle and it fails to budge. “Sir, do you have some sort of master key on you?” 

“Here, let me try.” Says Marissa as she takes out a lockpicking set from her pocket. The door knob is melted in a shot of laser fire from Rattrap’s blaster. 

“Hey! That was someone’s door handle! You don’t just blast someone’s door open like that!” Kelly shouts as she stares down at him. 

The mech shrugs and puts his gun away. “Got the door open, didn’t it?” 

Marissa pushes the door open and walks in. Arkeville’s office is cluttered, chaotic, and space-agey. Sheets of aluminum foil are stapled to the walls, over which blueprints, diagrams, and a surprisingly legitimate PH.D in Automation and Robotic Engineering are hung up. His desk is barely more than a table weighed down with drills, tools, cutters, and a mini blowtorch. Kelly nearly trips over a worn-out creeper as she steps into the room. “Hah! Finally, one of your kind has some taste.” Rattrap remarks. 

“What’s that? In the corner?” Blackrock asks as he scans the office. 

The agent tiptoes through the landmine of half-constructed and half-throughout doodads, inventions, and thingamajigs and uncovers a small safe in the back corner. Rattrap pulls out his blaster again and aims it straight at the safe’s lock, with Marissa right in the line of sight. “No!” Kelly shouts as she leaps in front of him, slamming one hand onto the blaster’s barrel and the other smacked across Rattrap’s face. 

“Hey! Watch it!” Rattrap hisses as he brings up his fists. 

Blackrock slams his way in between his secretary and the scrappy cycle-bot. “Enough! I swear I should schedule some sort of ropes course team building exercise for all of us. Might do us some good!” 

Kelly stops as she hears Marissa shushing them all. “Quiet! I need to concentrate when I’m lockpicking.” The safe ticks and then releases. Marissa pulls something out from the safe and holds it up in her left hand. It's a long, semi-transparent purple tube that flares out and then back in for a pointy tip. 

Rattrap gasps and then screams. “Don’t hold it in your left hand! Jeez! It’s like you're trying to invoke him! Conjure him even!” 

“Who?” Blackrock asks as he puts a firm, assuring hand upon the mech’s shoulder. Marissa lowers the prototype and fiddles with dials running along its circumference.

Rattrap collapses, his torso twitching from side to side, liquid gray metal drips from the inside out like mercury from a cracked thermometer. The business man grabs his sides, holding him up. The Autobots limbs seem unaffected, heightened even but whatever the Transformer equivalent to adrenaline is. His arms reach forward, blaster held with both hands, pointer fingers dangerously close to the trigger as grenades shoot out of his forearms. His red optics begin to flicker. Kelly can almost hear the warnings of his onboard computers “Turn it off! For the love of Primus! Turn it off or I’ll bring you down to the Pits with me!” He screams. 

Kelly puts herself between the melt downing Transformer and Marissa. The agent switches the dials back and pulls out her pistol, aiming it at Rattrap as he regains composure, his optics flaring and fuming. “Put the weapons away. I guess there is no need to test this further. Rattrap, care to explain what you know and what you wouldn’t tell us?” Blackrock orders. 

“Sorry! I get touchy when I feel my backbone begin to close down shop and liquidate on out of my outer frame! Your engineers made a pulse disruptor modeled off the Mad Accountant himself, Lord Shockwave!” Rattrap sneers as he picks up his grenades. 

“Who’s that exactly?” Says Marissa as she pockets the weapon away and looks through the safe and pulls out some blueprints. 

“The Big M’s budgeteer. On his left arm he has this nozzle thing that will disrupt the pulses of your Spark and cause your own body to melt!” Rattrap panics as he runs his fingers over the solidifying droplets of living metal that had seeped through the gaps of his plating. 

Blackrock seems to age ten years in a matter of seconds as he comes to the realization of what he had allowed to go on under his own nose, yet again. “Why didn’t you speak up before? Both yourself and that yellow Autobot heard me explain the methodology briefly.” 

Rattrap shrugs. “In case you haven’t clued in, both of us are on the more morally ambiguous side of things within the Autobot ranks. Honestly, it wasn’t until I felt my fragging spine dripping down my skin! That I really gave a slag about this.” 

Marissa stares at Kelly and nods slightly. She knows I was right about them, the Autobots. Some of them seem to be self-righteous serial killers. Or are really good at hiding it. “I can’t believe I’m saying this but I miss Metalhawk.” 

“Pfft! Shellfish would have yanked that from your girlfriend’s hands and crushed it on the spot! Bet they wouldn’t have been affected by it either. That skin suit of theirs would probably block the disruption.” Rattrap scoffs. 

Marissa yanks the disrupter out and points it at Rattrap, he puts his hands up. “And you know what? Maybe that's a good thing. But we can’t destroy it now, now can we? Not when we have your former buddies flying about, just waiting for the order to burn everything down. Blackrock, Kelly, how do you think this works? And who ordered its creation? Because I don’t think it was Fanzone or even Lennox. Fanzone, bless his heart, is just an old man doing this for his friends. And Lennox remains a non-entity.”  

Kelly takes a peek at its blueprint, the diagrams are simple and crude, an afterthought really with coffee stains splashed across the blue paper. She thinks of Arkeville’s daughter, a blonde traveling nurse, really the polar opposite of her father yet able to recognize the misguided importance of his work. “I think he’s a shut-in, a conspiracy theorist, and too stupid for his own skills.” 

“I think much of my staff needs to be reevaluated. As for the nature of this device, it cancels out your species equivalent of gene translation and transcription. The pulses of your Sparks dictate your forms, correct? My hope with this would have been to disable your weapons systems not turn you into a partial puddle.” Blackrock admits. 

Rattrap shrugs again. “Sure. I mean half of me is also the frame of a glitch mouse that died being crushed by a table flip from Prowl! So don’t beat yourselves up more than necessary.” 

Marissa holds the device close to her face, finger tips hovering above the dial. “Arkeville must have put a dial on this for a reason, he knew what he was doing with this. He had the time to develop special settings for this rather than just off and instant-death. But not enough time to develop specific pulse blockers like you wanted from him…”

“I’ll tell ya, that thing felt like torture upon my spinal strut!” Rattrap screeches. 

“As you’ve told us many times by now! We’re sorry we tested it out. But now we…” Kelly’s voice trails off as she comes to a realization. Torture…

Blackrock recognizes the possible usage as well and breaks down, his glasses crooked, hair slicked back not by product but by sweat, eyes red with tears, and mustache twitching. “I…I…how could I be so blind…” He whispers and heaves. 

Kelly approaches him and puts a hand on his shoulder. “It might actually be your fault but, sir…” 

“I…I try so hard to not let my influence, my money, my family’s legacy, the trust that Hawk, the Autobots put into me, get the better of me. I do that by keeping my hands to myself, only reaching out to others to lift them up and offer their expertise. But now…that’s backfired…I’m no better than all the others. All the other foolish men who think that their riches can free them from the consequences of their actions. The only difference is that it was my inactions. But…I don’t think I’m responsible enough for this…” He cries into his cupped hands. 

“Luckily you have me around, then, sir.” Kelly says. 

Blackrock’s face lightens up. “Well, in one aspect, you manage to bring luck, Kelly.” 

The secretary slaps him across the face. “You're welcome.” She turns around and sees Marissa holding out her phone, Fanzone on speed dial. 

“Did you find the thingy?” Asks the old captain, his voice garbled by raindrops, static, and tiredness. 

“Um, yeah. Turns out its stick of death that disrupts a Transformer’s genetic code or whatever. Nearly melted Rattrap from the inside out. To keep it simple it seems like overkill and we want to know who ordered its construction, be it Sector Seven or I suspect Decepticon.” Marissa explains. 

Fanzone pauses. “This is why I hate machines. Alright, look we’ve known the artificial null rays weren’t the most effective thing in the world. Got obvious when things got crazy in the Eighties and Nineties. One of my Agents, Mearing, wanted me to ‘invest more in Humanities defenses against the alien menace’. But I was doing the opposite, downsizing the whole operation. Anyway, she left to pursue higher positions in National Intelligence and I hired Agent Burns. She now outranks Lennox and Bryce so every once in a while she’ll put pressure on them to ‘invest’.” 

“Have you or her ever been in contact with an engineer named Arkeville? He works for Joyce and I suspect may be cut from the same cloth of trusting Decepticons, thinking maybe either of them received plans. If not, I have another lead.” Marissa asks, eyes darting to Kelly. I do still have her phone number, guess it's worth a shot. 

“Never heard of him. And don’t suspect Mearing, I’m not trying to make her out to be a monster. She got along great with the Autobots during her time under me, and would wrestle with Gnashteeth until she lost. Okay, that might be a motive…But I don't think this is the ‘cons. Or atleast the Earth ‘cons.” Fanzone trifles. 

Blackrock regains his composure and massages his jaw in thought. “Gale said something to me when she picked me up from the airport, that my limousine for the past seven months has been an Autobot. One that she didn’t know about. Perhaps there’s a connection?” 

Rattrap’s optics glitter and he slightly smirks. Kelly readies her hand and steps in close. “What do you know?” Kelly asks. 

The cycle-bot backs up but the glee never leaves him. “Pfft. Nothing, nada, zip-zam-zilch. Just that…of, but it couldn’t have been them, they're too busy keeping an optic on the Trackers. Could he have sent another agent?” 

“Who?” Blackrock asks. 

“Seems like the walking chin is budding where it doesn’t belong.” Rattrap says. 

“Fanzone, I’m going to let you go.” Marissa hangs up and stares at Rattrap. “But why? Sentinel does seem to be the type to go behind peoples backs but this would go beyond blackmail, its boarding on genocide.” 

“Or framing. A weapon like that is strictly regulated on Cybertron, it's outlawed by the Autobots, the Decepticons heavily restrict who they’ll let have it, and only the Functionists knew how to construct it. Until now! This goes beyond a trade secret, this is a crime against Cybertronian biology! A violation of the Tyrest Accord! Ultra Magnus would blow a gasket if he ever found out!” Rattrap shouts. 

“Would he prioritize prosecuting something like this?” Marissa asks with a skeptical look. 

Rattrap shrugs and snickers. “Uh, probably not, he’s a busy mech as you know, a lot of stuff he has to do but can’t deal with right now. So he’s kind of turned the responsibility of the Duly Appointed Enforcer onto the Shadow Proclamation. I’ve already heard rumblings over my radio and on the datanets about the Galactic Council getting involved. You don’t want a bunch of hat-wearing bureaucrats here. And you definitely don’t want a bunch of mono-syllabic rhinos! You’d instantly be on the bad side of many as you start toddling out into interstellar relations.” 

Kelly slaps him. “All right, here’s what we should do: we take the death stick with us and hope that if we run into a ‘con, they’ll recognize it and back off. After this is all done, we destroy it, tell no one, and investigate. Blackrock will conduct evaluations on everyone in KSI, Sector Seven does secret, underground government agency stuff, Rattrap won’t rat us out, and I call my ex-girlfriend!”

“None of those tasks seem to be of equal difficulty.” Mr. Blackrock points out as he picks his way out of Arkeville’s office and back into the hallway. 

“It is if you count emotional difficulty.” Kelly snaps as she follows him out. She looks down the hallway. “Should we take a look at Meridian’s office as well?” 

Blackrock shakes his head. “I have no desire to bite into more mold. Let me hold onto the hope that I’ve hired some good people.” 

“But you did, sir. You hired me and Hawk and some other nice people. That I can’t remember. But you got me!” Kelly tries to spin it as they all walk towards the stairs. 

“Way to make it all about you, Madam Secretary.” Rattrap mumbles from behind. You know what? I’m not even going to respond to him. That's what he wants but he’s not worth it. She keeps her steps quick and light, leading the way down the stairs until, as they all reach the second floor, the building shakes. It’s not equally distributed, instead sourced from the first floor entrance, the lobby. Kelly collapses to the steps and puts her hands to her ears. She’s barely able to block out the sound of shattered glass, warping metal, and the roar of jet turbines. 

“Come out here, Ransack! I already killed your yellow Autoboob friend and I’d love to take you off the D.J.D.’s list and add ya to mine! My kill list!” Shouts the shrill voice of the Conehead Seeker. “Hmm? I can sense you, in the stairway!” In the lobby, Ramjet lowers himself on his landing gear, tail fins slicing into the ceiling, taking out panels and light fixtures. He then transforms, the distinctive mechanical pitches of sound echoes through the building. A giant metal arm sticks through the doorway, fingers creeping on the bottom of the steps, null ray barrel and missile array extending over Ramjet’s wrist. 

Rattrap bolts back up the stairs and transforms, driving himself into the drywall and embedded within the walls. Marissa aims her pistol at Ramjet’s hand, trying to find some weak point between his finger joints. The pulse disruptor stands straight out of her pockets. Kelly gets up, runs, and grabs it. “Kelly! No!” Marissa and Blackrock shout in unison.

The secretary leaps down the rest of the stairs and lands upon the Decepticon’s finger tips. She brandishes the disruptor before her like a wand, two fingers raised above the dial. His null ray twitches to aim at her and she swears she can hear the ticking of a bomb going off within his missiles. Or maybe that’s her heartbeat? “Ugh! You smell!” Kelly scoffs as she walks along his hand, slamming down her foot with every step, drumming up annoyance. The stench came from her, her pits drenched with fear and sweat. 

“What! Who said that?” The Decepticon shouts as he swings his arm back and forth. Kelly drops down, tightly gripping his plating as his forearm destroys the doorway. He presses his nose cone-tipped helm upon the ground, dark red optics unmoved by her presence, as though she were a mosquito on his skin. 

Kelly waves the disruptor again, trying to provoke recognition and terror from the Seeker. Instead he frowns. “What? You don’t recognize this? It's the weapon of Lord Shockwave! With it I can turn you into goop!” She boasts. 

Ramjet’s confusion turns to denial. “No you can’t. That’s just a sensor.” 

“Well who told you that is lying. I’ve seen what this can do to someone like you. I don’t want to use it.” Kelly replies. Actually, I kind of do. You just killed someone and can probably bring this building down and I don’t want that to happen. Where else would I work? 

“Lord Shockwave's intro informatic told me when I came online. Duh! Why would he lie to someone so young?” Ramjet squeals. 

Damn, that’s so sad. “You call yourselves Decepticons! Doesn’t that clue you in at all?” The secretary points out. 

“Well as Emperor Megatron says, ‘if speaking the truth is decepticon, then we are gladly guilty’.” Ramjet parrots. 

“Well, you can’t exactly expect someone else to hold the exact same truths and values as you. And when that happens, well sometimes you just have to beat the truth into someone. So I’ll ask you one more time, stand down or I’ll turn you into goop. And then your body will become my next smartphone!” Kelly shouts as she waves the disruptor again. 

Ramjet’s optics narrow. “I’m bored. So, now I'm gonna….AAAHHH!" Kelly closes her eyes and turns the dial to its full setting. The Seeker continues to scream, a horrid, fearful sound that seems empty out in meaning, as though Ramjet’s body is losing its ability to emote. She taps her foot, his hand remains solid yet settles as his motors wind down and hydraulics relax. His death wails become white noise, the last screech of his speakers accompanied by the dripping liquid metal. She opens her eyes. His plating is a dull, tarnished gray, his limbs lay flat against the ground. She has no words. 

“Turn that slagging thing off!” Rattrap shouts, still buried in the wall. 

“Oh, right.” Kelly turns it off and holds it tight in her hand, almost wanting to destroy it here and now. It's served its purpose in killing this ‘con. Right?

Marissa hugs her from behind and nuzzles her shoulder. “Oh my gosh you did it! But don’t ever do something that stupid again!” She whispers. 

“That wasn’t stupidity. It was bravery.” Mr. Blackrock declares as he inspects the damage done to the wall.

Rattrap walks by them all, blaster and grenades in hand. “He hasn’t been deactivated.” 

“What? But look at him. He’s gone all gray. There isn’t any life in him.” Blackrock says. 

The Autobot shakes his helm and breaks through the glass of Ramjet’s cockpit. “Going gray like that just means his spark pulses have stopped but they’ll reconnect and he’ll be back up. I give it about 5 to 10 astro-minutes.” 

“But you were in pain, as was he. Surely that means some level of fatality.” Blackrock implores. 

Rattrap shrugs as he shoots several holes into the Seeker’s chest. “We can take a lot of punishment unlike you guys. We just get up and reboot unless our Spark is severed. Fanzone called that a laser but it ain’t. It’s a flashlight, spreading out the disruption. Definitely strong, blinding even. But not focused enough to do lasting physical damage.``

“It’s like choking then?” Kelly proposes. 

“Uh sure. In its current state, that disruptor isn’t a practical weapon or disarmer. It’s a deterrent, a torture device, and a last resort. Lord Shockwave couples it with a laser blast, lets it get inside and do more damage. Me though? I prefer to do things the old fashioned way.” Rattrap smiles as he packs Ramjet’s cockpit with dozens of grenades. 

Chapter Text

Right Outside the Nemesis’s Bridge

“Woohoo! We really hit the jackpot, haven’t we, Rumble?” Exclaims a black and red micro-cassette as he points to his nearly identical counterpart save for a blue color scheme and arms permanently transformed into piledrivers. 

“Yeah, Orion Pax was just asking for us to take him to Emperor Megs. Oh I wish I could crush him now.” Remarks the blue minion. 

“Uh, maybe we’ll get to pound in his helm when Megatron decapitates him or crush his spark casing!” Frenzy guesses. 

Behind the two micro-cassettes, the shifted Quickshadow and sullen Hot Rod drive, not under their own power as both Autobot prisoners were set into neutral and wheel clamps magnetized to their tires, forcing them to roll in accordance to a remote control Frenzy now holds. Gale sneaks behind them, alternating between the pickup’s tailgate and the sports car’s bumper. As she shuffles, she notices the bridge of the Nemesis. It has more in common with the squared circle than with a command center for a warship. 

The corridor leads to two sets of stairs on either side of a squared off platform. Below, a ring of computer monitors and seats, only half of them occupied by Decepticons, none of them recognizable or noteworthy. Tall panes of tinted glass curve around the bridge, allowing a view of the storming gray clouds below. Megatron stands upon the platform, surrounded by thin railing and inspecting a control panel that Gale suspects influences the Nemesis’s main fusion cannon. 

The Emperor of Destruction turns around, hands and massive fusion cannon behind his back. He cuts a surprisingly haggard figure and more so from neglect and disuse then repeated frontline experience, like a war machine pulled out of a museum and back into service. His silvery-white armor is dented and dusted. Exposed wires, messy solder, and leaking grease protrude from his joints. Only his optics seem alive, flaring red like embers above a wildfire. 

“Here he is Emperor Megatron, Orion Pax in the metal.” Says Frenzy as he slinks up to the Decepticon leader and offers the remote control. 

“Didn’t put up much of a fight. Found him slinking in the corridors with this exhaust-mouthing Autoboob.” Rumble adds. 

“Stand aside you two. Watch and record.” Megatron orders, his voice a raspy growl. He releases the shifted Quickshadow from the wheel clamps. “I see you have yet to reclaim the Matrix. A pity. I guess I’ll just have to keep you activated long enough so you can still pass on the title of Prime to my Air Commander. But I’ve always wanted to pulverize you unaugmented by the Matrix’s power. So transform and face me like a mech.” 

With pleasure. Gale thinks as she first turns into a large monitor lizard with dappled gray scales that blend in well to the grated floors. She slinks past Hot Rod, Frenzy, and behind Megatron. Quickshadow transforms slowly, the process more of a search for Orion’s humanoid form rather than a natural reconfiguration of parts. Megatron seems to catch on, drawing up his cannon and scowls, “What trickery is this?” 

Gnashteeth explodes forth from her shell and into her beast mode, tail hanging over the railing and teeth scraping the back of Megatron’s triple-pronged and bucketheaded helm. She opens her mouth and bites into him, her jaws refusing to go down any further than his broad, rectangular chestplate. His hands come up and pound upon the bridge of her snout. She only releases as he fires a few warning shots from his cannon, almost puncturing her antorbital fenestra. Not looking for a nose piercing. 

The tips of her premaxillary teeth snatch onto the crown-like prongs of his helm. She exchanges the nip for a grabbing hand as she fully transforms, jaws of her skull retracting to rest on her forearm. Upon her palm is a plasma generator, source of her beams. She heats it up, turning the silver helm red hot. Megatron’s body thrashes, he kicks back, flimsy tread failing to falter Gnashteeth’s strong stance, his cannon fires at random, joining the chaos that surrounds them. 

Free of the wheel clamps and remote control, Hot Rod and Quickshadow, now in her normal form, go around the control units. Dragging genericons out of their chairs and putting a quick end to their servitude with a stab or shoot through the spark casing. Frenzy and Rumble spin around their Emperor as Gnashteeth melts through his head, brain module and molten metal in her hand. 

She should feel some sense of triumph. Within moments, his brain would be pudding and his spark released from its casing due to the shock of such a direct hit. But the satisfaction never comes. 

Megatron drags down with renewed strength and heft, his back arching as his peds magnetize and then meld to the floorboards. As if he seeks to retreat into the ground. More Decepticon soldiers flood into the bridge, stomping over their fallen comrades to overpower Quickshadow and Hot Rod. A blue Conehead Seeker rushes onto the platform and charges up his null rays. Gnashteeth’s left arm swings forward and tasers the Seeker with her tail tip pincher. She wraps her left arm around Megatron, releases her head-hold on him and forces his helm in between her thighs. Gnashteeth pins his arms to his sides and heaves, her servos and motors strain and spin as she rips his rooted down feet from the floor and holds him near vertical. Before the Emperor of Destruction can thrash his way out, she pushes off the ground and flips the two Transformers forward. Using her body weight, she lands sitting while Megatron’s head is crushed into the ground, the grating now heavily dented and straining under the weight of the two combatants and crushed Seeker corpse. 

Megatron is quick to recover from the piledriver. He transforms into his tank mode: a blunt block of silver-white turret atop worn out treads, the fusion cannon strapped atop like foreign equipment and perhaps it is. It looks as though he had ripped out and replaced any of the mining tools from his original function. Additional scopes and gun barrels in place of drills and lasers. Dried up energon and dents instead of caution tape. He charges up his fusion cannon and shoots forward. 

Gnashteeth shrinks back into her shell and ducks. The purple beam of energy obliterates the control panel for the main cannon and shatters one of the window panes. Whirl flies by the bridge, takes notice of the fractured hole, and dives inside. She transforms and throws her rotor blades into each of the Decepticons attacking Hot Rod and Whirl. 

Gale tries to scoot beneath the blue Coneheads corpse however Megatron notices her, transforms, and picks her up. His grip is strong, not enough to crush her outright but enough to keep within her shell. So long as he doesn’t want his hand turned into splinters. The molten metal upon his head cools and returns to its normal shape, albeit dark with soot. 

“Is it time for me to tag in?” Whirl shouts. 

Megatron’s optics narrow. “Hmm, you have the recklessness of a Wrecker. A so-so second rate shifter, probably all the Autobot Elite Guard could hire on. A brightly-colored hot shot bot.”

Hot Rod goes livid. “Hey! My name’s Hot Rod but you might soon know me by…” 

The Decepticon leader fires a lazy warning shot at the magenta and orange Autobot. “Where is Orion Pax?” He yells. Gale worries up her jaw, chewing against her inner cheek and sprays a mix of blood and spit onto him. His head turns sharply towards her. “And then there was you. It seems the Autobots have improved upon Pretender technology. I remember hearing stories about it being used to protect miners before the invention of rectifier coils. My ‘elders’ would cover themselves in mold and muck out of necessity and yet you have done so willingly, perhaps even out of a source of pride so you can maintain your beast mode? What are you?” 

His grip loosens so Gale can speak, “Similar to you, a fighter.” 

He lets out a hearty, uncomfortably familial laugh. “I prefer to know the name of my opponent. Call me old fashioned but I prefer one on one bouts in the arena.” 

“I guess I’m even more pathetic, yes! I’m used to my battles being scripted and rehearsed!” Gale adds. 

Megatron frowns slightly before erupting into maniacal laughter. “Then you are merely an entertainer.” 

Gale bristles at his inaccurate and exclusionary assessment. “Sports entertainer.” She mutters under her breath. 

“What?” He growls, tightening his grip. 

Her skin bruises up. Internally the grafts of marrow and bone strips that cover the bits of metal protruding from subspace that supports her organic tissues shatter. The pressure builds and builds until…release. Gnashteeth emerges from her shell, the act tears Megatron’s hand apart, splintered endoskeleton, buckled joints, and crushed plating. As she transforms into beast mode, Megatron retracts his injured hand and summons an energon mace. He flings it forth. Gnashteeth catches it in her jaws before it could bash her skull open, ‘lethal banana’ teeth chomp down onto the glassy edges and spikes. 

“I said I was a sports entertainer!” She grunts as she tugs at the flail. Megatron is taken aback by her new surge in strength and is pulled along with his weapon. She swings him around, letting go once he stands atop the destroyed control console. “I’m as much an athlete as any quarterback, goalie, Olympian, pitcher, or MMA fighter. And we do it without an off-season. Everyone else goes out for forty five minutes of light jogging a week for about three months. But I had to go on camera, face caked with make up, wearing tight-ass spandex because sex appeal comes above practicality, surrounded by hundreds of screaming people, and put my trust in my co-workers not to fucking kill me. Week in and week out. And then add a few house shows each week on top of that? There's a reason I lost a number of friends before they reached retirement age.” 

“Because you surround yourselves with weak insects! You think so lowly of yourself that you need to pretend to be one to feel any sort of self-satisfaction.” Megatron snarls as he takes a step forward and raises the flail again. 

Gnashteeth takes a step back in turn, though not to cower, no, never. Merely to gain more ground for a… “They’re vertebrates and insects are the most numerous class to exist. It is a compliment you slagin’ idiot to be called an insect.. Your inability to learn basic biology will be your downfall if not me. They died because they lived to fight like me and I think you at some point. Yes. Fun fact about me: I begged Wheeljack to make the suits more anatomically accurate because it got to the point where my fellow wrestlers and promoters were becoming suspicious and exploitative. Natural talent, extensive training, and dumb luck can only prevent the inevitable for so long.”

“Ha! Then you’d willingly weaken yourself. Such foolish, heroic nonsense.” Megatron whips flail, bashing it against the bridge of her nose. On the counter swing, the spikes graze her optic. 

“Enough talk. I enjoy a good shoot but you’re only good for a catchphrase before being laid out in the ring in a squash match!” She charges at him, head turned down, and rams into the Emperor of Destruction, forcing the two of them out of the Nemesis and plummeting to the sky. She clings onto his torso with her talons, loops her tail around his legs, and crushes her jaws around his cannon arm. Megatron fires his cannon, knocking out some of her teeth. They are replaced quickly as she pushes and strains his elbow, forcing it to bend and break. She crunches more, triggering a malfunction in the cannon that makes it shoot out continuously like a sputtering rocket. She jerks his forearm around, using it to guide the two falling fighters through the cloud layer, open air, and onto an aircraft carrier below. “Let’s make this entertaining! Yes!” 

Megatron sustains the brunt of the fall, cracking the paved-over top of the aircraft carrier. Gnashteeth pulls herself off of him and receives a pelting of bullets from the human soldiers, pilots, and workers guns or the rotary cannons on piloted fighter jets which either recently landed or were being prepared for launch. It's nowhere near enough firepower to harm either Transformer, like paper cuts or bee stings, until they hit something critical. Gnashteeth grips Megatron by chestplate and spins around, using him and her tail to block most of the shots until… 

“Hey! We do not do friendly fire! Stand down! That’s Gale Rucky you’re shooting at!” Agent Simmons cuts through the crowd, waving his own pistol in his wildly gesticulating hands. 

“It’s Gnashteeth and I recommend you all abandon ship before I cause the ring to collapse.” She warns, slamming Megatron into the ground. Around her, the personnel run around the edges of the carrier, retreating within the tower or beneath deck. 

He clambers back to his feet, a scowl seared onto his cracking face. “Fine! I’ll indulge you before I destroy this planet!” 

Gnashteeth braces herself as Megatron swings the mace overhead, ducking her wide head down and firing out a small plasma bolt into his stomach. He doesn’t react to it and dashes out a backhanded-slap of the flail, catching her lower jaw. He rushes forth and with the cannon arm, delivers an uppercut, drawing energon. 

She reals back and transforms partially, dulling the pain as her body reshapes. “You were holding back earlier weren’t you! You chastise me for willingly seeking accuracy for my suit and call it weakness. And yet you hold yourself within Darkmount for millions of years just because OP decided to move on! In your obsession and deprivation, you got weak, sloppy, pathetic, and outmoded!” 

Megatron’s optics flare with rage, his scowl intensifies further into a warcry, “YOU’LL BRING THIS UPON YOURSELF AND DEARLY REGRET IT, AUTOBOT!” He charges at her. Gnashteeth reaches out with her head-hand, catching between his chestplate and middle helm prong and holding him back barely, her elbows lock up and bicep servos scream in protest. His flail connects with her left side, more purple energon pools out and she crunches over. She releases her grip and uses the plasma pulse on her palm to cauterize the wound. Megatron steps aside, raises his cannon arm to her chest level, and shoots. 

Gnashteeth ducks down, the fusion beam grazes over her shoulder, a glancing yet large blow. Her plating curls up in burned gouges, scraping against itself as she reaches out her arms and spears Megatron. One of his legs folds up beneath her and springs out, pushing her off. She grabs his chestplate with her tail-arm and pulls him back up to his feet. She spears him, again, and again, and again. Five consecutive spears in a row and there's still a faint smirk upon his face. Gnashteeth growls in turn as she lifts him up into a fireman's carry. She swiftly throws his legs out in front while falling backwards. Megatron lands on his head, crushing it. 

“Alright! No more theatrics. No more entertainment! Now is the time for slaughter! Yes!” The Autobot transforms and drives her talons into the Decepticon Emperor’s back. Using her weight and strength, the tyrannosaur pulls apart his plating with her incisiform teeth, dragging it back upon the lethal bananas that run the rest of her jaw’s length. She slices his armor up in a cruel mockery of chewing. Megatron wriggles his mangled cannon arm, resting it against his side at an angle and fires. The shot is weak, warbling, yet at point blank range it does serious damage: it melts away the midpoint of her lower jaw and penetrates her upper. Great, now I really have a nose piercing. 

Gnashteeth slams her tail down on his legs, shattering the plating, tearing up his treads, bashing his joints and servos. She lowers her barrel chest above his pulled-apart torso and stares into his gleaming red eyes. “I’ve ruined your greatest weapon, Autobot…how will you defy me further?” He says faintly. Gnashteeth lunges her jaws, opens wide and crushes his head with the back of her mouth, close to the pivot point. 

With him silenced but still living, she hooks her tiny forelimbs into his internal wiring and mechanisms. She lifts him up and drags the injured Decepticon leader to the edge of the carrier. All the while, she focuses on her surroundings: the men rush to life rafts around the carrier and descend into the water. She tries to pull Megatron toward unoccupied waters. Further out into the Sound, a dark red, blue, and white space cruiser descends from the clouds and races above the water. Hmm, if I can’t finish you off, then Star Saber will. And he’ll be willing to hold your funeral. 

Gnashteeth pulls her head back as she holds Megatron’s upper body some five stories above the waterline. He turns his crushed, punctured helm around, through the remnants of his face she was able to make out a single emotion: fear. 

As she loosens her grip she hears something that fills her with dread: the whoosh of a groundbridge opening and the swing of a scythe to her neck. “Release my Emperor.” Roadkill orders as his scythe blade slices deeper. 

Gnashteeth smirks. “Gladly.” She leaps over the edge and releases Megatron. Once again, they fall together. Roadkill opens another groundbridge portal, leading to the ruined bridge of the Nemesis, Whirl, Hot Rod, and Quickshadow absent from it. Megatron falls through and it closes. She’s at the mercy of the waves below. 

A sword goes straight through her stomach and pushes her up by the thrusters upon his hilt. Her talons reach out and claw at the edge of the carrier. “Relax, I’ll remove myself slowly.” Assures the targetmaster as his thrusters reverse and lower in power. Gnashteeth tries to transform or retreat to her shell but gets blaring protest from her onboard computers. 

“Are you Star Saber?” She asks as the sword transforms into a human-sized white and blue visor-wearing mech. 

“Just Saber when I’m like this. I must applaud you for your courage and ferocity. Very few Autobots have so bravely challenged Megatron or those equal in his evil. You join the likes of Optimus Prime as a Champion of Primus.” Says the councilbot as he takes out a medkit. Gnashteeth lays down and lets him treat her wounds. They’re all surface level yet impair her ability to transform. I swear that’s like my gimmick now. “Why don’t you power down? You deserve the rest.” 

Gnashteeth shakes her head. “No. My battle’s not done. Not until it's brought about actual change. Also where’s the rest of you, the armor?”

Saber points toward the back of the carrier’s dock, the space cruiser slowly rises with each of the life rafts balanced atop it. The humans rush off it and back on deck, cheering and applauding her. The spacecraft transforms into a repair bay and lands atop the damaged parts of the deck and begins to put it back together. “What will make the battle over for you then?”

“For a brief moment, I saw the fear in his optics. Yes. I want to hear that same fear in his voice as he orders a retreat.” She says. 

Saber gently closes her mouth. “I’m going to put a restraint around you and then use a spotforger. It may sting but then it will end. Please don’t thrash.” Gnashteeth nods and tries to relax. “But this might put a smile on your face. The Galactic Council is sending…”

“A Krixian in a fancy hat?” Gnashteeth interrupts over the radio, attempting to get a bit of humor.

“No. A Smeltbeast trained by the Starfawns.” Saber finishes. Now that might do the trick. 

Northern Cacade Range

Starscream swings his sword arm around, the blade tip snags and flexes against the Autobots plating before falling out of his hand. Great, all I have is a fencing sword. “Bravo, you’ve managed to do what no other Autobot has yet been able to accomplish, capturing me. You should be proud. However, if you free me, I can give anything you’d ever imagine. An army! A place by my side! A united Cybertron! We could do great things together!” 

“Could you pay off my debt?” Asks Metalhawk.

“What…?” Starscream raises an optic brow.

“Simple question: do you have enough shanix to pay off 2 million stellar cycles worth of rent for a two hab suite apartment in Polyhex with a seaside view?” The astrophysicist clarifies.

Starscream runs a few calculations. “Yeah sure. I suppose I could do that.” 

“No thank you. It’d end up with you stabbing me in the back somehow. You’d have the most obtuse person imaginable to ever trust you.” Says the Autobot.

“WHAT!” Squeals the Seeker.

“Shush! Avalanche warning, remember.” They waggle their finger.
“What the frag is an avalanche?” Asks Starscream

“Primus, you’re so foolish I might as well drop you and let you find out.” Metalhawk’s grip loosens and their thrusters falter momentarily. Please do. 

“Fine! I’ll be honest with you, that’s what you want right?” Starscream pleads. 

“What I want is for you to call off this invasion, now.” Metalhawk’s wing drives back into his neck while the other slices into his side. 

“Ugh, that authority lies with Megatron, not me! And he won’t yield until he has deactivated Optimus Prime! Now hand him over!” Starscream admits. 

“It was as I told you earlier. He didn’t come back with us and he doesn’t have the Matrix of Leadership.” Metalhawk sighs. “Then release your control on Slipstream and that Seeker’s who’s body you stole.” 

“Slipstream knew what she was getting into when she signed the contract and Red Wing is as good as deactivated.” Starscream dismisses. 

“Incredible. You are so sadistic and lazy you’d rather bodysnatch one of your own men, no a child no less, than fly around a flock of birds or fly back to your ship for a quick wash up and an engine replacement. And I’ve read up on Prowl’s investigations and Sky Lynx’s whistleblower accounts on the Seekers from before the War started. The old Senate would have prosecuted you for hiding inhibitor chips and manual override sub-circuitry into the premade Seeker frames had you not lobbied and filibustered your Senate pawns into inaction. Instead, you gave Megatron an unwitted army. You pride yourself on giving Transformers a choice, something better than what they were forged or constructed as, the chance to literally rise above. But you willingly neglect to include the consequences of it.” Metalhawk turns around to face him, the trailing edge circling and cutting around his neck. 

“Well, I am a Decepticon. What did you expect?” Starscream says. 

“Factions are still finite. Even if we just look upon Cybertron and keep to a two-faction system, we’ll see a tremendous amount of turnover: Autobots and Decepticons, before Functionists and Anti-Vocationists, before Protectobots and Destrons, before Renegades and Guardians, before the Thirteen Tribes. And who knows what next? I expect you’d be able to live through it all with that atavistic spark of yours, willing to change and find new opportunities. But no, you saddle yourself with complacent bullies and drag everyone down with you.” Metalhawk counters. 

“Is this an elevator pitch for me to join the Autobots or?” Starscream asks. 

Metalhawk shakes their head. “No. I won’t be the one to kill you. The only method that truly would destroy your spark is an explosion of raw energon crystals. But, I value my life more than I value destroying yours. But look below, I think I found a solution.” 

The blade around his neck is pulled back, allowing Starscream to look down. The two of them had drifted in the blizzardy wind to the end of a gigantic glacier, meltwater seeping up from below and forming the mouth of a mountain stream. Thrashing headwaters sweep over smooth boulders between narrowing peaks. “Probably because you’ve been around organics so much, but have you forgotten that I do not need oxygen to live?” Starscream snarls. 

“No. I am more so curious how an atavistic Spark will respond to the universal solvent. This is something that awaits further study.” Metalhawk strikes their wing completely through his neck, decapitating him. Before all connection is lost between his spark and his optics, he sees: his body flying and flailing against gravity, directionless thrusters send him crashing into the canyon sides and tumbling down below. 

NO! I won’t go down like this! Not without taking you with me! Starscream slams his feet together and flips his wings into a configuration that would actually produce lift, giving some upward trajectory. He flails his arms out, desperate to reach something, he catches the edge of the blade, still dripping with his mech fluid and energon. Metalhawk kicks at him, trying to dislodge the headless Seeker. Starscream pops out a missile on his forearm and fires it into their upper arm. He would grin if he could as he hears the timer tick down. He would frown as he hears Metalhawk shank through their own right arm with the soft trailing edge of their regrown left. 

He falls.

Icy freshwater invades his frame, freezing over pipes, conduits, and capillaries. His spark casing springs open, releasing his spark. He tries to exit the empty frame before it takes on too much water but fails. His body is flung downward by the current and slips beneath the surface. Invading waves attack the staticy tendrils coming off his spark. He cowers in the corner within a remaining air pocket. The pressure builds and builds, tightening around him until release. 

A lap of water touches him: the polarity of the molecules drags at the positive charges and pulse waves that make up his spark. His spark begins to lose structure, the protons are pulled far apart from the center of his Spark. A few orange ripples still spiral around his now gelatinous mass, the only maintenance of his mind, yet too faint to speak, to think, or even to react. 

Bank of a Stream, Cascade Mountains

Metalhawk lands on the closest flat stretch of stream bank, a narrow bar of sand, snow, and pebbles, as soon as they see an orange gel leak out of Starscream’s decapitated and battered body. Huh, his spark was dissolved and then formed a gel. Towering trees snag on their tail, preventing a complete crash landing. They slowly transform, the act hampered by their arms, one missing, the other still soft from the regeneration. They close their optics and lean back against as the tree trunk as their mind finally catches up with events: the meeting with Ultra Magnus, Tortuga’s rampage, the crash landing on Earth, the Nemesis’s invasion, Cloudburst’s return, and Starscream’s energon on their wings…They open their optics again look over at their severed right arm, just the twitch of their shoulder joint. “Ugh…It’ll take me months to eat enough Energon to regrow the other arm. Great…” They bring a finger up to the side of their head to access their onboard computers, “Permissions for organic tissue growth, extended expression of genetic material. Alright, let's give this a go.” 

They retreat into their shell, back in human form, the right sleeve of their jacket hangs loose as cut wires and leaking fluids dangle out. The bone grafts extend over, covering up the metallic bits as scar tissue fills in the open wound. A scab forms then falls off, revealing tender, scarred skin that bubbles with heat and tumorous growth that tapers to a point like the tip of a plant’s stem. All they feel is the warmth of metabolic activity until the limb bud reaches what would be the elbows. “Ah slag! Shit…shit…shit!” Hawk curses as the humerus grows in, starting as a tangle of marrow in sinew, then soft cartilage that lingers around the joints but hardens into bone. It isn’t the act of bone growing that hurts but it’s effect on their developing nerve endings, the way the bone rams past the individual fibers, how muscles tear, reattach, and grow back stronger, and the sensitivity. The unending sensitivity. They ram their shoulder into the tree trunk to give something less persistent to agonize over. Their arm twitches and curls as the elbow hinges and the apical cone begins to differentiate. Webbed, nubby fingers bubble up as their hand finally protrudes past the sleeve. They bring their hand up to their face to massage it, to do something with their lengthening fingers. Then something feels off or right? Off for this form, this skin they’ve worn for the past twenty five odd years but right when compared to the face they were forged with; a hooked nose, sunken-in sockets capable of expressing only glares or a befuddled amusement, a gaunt, pointed face. They look down at their reflection, still recognizable: same height, around 5’9, same skin tone, warm beige, same eye color, a rich brown, same hair, grown out to their shoulders but without grey that was starting to come in due to stress. In fact, they looked younger, perhaps early thirties while their skin had previously aged into its mid forties. What I always considered myself, if I had to assign myself a human age. 

Aging was much different for Transformers. The linear passage of time and the experiences it left could easily be disrupted, hastened, or ignored by the trauma, stagnation, epiphanies, and upgrades that came over several million years of living. Even the concept of when adulthood began for a species with no such thing as sexual maturity was up in the air, dependent on method of creation and culture, universally, 100,000 years old was the agreed upon start of a Cybertronian’s adult life. Though this was further diverged by Decepticons cramming newborn sparks into war machines and Autobots coddling the already millions year old. 

“Huh…really stop getting fresh starts, eh Mel?” They remark to themselves. “Hmm, maybe I should go with that for a first name. Doctor Mel Hawk. Ha! Just get rid of the ‘ta’ from my name! It's actually an old nickname from university, this one time, some hardline Functionist who turned into a centrifuge called me ‘Met the Jet’and I was determined to come up with a better nickname. Oh? And don’t think I forgot about you.” They reach their fully-regrown hand into the ice cold water to pick up Starscream’s gelatinous spark. It shifts and flops in their fingers, like the flesh of a raw oyster, before slipping out of their grasp. 

They  take on the form of a sea otter. The pretender bounds along the stream bank upon clumsy webbed paws and splashes into the water. The otter’s whiskers twitch with disappointment at the lack of life in this stream, just slick, cold currents. It is just headwaters after all but I could really go for mollusk right about now. They open up their mouth and bite Starscream’s gummy spark. There's a thin cuticle where the water freezes like the skin of a balloon. It’s easily broken and the otter paddles toward the opposite bank, steep and held together by thick roots. 

A groundbridge portal opens up on the pebbly bank. The otter turns its head, eyes wide in shock. A black and purple Seeker emerges and looks around before noticing Starscream’s jelly-like spark in the animal’s jaws. She erupts into laughter, “Ha! Look at yourself, your lordship! You’ve been turned into lubricant! That critter probably thinks your its next meal! How do you like your Starscream, souffled or scrambled? I’m not helping you with this one, you spawn of a glitch. Ha! The screamer's been silenced.” With that, she left through the portal. 

The otter clambers out of the water and walks a few paces into the woods. They drop the dissolved Seeker spirit and rear up on their back legs, returning to human form. “For the record, you look more like orange marmalade than an egg yolk.” To complete the new metaphor, they take an empty canning jar from their subspace pockets and put Starscream’s spark inside. Mel crams it into their coat pocket, puts on a pair of gloves and snow boots, and bundles up their scarf. Half their time on Earth had been under the context of an Ice Age, nighttime hiking on a mountain side felt nostalgic, not a survivalist nightmare. So long as the ground beneath had a slight decline, they were golden. 

They walk southeastward through the night. Once content that Starscream’s spark wasn’t going burst out of the canning jar and possess them, they take the energon crystal out of their pocket, take out a multi-purpose tool, and drives it into a fracture along one of the crystal’s facets, liquid energon laps at the knife’s edge. They take a swig out of it, like drinking from a freshly cracked coconut, it tastes like soda. Once the last of the crystal’s structure had been sucked upon and chewed apart like hard candy, Mel finally steps onto a road. 

Faint starlight dances along the black ice as their cleated boots bite in for purchase. It’s a single lane backroad, kept smooth by refrozen slush. There's a thin line of cat’s eyes along the other side before the ground drops down several meters. It wraps along the edge of the mountainside. They walk eastward along the road. Their phone starts vibrating in their pocket once they regain cell service. Mel stands against the road and stares down at their phone as they take it out, apprehensive if they’d see victory or defeat on the headlines and oblivious to the oncoming headlights of a giant semi-truck. 

Chapter Text

Bridge of the Nemesis

Roadkill vanishes through his second groundbridge portal as Gnashteeth is swept back up onto the aircraft carrier by the blade of an Autobot targetmaster. He reemerges onboard the Nemesis’s bridge. The Autobot infiltrators have long since departed, replaced by his Trackers and the Nemesis’s pulled-together crew of genericons, the few surviving, recently-activated k-cons, and Saviorship specialists. Governess Lugnut stands in charge, a giant of a femme, some 25 meters tall and half as wide with broad intakes embedded within her cuboid shoulders, stubby wings folded along the outer edge, her forearms end in bulky engine pods tipped with pinching claws. A single red optics stares down at everyone around her, seemingly inexpressive until Emperor Megatron falls out of the first groundbridge portal and on top of her. She smiles wide with glee. “Emperor Megatron! You’ve returned! Victorious!” She declares as she holds the injured not so mighty Megatron aloft. 

“Lugnut! Put me down!” Megatron hisses. 

The femme’s face falters. “Uh, of course, oh great and glorious Megatron.” She sets him down with an unbecoming gentleness. He walks a few steps along the platform and looks down at the remains of a blue conehead. “Oh! My apologies for leaving the remains of Dirge on the ground. Everything has been so hectic but now you are back, oh orderly and ornate Megatron. Allow me to dispose of this personally.”

The remains of Megatron’s helm stare at her, cold and unappreciative. “No…” He stomps a ped onto Dirge’s back. Bits of plating and components travel up the length of his leg, strapping over open wounds, restructuring as missing parts like his hand and helm. The other ‘cons in attendance gasp in astonishment at the feat. Roadkill narrows his optics in recognition of the ability. He went immersent. The cervine mech prided himself on retaining his knowledge and independence despite being a loyal Decepticon. Before being hired on by Shadowstriker as one of her Trackers, he had worked as an assassin on his home planet. One of his targets had gone immersent on the grounds of a Titan and it was his job to snuff out her spark for good. His initial attack had awakened her and she healed herself, siphoning energy and metal from her former tomb to replenish her strength. While asleep she ‘courted the dead’, the Sparks of those first few generations of transformers couldn’t access the Allspark in quite the same way as modern Cybertronians. Instead, they went immersent permanently, their bodies becoming the upper crust of Cybertron and other cyberformed planets and their Sparks, the energy that kept the planet’s surface from becoming an ocean of smelt. Once he was able to get her off the Titan and onto the jungle floor, it was a quick kill. Fully healed, Megatron raises his voice, “Who was the mech who…” He stops short, not willing to show such weakness as admitting he was assisted. 

Roadkill steps forward and bows his antlered helm. “It was me.”

Megatron walks toward him, his face solemn and still. He rests the repaired hand on Roadkill’s shoulder. “And you are?”

“Roadkill of Mitus Chondria. I am the Lead Tracker on this planet.” He introduces himself. 

“Hmm.” Megatron takes a step back and gestures to Lugnut. “You two should get more acquainted.” 

Lugnut looks down at Roadkill, a conflicted look on her face. “Governess.” He greets her with a curt bow. 

She crouches down and stares at him. “You saved Megatron.” She whispers. 

“Yes. I did what any Decepticon would do and assisted my Emperor to the best of my ability and without hesitation.” Roadkill says, a fib, his loyalties lied with the Trackers and what they allowed him to do rather than with the Decepticons. 

“I should have been the one to…save him. Uh, I am so blind. Yet you are so astute and loyal. We’ll do great things together all in the name of the mighty Megatron!” She declares, grabbing him by the torso and lifting him up like a trophy to be championed. 

“Yes, indeed.” Roadkill grunts as he dangles in her pinches. 

“Lugnut! Keep such proclamations to a minimum in my presence. I suggest you two and your crew return to Tidal Wave, I’ve appointed him as your new base of operations.” Megatron orders. 

Roadkill raises an optic brow. “The rest of my crew is already on board, my Emperor. We await your command to invade the Earth below.” Lugnut affirms. 

Megatron shakes his head. “Not until I hear back from Lord Starscream. His squadron of Seekers has gone unusually silent. The only one to return has been Nacelle. Yet, with the…attack I sustained from that Autobot…I know it is wrong to underestimate the ferocity of these rebels.” 

“Pfft! We can easily quash them, Emperor Megatron! Allow me and my ‘cons to be deployed!” Lugnut begs as she sets Roadkill down.

“No. Hail Lord Starscream instead. I need to speak with him. Then, I will…depart.” Megatron admits. A large holo-projector is deployed. Only static and white noise buzzes off the grainy hologram. “Starscream, report!”

“If I may offer an explanation, my Emperor?” Roadkill steps forward, Megatron glowers down at him. “Perhaps it is adverse weather. You choose something of an ill opportune time to invade…” He stops as he hears Megatron’s fusion cannon hums to life and a shocked gasp from Lugnut. 

“Don’t overstep your explanations, Tracker. You find yourself as Lugnut’s second in command on this planet, and third once Starscream has been gifted Primehood and puts Unicron back to sleep.” Megatron warns. Above, half of the hologram flickers and shows the piercing yellow optic of Lord Shockwave. Roadkill stiffles back the snarl in his speakers and stands beside Lugnut. 

“I will be getting replicants for this study. How beneficial to my research…” Rumbles the Mad Accountant. Megatron lifts his fusion cannon high and shoots, the bolt disrupts the hologram temporarily. Shockwave’s optic becomes a slit. “Where was the logic in that, my Emperor? And have you approved my budget proposal yet? I must say, I did not factor in your…”

“Shut it!” Megatron shouts as he shoots another volley of shots through the hologram, further breaking the Nemesis’s windows. Cold winter winds blow in. Another figure takes up the right half of the holo-screen, a dark purple mask crudely carved to resemble the Decepticon insignia, through the slits of rough inner metal Roadkill can make out the golden gleam of disassembled, soiled transformation cog. Soft red optics stare vacantly ahead. 

“I am all too accustomed to speaking softly, my Emperor.” Says Tarn, leader of the Decepticon Justice Division. Several Decepticons clamp their hands over their audio receptors and hide out of view. 

“What is the meaning of this? Do you two intend to stage a coup? Sense for their flagships now!” Megatron gestures around and slams his hand into Roadkill, flinging him off the raised platform and down below. 

“Yes, my Emperor.” He grumbles as he stands before a control unit. He activates the long-range scanners and a holopad, looking upon a weather forecast. The Winter Solstice. I should be out there, spilling blood against the black ice, courting the friendship of the rooks and ravens. “No Starships.” Roadkill reports. But there is something large approaching, curious….

“No. Not at this time. However, during your…absence, myself and many other Leiges and Governors came to a new conclusion.” Shockwave begins. 

“And what would that be?” Megatron asks. 

Tarn replies. “That it is your persona that is of importance for the Decepticon Empire’s survival, not the person itself.” 

“WHAT!” Megatron stomps down and swings his flail around, striking at the hologram. “You…you are supposed to enforce loyalty to me! And you Shockwave! Surely you recognize the need for the Decepticons to be a united front? What you two dare propose amounts to treason and sedition. You could lead the Empire to civil war.” 

“I will gladly follow you to the ends of the universe, oh great and grand Megatron!” Lugnut declares as she shiftily eyes the two schemers. I will go wherever Lady Shadowstriker commands I go. Although I admit, working under the D.J.D. doesn’t seem to be a terrible career path, we both make an art out of slaughter. Theirs, a statement filled masterpiece, me? Vent sketches and commissions. 

“The Justice Division is tasked with exterminating those who have strayed too far from the Decepticon cause. We are not your enforcers, Megatron, for you do not represent the Decepticon cause entirely. It is a collective, an aspiration, a promise. Not an individual. And nor should it rest upon the shoulders of one, not until all are one beneath the Decepticon banner.” Tarn proclaims before turning his head and lowering his voice to whisper to address Lugnut personally. “Lugnut, I have appointed Airrachnid to be an inspector of sorts onboard your Saviorship. Her first task will be to deal with the troublingly frequent and recent defectors underneath Roadkill.” 

The Lead Tracker jolts up at the mention of his name, his Spark throbs then sinks like water in his fuel tank. He scatters back into view of the two callers before Tarn can speak again. “Hmm, there you are.” Tarn remarks. “I must say you almost made it on the List, with that forging of Ransack’s remains. You do know that the protocol is that should a non-D.J.D. member deactivate someone on the List then they are to deliver the Spark casing and transformation cog to my office onboard the Peaceful Tyranny, right?” 

Roadkill didn’t know that. He stares blankly away, trying to find someone he recognized… Hmm, Jasper. “Jasper! How dare you not inform me of such a crucial detail when you proposed this idea!” The orange pickup gasps at him from where she stands. 

“Enough accusations. I am offering you forgiveness, Roadkill. Best you take it.” Tarn snarls. 

“Ahh…yes. Of course. Thank you, my Lord.” Roadkill nods gratefully as he turns his attention back to the long-range scanners. Hmm, the Titan below is gaining altitude. 

“You are mistaken once again, I am not a Lord. For no one is above the D.J.D. nor the justice we bring.” Tarn turns his gaze to Megatron. 

Megatron snarls. “I know why you won’t prosecute him further…”

“Because he made a minor infraction. It would be illogical to deactivate every mistake a Decepticon makes.” Lord Shockwave counters. 

“Is this what you wish the Decepticons to become? Weak? Soft? Sentimental?” Megatron roars out. 

“You may characterize it that way however the central tenets remain: Cybertronian superiority, conquest, everlasting peace through tyranny, and what has been missing from you: the sustainability of these ideals.” Shockwave says. 

Tarn adds on, “Particularly, we wish to reach back to the origins of Decepticonism. The pivotal writings of Senator Termagax, the Kaon miner Terminus, and the observations of Orion…” 

“Don’t you dare say his name until I’ve extinguished his Spark! Well, who do you think brought such ideas to the forefront of Cybertronian thought and discourse in the first place?” Megatron shouts back. 

“You, of course. Yet these ideals have yet to be recognized in their entirety in the current Decepticon Empire. And it is the leading cause of defections.” Tarn turns it over to Shockwave as a histogram of List members and stated reason for ‘treasonous behavior’ appears. Megatron’s optics glaze over. . 

“An overwhelming majority of Decepticons find themselves on the List for being ‘dissatisfied’ at 23.7% or Autobot sympathizes at 38.2%. Additionally,” The histogram changes, including age brackets for the Listees. “87% of those deactivated by the D.J.D. are over the age of 6 million stellar cycles.” 

“So they are old fools then!” Megatron dismisses. 

“Advanced senescence is due to extended disrepair and mental expression rather than old age in our species.” Shockwave corrects. 

“Our young are quick to extinguish their Sparks as soon as they are in the wrong. Those we have conquered rarely rebel, they are wise enough to recognize what we provide them with: security and peace in exchange for excess freedoms. But the original recruits, the earlier adopters, the willing to join, those who you inspired and pulled in, are able to remember a time when they were promised great things. Things that we have yet to deliver on.” Tarn muses. Roadkill takes note of Lugnut’s shifting optic, his words were worming into her but not him. The differences between a devotee and a hiree. 

“And what? You think by getting rid of me here and now will you deliver on some ‘promise’ we owe them?” Megatron scoffs. 

Shockwave shakes his head. “No. I need replicants for my study. The longer you keep active, the more certain I can be for a future course of action.” 

“And what of you, Tarn? Surely such tensions will make your task harder.” Megatron asks. 

“No. I will continue to look inward on policy, politics, and philosophy. When a new standard of Decepticon doctrine is put forward, I will enforce it.” With that he signed off. Everyone vented in relief, somehow they all survived, except for Megatron’s pride. 

“I recommend you return to Cybertron at once, Emperor Megatron.” Shockwave suggests. 

“Or what? You’ll come here and wipe me out! Start this civil war you seem so determined to use as your testing ground?” Megatron looks down at Roadkill. “Is his ship approaching?”

“No I am not. But there are two massive organisms approaching your ship.” Shockwave warns before signing off. 

The teal turtle Titan swims through the cloud layer along her massive, wing-like flippers. They undulate in powerful paddles as her carapace scrapes against the Nemesis’s nose, knocking the capitalship off kilter. The act is sudden and strong, like a stotting deer it's a show of strength against predation. She levels up in the sky and bellows against the wind before vanishing through a Spacebridge, Roadkill can make out her destination: tropical air, blue-green oceans, and white sand beaches. 

The whole length of the ship creaks as something coils around it. The air inside warms up despite the cold thin winds that blow in through the shattered glass. Shadows fall over the bridge. The ceiling begins to glow, first orange then red, then white-hot as it melts. Lugnut yanks Roadkill from the long range scanners. He manages to get a glimpse of what the sensors pick up, a massive worm-like creature twisting and constricting the Nemesis. Lugnut flings him down the hallway as she leads the way to the lower decks. 

Roadkill transforms upon landing, he swerves between Lugnut’s shuddering footfalls as he and his Trackers escape through the dark corridors. The distant shouts of Megatron fade, replaced by creaking metal as the beast’s heat fights against the cold upper atmosphere, the scrapping of the monster’s skin against the ship’s exterior, and the charge up of the main fusion cannon. He finds himself not needing to hit the gas pedal, instead rolling downward through the tunnels as it strains and heaves from the creature’s constriction and Lugnuts heavy steps. 

The bottom of the tunnels lead to a section of railing that further descends down onto an pale gray aircraft carrier held close to the Nemesis’s underside by a tractor beam. They all found themselves in the middle of the capitalship’s underbelly, a roof of empty bomb bays, destroyed auto-cannons, and cracked fuel quills. He gets a good look at one of the beast’s coils, a giant triple helix of shabby, rusted plating covering molten-hot internals, the strands reunite at multiple points to form a pelvicular or shoulder girdle of sorts from which strong, clawed limbs attach to. A rectangular fin comes off the girdle, alternating between the ventral and dorsal sides, baring an orange crystalline eye that stares at the Decepticons. A smeltbeast…. At either end of its miles-long, segmented body that alternates between triple helixes and limbs is a holdfast and a crushing maw that brims with fire and slag. 

Roadkill transforms and follows in line behind Lugnut as she walks onto the suspended vessel. Already onboard, is a large bucket-helmeted dark gray mech with a bulky arm-cannon for his right hand and a spiky black and white femme holding a rocket launcher in her hands. “These are the other members of my crew: Turmoil, Deadlock... and Tidal Wave! Prepare to detach and assist our marvelous and mighty Megatron!” Lugnut orders. 

Turmoil walks over with an outstretched hand to greet Roadkill. “Pleasure to have you under my service.” Says the tank-former. 

Roadkill refuses the shake. “You are mistaken, I am second-in-command now. Or did a few screws come loose when you were demoted.” 

His yellow visor flares at the reminder. “Hey! Turmoil is the warden at Trypticon prison! Show him some respect!” Deadlock barks as she shoves the rocket in Roadkill’s face. 

“You should have more respect for that weapon you fling about, lest it blow up in your face.” Roadkill retorts as he nudges the rocket away. 

Turmoil vents heavily. “I am looking to make amends for the Incident. I’ve taken a file out of the D.J.D. 's datapad and have a list of my own: all my escapees and the rogue Titan responsible. We are quite lucky to have come here.”

Roadkill scoffs. “Why tell me all of this?”

“Because, according to my files, you are quite familiar with one of my prisoners.” Turmoil informs. 

“Tidal Wave….” The aircraft carrier whispers his own name faintly as he detaches from the Nemesis’s underside. He activates his own thrusters and slowly hovers away. 

“Now attack!” Lugnut shouts. 

One of the smeltbeast’s maws lunges for Tidal Wave’s bow, shaking the gigantic Transformer and everyone atop of him. Roadkill transforms and hunkers low, driving against the lurching motion. He sees a quadrupedal figure step off the monster’s holdfast and walk towards the Decepticons and then stops. 

She is nearly as tall as Lugnut from her four suction-cup-like hooves to a conical head atop a long cygnine neck , beady eyespots stare at the Decepticons while four thin pedipalps whip and sense the thin air ahead. Her underside is globular and electric blue, composed of thousands of tube feet that dangle and jiggle like wet clumps of hair. The topside is stony gray and rough, made of spiky ossicles and scar tissue from a life spent exposed to the harsh elements of space. “I am…” Before she can finish her sentence, Deadlock launches a rocket at her, missing considerably, transforms into a low-profile sports car, and drives straight at the starfawn. Roadkill races after her, transforms, and yanks her away with his scythe. “Vrunge. My name is Vrunge. Good to see at least one of you has some semblance of sense.” The alien completes, her voice gurgling and booming, like shouting underwater. 

“What is your business here?” Roadkill asks as he shoves Deadlock away.

“I am here on behalf of the Galactic Council to act as a deterrent. Orion Pax is not here. Your Emperor has no reason to be here.” Vrunge explains. 

“Is the GC removing its stance on neutrality?” Roadkill asks. 

“Emperor Megatron can go where he pleases!” Lugnut chirps in

“No and no. Merely enforcing things such as your species’s need for camouflage. Some of the native’s boats will do fantastically for this…” She tapes a hoof on Tidal Wave’s deck, “large specimen of yours. But this capitalship?” Her pedipalps buzz around with excitement and she walks back toward the smeltbeast as it drives its jaws up into Nemesis’s hull. Roadkill hears a change in the ship’s humming, away from the fusion cannon and to the quantum engines. 

The smeltbeast’s constriction loosens as Megatron makes a command and delivers it into the audio receptors of everyone, “Decepticons, retreat.”

Chapter Text

Eastern Cascade Mountains, Washington

Thursday, Jan 15

Kelly Murphy: well it was nice seeing you one last time, min,  don’t be a stranger and what not!

Wednesday, December 22nd

Kelly Murphy: Hey Minerva. I know its been almost two years since I’ve last got in touch with you. Hope the tele-nursing job is doing good nd hope your safe lotta crazy stuff going on in Sterling City…but you probably already know that by now. Sry! I’m not trying to be overly sentimental or use you as a booty call. I’m texting to ask you about your dad. He did a kinda sus thing at work. It would help me and my boss out. Hope to hear back from you soon!

Minerva Arkeville stares down at her cellphone in disbelief. A text from her ex-girlfriend at four in the morning? She’d been sitting up straight in bed all through the night, gripped with terror at the alien invasion that befell Sterling City and her boyfriend, Ginrai, terrible driving as the failing semi-rig that pulls their converted trailer. Books and trinkets rattle off the shelves as the tractor-trailer comes to a slippery halt! Her head bangs against the insulated walls of the shipping container house before she can get out of bed. 

By lamplight, she’s able to find her coat, a pair of slippers, and a flashlight before heading through the door that connects the bisected trailer between a small living quarters and garage for her own car, a white sedan she used when traveling to patient’s houses. There’s a second door that leads to the outside, she braces herself as she opens it. Freezing air zaps at her as she looks out the door, the truck is pulled over to the shoulder. Failing to see the headlights of another vehicle that could have stopped them, she steps out, one hand held firmly on the edge of the trailer and then the flame-tamponed sides of Ginrai’s big rig. “Ginrai? You okay? Did we hit a deer or something?” 

“More like someone.” Ginrai admits as he crouches down infront of someone’s body, his voice quiet and regretful and normally slicked back pompadour hanging as frazzled bangs against his pale face. 

Minerva gasps, races back inside the trailer, and grabs a first aid kit off the wall. She falls over herself as she slips and scampers on the icy road. She pushes Ginrai aside as he sits in the anguish of his actions, jaw slacked and eyes glassing up as the cold air bites at his tears. “Go call 911! I’ll try to see what I can do!” He nods and scrambles back to the truck. 

The nurse kneels down beside the ran over person to inspect them. They are wearing a winter’s coat, a scarf, and snow boots. So they at least look like they were out here on purpose. The truck seemed to have hit them from the right side, their arm taking the brunt of the damage, it hangs loose in their coat sleeve with two protrusions on the forearm. A dislocated arm with an oblique open fracture. As she takes out a cold pack and cloth, they roll onto their right arm and try slam their shoulder back in place. Minerva gently rolls them onto their back. “No. You need to stay still while I do what I can before an ambulance or rescue helicopter comes.” 

They sit up and give her a grin. “Nah, I’m good. I’ve been through worse…” Minerva gawks, unsure what to do. She expects them to be knocked out cold or screaming in agony, not smiling with bemusement. Are they on painkillers or something? “But uh, I guess you can give me a quick repair and then, I’ll be on my way.” They pull at their sleeve, revealing the injured lower arm. Minerva inspects the open wound, among the frostbitten gore she sees some purple fluid pool up and something shiny and grey beneath the fractured ends of the bones. Suddenly they yank their arm away in a sharp motion. They stare at her, a cutting glance as if she’s seen something she wasn’t supposed to. She knows the look. She doesn’t like it from her patients nor this person even if their state was her fault by association. 

“I am sorry my boyfriend ran into you. But you need help, treatment. Even if you're not feeling pain. I’m a nurse. I know what I am doing. And we’re already calling 911…” Minerva says before being interrupted. 

“I think I recognize you.” They realize. “Blackrock Enterprises Midsummer Charity Gala three years ago?” 

Minerva frowns as she recalls it. Dad invited me, the first time I met Kelly. “You’re the science advisor, right?” 

They nod and give her their arm. “Well,  I was. Recently quit.” 

She eyes them as she presses the cloth into their wound. They don’t wince and the cloth absorbs less blood then she would expect. She pulls it out, already the blood’s begin to clot and torn skin around it grows back to cover the wound. I’d need some sort of retractor. “Well, what are you doing all the way out here?” She asks as she stalls. 

“Uh, doing some field work. Lots of weird alien activity makes it a unique opportunity for observations.” They say on the spot. 

“Yeah, uh, Minerva?” Ginrai approaches her. “The responder said that no one would be able to us for a few more hours. But on the bright side, they’re looking pretty good! Uh, sorry about hitting you with my truck…it’s a…”

“A Bayhem Flamesteel 7? It's an underpowered model with terrible fuel efficiency and a faulty axle that causes it to veer right. Only the Tesla Semi has a worse load capacity. All it's good for is looking good.” They remark. 

“Uh..yeah. Got it in a liquidation sale. But it might be on its last legs.” He then pulls out a piece of paper with his phone number and insurance scribbled on. “Here.” 

The scientist shakes their head. “Oh! I won’t be pressing charges.” 

Ginrai’s eyes widen, though Minerva could recognize the relief as he gasps. “Well then, maybe we could give you a ride to the nearest emergency room.” 

They sharply look up before shaking their head. “That won’t be nec….hhhey! What are you doing?” 

Minerva yanks their scarf off. “If you want to be on your way, fine. If you’re not going to be screaming in agony and bleeding out, that’s great. Lucky you.” She sanitizes her hands and puts on gloves. “But you can’t be walking down a mountain road with an open wound. If it hurts, tell me.” She holds their arm straight and slowly presses the two bones back into place. She looks at them, nothing but that painless simple smile. She pinches the two sides of skin back together, cleans with anti-microbial wipe, and wraps it in a sterile dressing. She takes the scarf and wraps and ties it into a sling. 

They shift back and stand up. “Thanks!” 

“Wait!” Minerva calls out as they begin to walk down the road. “I…I wanted to know if you knew Kelly and my dad were alright.” She then frowns half guiltily until Ginrai gave her an understanding grip of the shoulder. The two women had dated for about a year and half, they broke up amicably because of Minerva’s new job opportunity and Kelly’s inability to travel without something tremendously unlucky happening. 

“Oh! Yeah, Kelly’s fine! Saw her yesterday, she may be unlucky but that means she’s ready for anything. And you’re dad is?” They look at her. 

“Dr. Henry Arkeville, works as an engineer and inventor. I heard about a blackout that happened there a month ago but I haven’t had the chance to check up on him yet.” She explains. 

They frown slightly. “Yeah…the blackout was my fault, lack of oversight. Engineers don’t like research scientists meddling in their things, rather figure out stuff on their own then have it explained to them. But no one died or was hurt. We have a mandatory Christmas break, so neither of them were in the building when the Decepti…when the aliens attacked.” 

“Alright. Thank you. Do you still want a ride?” She offers. They shake their head and walk into the woods. 

A Cabin in the Cascades

Cloudburst pulls up his nose, flares his air brakes, and locks down his landing gear as he glides over the long narrow driveway that connects his new residence to the nearest backroad. Dense, snow-coated pines nip at his wing tips as he comes in for a landing. Through the morning fog, he’s able to make out the Pretender’s new residence, a two-story timber-frame cabin with three bedrooms, two baths, an outer porch that runs half it’s circumference and an external shed that looks like it’s trying to be a hanger. Several inches of snow cling to the steep roof. Cloudburst’s back tires bump against the ground only a few dozen meters between himself and the shed. He smashes his tail down and cuts power to his propeller. He does his best to look away, an impossible task as he always saw through the panes of glass along his windshield. 

Three razor-sharp talons grasp his nose and stop his propeller. He looks forward and sees Gnashteeth smiling at him in beast mode. She rests within the shed, curled up and covered in glass-bandages and reconstructed plating. “Nice to see you found your way back. Only took you two days.” 

She lets go of him as he shrinks into his shell. “Yeah…well.. I was trying to find them, I searched the entire upper atmosphere…”

Gnashteeth cuts him off. “They walked back. On foot. In their shell, it finally seems like they know how to modify it without scraping the cells. Had a cast on their right arm. Curious…yes.” There’s a teasing rumble to her voice. 

Kevin breathes out deep. “Are they inside now?” He breaks out into a jog, heart and spark beating quickly, and too excited to mind the cold as it easily nips at his skin through his thin touristy clothes. 

“No.” Says Gnashteeth as she shuffles out of the shed and nudges her big head in the direction of the forest. “Said they wanted to explore the property. It includes about 10 acres. I wanted some decent hunting ground.” 

He nods, the cold air robs his excitement and he plunges his hands in his pockets, fiddling with a vial of Innermost Energon. “Oh…” 

“They missed you. I know it’s weird for all three of us, the passage of time when we spend alot of it alongside the humans. I remember in one of my classes about xenorelations they told us ‘to always be mindful of the short lifespans of many organic races and to keep professional boundaries’. By Primus! We really violated that now did we? I’ve probably been to more human funerals then…” Gnashteeth spews out a monologue. 

“Gnash…your point?” Kevin reminds her. 

“My point is it’s felt like a long time for them…definitely not the three and half million years you two were apart…” She doesn’t finish as Kevin shakes his head. 

“It’s not the amount of time that matters. It was the fact that we were apart but beyond all odds, we found our way back to each other. Not alot of bot’s have that chance.” He takes out the vial and rubs it against his palm. “But we did…so I wanted to celebrate it. I hope they still feel the same.”

“Oh!” Gnashteeth grins as she looms over his shoulder. “I didn’t realize you two were that close…”

Kevin’s cheeks flush red. “It’s a…a…comparatively recent development in our relationship. We’ve only made it to Act One of Four in becoming Conjunx Endura.” He stares down at the vial. They both had exchanged vials of Innermost Energon not long after being reunited following the Incident, a common gesture among Autobot friends should the other pass on in the fight for freedom. Retroactively, he called it the Act of Exchange, the first part of their Conjunx Ritus. It was nearly ten thousand years ago. They both kept the proposal quiet, Metalhawk out of some sense of professionalism while Cloudburst out of the fear if they should ever fly away again…or worse. Who knew it would be me to leave? 

Gnashteeth bumps him with her patched-up chin. “Well then go find them!” She then sharply turns her head and bares her teeth as a yellow SUV drives up the drive, towing her own muscle car behind it. “Great, just like Fanzone to catch up with us three days after slag hits the fan. I’ll take care of him.” She stands up and turns around. Her tail snakes along the ground and smacks into Kevin, launching him over the house. 

“AAHHH!” Kevin screams until he finally connects with an evergreen tree. He wraps his limbs around its rough, narrow trunk and hastily scales down it. He lands on sqelchy soil thick with ferns and pine needles. He walks a few paces into the surrounding forest, a twisting corridor of ticklish scotch broom, frost-bitten fern coils, and sleepy pines. He shivers but presses on. His pace quickens as he hears the babbling of a brook. 

The forest thins to a clearing divided by a stream rushing down hill. Long grasses and snowbanks overhang above the white ripples. He sees Mel stand close to the water’s edge, arm’s crossed and eyes closed and the wind tugs at their hair and jacket. “Nice spot you’ve found here, Mel…” 

They turn around and open their eyes in astonishment. “We…a…didn’t have much time to chat a few days ago…with my crash and then…the invasion and hunting down Starscream…I canned him!” They take a jar out of their pocket, an orange jam canned inside. “See?” 

Kevin couldn’t help but laugh and cry. He rushes to their side and hugs them tight. “Ha, ha, ha. I knew you had it in you! I…” He trails off, he had seen the Seeker’s decapitated head and Metalhawk’s wing blade not too far away. “I’m sorry. I never wanted to put that kind of pressure on you…” 

“I did what I had to do. So…Pompeii…” They pull away and look down at their left arm. 

“It wasn’t your fault.” Kevin reaffirms. 

“I know…who freed you?” They ask. 

“Roadkill. Came looking for information about Unicron but I guess now everyone knows.” Kevin explains. “I then met a friend of yours, Garrison Blackrock?” 

Their eyes light up and they nod along. “Yeah. I worked as his science advisor. Quit recently. As did Gnashteeth.” 

“He’s pretty decent as far as billionaires go.” Kevin remarks. 

“Multimillionaire. He’s paying for much of the damage done to Sterling City.” Mel corrects. 

“Huh! Even better then! Maybe we should fly over? That’s where everyone else is right? Help with repairs!” He pats them on the back.

They wince and slowly shake their head. “I can’t fly. I can’t…transform…or emerge from my shell. I broke my arms three times. It’s not my right one that’s the problem. My suit’s cells are still in a state of hyperregeneration and the grafting struts haven’t hardened completely so I’ll only need the cast for a few weeks rather than months. But the left one…I have to regrow from scratch.” 

“Do you want me to make you an energon smoothie or something then? You’ll need to drink atleast 700 gallons of it.” Kevin offers. 

They turn around and start walking back in the direction of the cabin. “I know.” 

He follows them. “So…do you want to talk about it? If you’ve moved on…I understand.” 

They pause. “When I was captured and imprisoned, did you move on from me?” 

“I…” In a way he had. He had long been an Autobot sympathizer before the war was a possibility. When the Seige of Polyhex broke out, he grabbed his contraband blasters and fought his way over to Iacon. He left Cybertron with much of the Autobots afterwards and then came back to liberate it. He went all around the galaxy with little more than a docking ring clamped to his wings and hope in his Spark. He never really questioned where Metalhawk had gone. The two roommates had been friends at the time in a tense surface layer fashion with apathetic abrasion coming against hungry passion should the surface be disturbed. He always assumed that they flew off perhaps to the Core Systems with their mixed species city planets and space-stations under the Galactic Council’s governance or to a Coda observatory or with the Circle of Light. “I did.”

“You’re a fool.” Mel states, voice cold as the air. 

“I…” Kevin’s head drops. He doesn’t want to meet their gaze when they turn around. But instead, they're smiling. What…

“You always were. A stubborn, passionate, hungry fool. One who made me realize that I was a fool as well. It was foolish for you to move on and for me to cling on. I bet you want to call this the Act of Reunion, don’t you?” They smirk playfully. 

“I…I might have been thinking about it.” Kevin admits. 

“I would love to make it to Act Two with you. But not with that title. It’s too mundane and I don’t want you retroactively proclaiming things as Acts. Might as well have the Act of Boring Your Half-Exposed Brain Module With Facts and Figures after a Riot or the Act of Teaching You How To Properly Shuck an Oyster.” Mel giggles. 

“Oh!” Kevin rummages through his subspace pockets and takes out a small sheathed blade. “I forgot to give this back to you.” 

They take it and unsheath a small shucking knife made out of chipped away flint bound with leather straps to a driftwood handle. The two of them had made it together when they first came to Earth. They introduced themselves to a fishing village along the South African Coast, a ring of homes made out of dried silt and rounded stone. Posed as wanders, the people welcomed them in, eager to hear of what lay beyond. A few nights in, the chieftain, having finally warmed up to the two of them, taught them some of their stonework by the fire as the foragers returned with freshly plucked abelones. It was the first time Cloudburst had felt as though he really loved this planet. 

“What are you two organophiles doing? Getting emotional?” A booming voice scorns the two Pretenders from above. A well-armed space cruiser flies overhead, downblasts of repulserlift shake the trees and turn the brook into a tiny flash flood. It transforms into the body of Star Saber however in place of his kind blue gaze or determined face plate is the pompous grin and chin of Sentinal Major, the headmaster having taken over the transtector armor of his fellow Councilbot. He lurches down to his knees, arms outstretched to grab them both. 

Mel runs out of the way. Kevin goes after them. Sentinel activates the transtector’s thrusters, forcing it after them both as it tears up the ground. His arms rake down like a starving ground sloth, trying to snatch either of them. Each finger snatch is closer and closer to them. “What do you want, Sentinel!” Mel shouts as they turn back, brandishing the shucking knife before them. 

The Elite Guard commander pouts. “What did you think that little skiv will do?” Cloudburst emerges from his shell, holds his blaster and flares out his wings. “Oh..an act of insubordination? I am your superior officer! You will…ahhh!” A flying sword attaches itself to the transtector’s hip and forcibly ejects the headmaster as Star Saber takes his place as the transtector’s operator. 

“My apologies. I didn’t anticipate Sentinel Major’s first order of business upon offerring him my armor would be to harass you two. However, we wish to include you in our audience.” An exaltation of Autobots emerges from the forest: Ultra Magnus and Pyra Magna, Prowl, and  two of the Torchbearers. Fanzone hustles after them with a pen and paper in hand. “Cloudburst, we are glad to have you back with us.” 

“It's good to be back.” And for you all to actually take this seriously. Cloudburst dips his head. Sentinel scurries behind Ultra Magnus’s ped in shame. 

“Sentinel, do you have any reason to accompany us? It was to my understanding that you preferred to remain on board the  Presider  lest you ‘fall ill to several ailments’.” Ultra Magnus asks. 

“As a matter of fact, I do! One of my agents recently informed me of something that would be of great interest to your conj–Hht!” Prya picks him up and drags the headmaster away. 

“I’ll take care of him.” She says before walking into the woods with Torchbearers in tow. 

“Thank you.” Ultra Magnus nods his head. 

Mel steps forward and holds the canned Starscream spark in hand. “Here.” 

“You’ve taken up canning?” Fanzone huffs. 

“No…this is something more. I can sense it. Almost Primal.” Star Saber guesses as he pinches the can. 

Mel shakes their head. “Don’t give him that honor. It’s Starscream’s spark. It’s persistent, like those of the first generations of Transformers. I decapitated him and then his body tumbled into a stream not unlike this one. His spark was then dissolved and formed this gel.” 

“Fascinating. May I have it?” Asks Prowl. 

“Hmm…the subject of Starscream’s continued survivorship was something of a taboo topic during my brief stint in the old Senate. We’ve continued to speculate it among Autobot intelligence. This…explains some things.” Ultra Magnus remarks. 

“Perhaps he is the Fallen reborn?” Star Saber proclaims with scorn. 

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Is this reversible? Starscream has been one of our targets. He needs to be interrogated and prosecuted.” Prowl states. 

“Should be reversible with a fractional distillation. No one really knows what the boiling point of a spark is…if they even can be boiled. But water boils at 90 degrees on Cybertron. I’d recommend placing him in a flask connected to a whiteout vacuum. Spark exctactors don’t seem to be effective on him.” Mel accesses. 

“How can we applaud you for your service?” Asks Ultra Magnus as he kneels down and bows his head. 

Mel narrows their eyes and frowns. “Fix my rent situation. Fix things for every Autobot, non-aligned Transformer, or just every person who comes underneath the Autobots' care. Do it not out of the promise of eventual service but just because.” 

Prowl lets a laugh escape his speakers as he places Starscream’s spark within a protective case before grinding to halt as Magnus nods along. “Very well. We have other matters to discuss. Orion Pax, Sky Lynx, and the Matrix of Leadership have all returned to Cybertron.” 

Cloudburst feels his spark skip a beat with excitement. The honor to serve alongside our founder! Mel has a remarkably less excited look. “He’s in critical condition, isn’t he?” 

“Sadly, yes. Sky Lynx was…” 

“No, not him. Orion?” 

Star Saber responds, “Communing with the collective wisdom of all Primes.” 

“He’s in a coma?” Snaps Fanzone. “How are you supposed to defeat the big guy when he’s asleep?” 

“Never doubt Sky Lynx’s ability to make a grand, last-minute entrance.” Prowl says. 

“We’ll send them both back as soon as possible.” Magnus affirms. “Additionally…” 

“Yeah ah…something about a star deer being here?” Grunts Fanzone. 

The trees across the stream begin to shake as a giant black and blue starfawn exits the forest. Her head lowers, pedipalps buzzing as she approaches the stream. She turns her head around to pick up a large, decorated plug upon her back, protecting her madreporite while in the void of space or in noxious atmospheres. Waste fluids flow out of it as the tubefeet along her underside retract. “Apologies.” She dips her head and raises a hoof, underneath is a large blue eyeball that looks ahead at everyone. 

“Pfft! Natural body function. Have you seen these guys? Just constantly hanging around with their exhaust pipes out.” Fanzone accepts. 

“Let’s not discuss this any further.” Magnus grumbles as he allows Star Saber to make introductions.
“This is Vrunge. She’s a contractee of the Galactic Council. It was because of her mastery in taming an otherwise dangerous predator that the Nemesis was forced into a retreat.” Star Saber introduces. 

“You like tame tiger’s or something?” Fanzone guesses. 

“No, she tames something far worse…” Mel begins to panic. 

“Oh hush, you little starfighter wrapped in lichen and linens. My beloved pet finds an easier meal up in this planet’s upper atmosphere. Such a waste of unresuable parts and rocket components. But…should your Autobots step out of line…well…you’ll make a fine treat.” Vrunge threatens. 

Cloudburst steps between them and her, raising his blaster. “It will have to get through me first!” 

“Enough threats! While I can respect the Galactic Council’s commitment to neutrality…surely we could come to an understanding?” Star Saber approaches her. 

“Afraid not…um…the President just signed an executive order. Said we’re fine with the Transformers being here, that we publicly support the Autobots, but that both sides should: engage in combat in remote areas, preferably in vehicle mode or other such camouflage methods, and that Autobots are responsible for repairing and/or paying for any collateral damage.” Says Fanzone. He looks up to Cloudburst as he retreats into his shell. 

“So more of the same?” Mel supposes. 

“Ultra! There’s something important I need to tell you!” Pyra cries as she rushes out, tears in her optics.

“What is it, my dear?” The Supreme Commander turns to face her. 

She braces herself before proclaiming, “There’s another Titan on this planet! One from home!” 

Cloudburst didn’t know much about Caminus, just the general stereotypes and what he bothered to remember from Metalhawk’s notes about Cybertronian mythology. It was the colony of Solus Prime, the Maker. The colony managed to outlast both its Prime and its star, setting it adrift as a rogue planet. Instead of fleeing, they turned inwards; evolving more energy efficient bodies as they became dependent on geothermal energy and intragalactic winds to grow their energon crystals, investing in the arts, religion, and craft, developing the ability to Cityspeak so they could reestablish connection to their ancestors on Cybertron. But this was all a billion years ago. The Camians preferred their solitude and remained the most isolationist of the Cybertronian colonies. Relationships became further distant as Functionism took a hold on Cybertron. But then something happened, the Camian Titan, Ner, returned to Cybertron five million years ago. Ner from Caminus and Tortuga from Archon were the final two Titans to immigrate back to Cybertron before the War began. Onboard were the Torchbearers, a stasis-locked skeleton crew, and several protoforms, no one had any recollection of why they left in the first place. 

“What?” Gasps Ultra Magnus. Star Saber’s optics light up. Prowl looks skeptical. 

Cloudburst shrinks back into his shell as he notices Sentinel Major making a beeline towards Mel, an accusatory sneer above his massive chin. “What do you know about this!” He yells before recoiling as Fanzone steps in the way and…

“AACHOO!” The old man hunched over as he unleashes a sneeze upon the Elite Guard commander. “This is why I hate machines, none of you turn into tissue dispensers.” 

“AHH! You…you sprayed venom upon me…AHHH! It burns! Give me the antidote you slimy poison spitting monkey!” Sentinel squeals. 

“Don’t exaggerate, sir. According to this planet’s datanet, this segment of the stellar cycle can sometimes go under the pseudonym of ‘flu season’. Perhaps he’s experiencing the organic equivalent of an energon discharge virus.” Prowl reasons before looking down to Mel. “But do you know anything about the passing and goings of a Titan on Earth? It is the subject of your research...and personal interests…and Tortuga did follow you here…” 

“No…I have yet to find evidence that could lead to such a hypothesis…” Mel says. Kevin puts his hand on their shoulder. “Did Deep Blue come back with you? She’s had a more consistent optic in this system. If not, I have a few contacts. There's a small group of neutrals here as well.” 

“Pfft…of course you’d be building an…AHH!” Sentinel accusation ends as Vrunge stomps over and crushes him underhoof. 

“Deep Blue is currently in Sterling City grieving the loss of Tigertrack, may his Spark find peace where all are one.” Star Saber says. 

“Hmm…I may have some relevant information on this…” She muses, a teasing note to her voice as her pedipalps retract back. 

Ultra Magnus stares back at her as he supports his conjunx. “Do tell, Vrunge.” 

The starfawn lets out a gurgly laugh as she recalls, “I was ‘handfeeding’ one of my beast’s some solar panels when I saw it. A big grey block streaking across the night sky. It was too organized in structure to be an asteroid and no major trade routes or Spacebridge lanes pass through this system.” 

“When was this?” Mel asks. 

“Roughly 10,000 years ago. Although not on this planet. I’m from the Vrison-Lute, what the humans have called the Galilean Moons.” Her pedipalps curl up into circles as she spins her head around, simulating the orbit of moons around a planet. 

“Then that would line it up with the interglacial period before this one. Ugh! Only a few thousand years before we arrived!” Mel deduces. 

“And the Sol Defense Division was back on Cybertron for most of that time, prepping for our mission.” Kevin adds. 

“Any ideas for location then?” Magnus asks.
“More than Unicron. Underneath a glacier probably.” Mel suggests. 

“Want me to tell D.C. to lift up some regulations, we could probably get some global warming to occur. Melt the giant guy out.” Fanzone proposes. 

“No…” Mel turns to look at Kevin. “We’ll just find them and Unicron’s exit point together. With the time we have left.” 

Chapter Text

Florida Everglades, The Present

“What is he doing? He promised to get me a new engine.” Mumbles the child between his sobs.

Claws scrap into the cold mud. 

“I…don’t know. You did make a promise. You offered us help.” The one who inadvertently freed him reminds. 

One of his thrusters falters. Again. His strut falls into the mud. Why did he give up on his legs again? He couldn’t remember. A datatrax long deleted and never uploaded into his Spark. 

“Ugh. He’s been like this for solar cycles. Possibly stellar cycles. I don’t know why I offered to help him either.” Complains the janitor he promised a life of adventure too.

It was just mindless digging at this point, a command from his stilted processors as they try to make up for his half-burnt brain module and fading spark. Finally, something scratches up, the facet of a dark crystal. He brushes off the mud and dirt. He smiles as he revels in its clarity and radiation. 

“Ugh! How can you stand to be so close to that…it's like rotten chaoslymph!” Skywarp is the only one he can remember the name of. “At Least you’re fun. Both you and Screamer are getting a kick out of me! Haha!” 

Rage seemed to be enough to get his thrusters working again. “Don’t you dare compare me to that mech. No! No! No! No! Mmphm. He was yesterday’s model. I am coming back new and improved! And I’m bringing all of you along with me!” 

“You look like Primus gave up on you as soon as he gave light to your Spark. You look like two afts stuck together with off brand solder. You look worse than Red Wing and he’s blind and covered in bird shit.” Skywarp insults. 

Jetstorm glares at the desperate Seekers who surround him, each keeping a steady distance as he uncovers a crystal of dark energon. They are all wary of both its dark influence and radiation. Jetstorm welcomes these two dangers. All his Storm Seekers were deactivated on this planet. The very soil they were buried in crawled into their deactivated frames and now puppeteered it as vessels for the Chaosbringer’s doings. The radiation that would otherwise overload his circuitry and destabilize his Spark’s connection to his frame, he now depends upon to keep his Spark from fading completely. In his recharge-deprived state, his spark was consuming itself as his batteries were drained. Yet the radiation from a raw energon crystal, dark or otherwise, now provides a secondary source of energy for his spark. “Acid Storm! Come forward.” He orders. “It’s time for your turn in the spotlight.” 

“My name is Acid Rain.” The green Seeker complains as she walks over to him. Jetstorm had found them while escaping from a purposeful engine failure orchestrated by Slipstream to convincingly release Sky Lynx. 

“Yet it will soon be Acid Storm as you join me in my Storm Seekers! You’re a perfect candidate. Starscream wasted your natural, Titan-gifted talents on janitorial duties. Why dissolve space barnacles off a starship when you can be melting the metal of Autobots?” Jetstorm asks as he hovers over to them. 

Acid Rain recoils. “Uh…barnacle removal is actually quite satisfying to perform…I bring out a camera to record it then post it on the B.C.” 

“Even better! You already have an audience! Now allow me to hire on your talents. Your hand please?” Jetstorm asks. 

“Ha! You’re still trying to make the Storm Seekers a thing?” Skywarp cackles. 

Jetstorm reaches out and yanks their forearm toward the crystal in his hand. A strong acid seeps through the joints and gaps of his slick, acid-washed plating. Jetstorm doesn’t wince as it burns through his claws. It only provides an entry point for the crystal’s dark powers. 

The trees shake, thunder crackles, something bellows from the waters edge. 

“What was that?” Red Wing shouts as he clings to Slipstream. 

Jetstorm shrugs as he crushes the crystal in his palms. “Just Florida being Florida.” And you're about to become the definition of a Florida man. The last nettle of reasoned thought snaps back at him. But who needs reason when they embrace chaos? 

Underneath a Polar Icecap, the Past

“Windvoice…External weight exceeding limit…Hotspot stable, Stasis of Crew maintained…Windvoice….Distress Beacon Online…Status? Unanswered….Windvoice…?” A whirl of messages flashes holographically above a large spherical organ, tarnished iron-nickel alloy with circular embedment of golden living metal with a faint blue gold. The text goes unnoticed by anyone not familiar with the art of Cityspeaking. For one to even see the messages required some psychic ability, either by being an outlier, patching in, or driving mnemosurgeon needles (or drills) into the Titan’s brain module. But then came the hardest part. Initiating the conversation. That’s all Cityspeaking is, talking with a Titan as its equal. Yet, it's difficult. Mnemosurgery is meant to be a medical procedure, cold and clinical. It relies on an operator and a patient. It is on the duty of the operator to not under or over exert their control less they fall into the addictive rush of viewing and editing memories and whole personalities. Fateweaving is a service, often for spiritual reassurance or paranormal intrigue, but a service nonetheless. A mixture of cold reading, hot reading, and predictive modeling in exchange for currency or other goods. Cityspeaking wasn’t a service; while Titans did a tremendous good in being the Transformer’s species method of dispersal and reproduction, this was something already in their nature. A Cityspeaker isn't a necessity to a Titan except for one aspect, as a companion. 

This is why Windblade awakes with an exaggerated groan from her wing-mounted turbines, grips tightly onto the lip hugging around Metroplex’s brain module, and arches her back. “Good morning ‘Plex!” She says chipperly as she smacks her lips. She is a sleek red and black femme with thin pointy wings, a powder white faceplate decorated with red and blue markings beneath a black and gold fanning crest. 

A new series of cyberglphic lettering shines above the brain module, “Windvoice! Friend is online. Online prematurely…Oh! Good Morning! We are indeed near a star. A sun atlas!” 

Windblade frowns. A sharp difference between phrases, faulty memory…some sort of severance between his brain module and datatrax. She determines. She leans over the brain module and taps her hand above various nodes and lobes, triggering a new flood of messages separate from his core consciousness: technical specifications, temperature, plate pressure, load. Normal. Minus 35 degrees external, 45 degrees internal, no wonder my heaters are running, plate pressure and load has reached his  critical limit. “Metroplex. How long has something been crushing you? Why haven’t you Spacebridged us away to a safer location?” 

“Already at the perfect location…where else to go?” Asks the Titan. 

Windblade walks away, “Sit tight ‘Plex. I’ll see what's going wrong out there.” She walks down a corridor that leads to a staircase, either down towards his hotspot and residential quarters or up towards the roof. She retracts her wings as the staircase narrows, each step becoming narrower and tighter until she’s climbing up the rungs of a ladder. It leads up to a closed hatch. Windblade beats against it. It doesn’t budge. She keeps beating and banging it. Ugh…I don’t have my sword on me that leaves me with… She pulls a gold bladed fan out of her head crest and jimmies it in between the iced over cracks. Should have asked Anode for her pickaxe…speaking of which…where is everyone else? 

“AAHHH!” Windblade screams as her mind begins to fog with shadows. The circuitry between her brain module, processors, and Spark switches off, drifting apart as though her limbs are being torn apart. The darkness plays between the gaps, thickening as she uses her own psychic powers to grapple her mind back together again. “I won’t question it! I…I won’t…” She breaks out in tears, washing fluid bubbling atop her markings. Gradually, her mind comes back together. It was a common occurrence whenever she or one of the crew began to question why they were all here stranded within Metroplex, the shadows would play with their processors. 

Something taps against the hatch and she feels the heat of a hot downblast. Windblade smiles, expecting some sort of help, but then… 

“Oh! I’m terribly sorry about this predicament for both of us really…you get an invasion and I get an immune response. But who said life was fair?” Asks a sultry voice as a clawed hand grabs her face and a stinger is lunged for her throat.

The Place with a Thousand Names, The Present

Jetstorm awakes in the place with a thousand names: Transwarp space, Quantum space, Infraspace, Subspace, Un-Space, Overspace, Underspace, No-Space, Foldspace, and even some names that didn’t have the word space in them! The Bleed, the Warren, the Void, Limbo. However, the Dead Universe seemed to be the most accurate. 

He can only see through the fuzzy, fish-eyed view of his Spark as the Dark Energon projects him into the remains of Primus’ and Unicron’s original universe. Only his hand clenching the crystal is visible. But as the Dark Energon seeps into his conduits in the real world, more of him becomes visible. Once his substructure and sensors have manifested, he scans ahead. 

He’s isolated within a hazy bubble of the crystal’s chaotic influence. Beyond it, he sees the ghostly shapes of the Seekers he was with, only their subspace pockets where visible in any clarity. Red Wing has nothing on him. Some cleaning supplies, a video camera, and a datapad are with Acid Rain. Slipstream carries a stack of glasses, stasis cuffs, and a psychic patch on hand. Skywarp’s silhouette is cluttered with random trinkets she’s snatched up through the groundbridges she generates. He looks upward to what would be the sky, just black, cold nothingness streaked with paths of travel for every quantum-capable or spacebridge generating starship, Titan or lane in his home universe. He can make out established Spacebridge lanes heading inward toward the Galactic Core and ships swarming around a tiny, silvery marble, Cybertron. 

“Are you just going to keep on staring or are you going to finally address me?” A voice snaps around him. 

“Huh?” Jetstorm looks around and shrinks up as the bubble he’s in darkens. Liquid gold drips down onto it, quickly encasing him and then penetrating it. Lobes and oozing of gold bubble up, quickly taking shape. Granules of sand and shards of Dark Energon burst from the golden figure. Finally, Unicron takes shape: he stands not much taller then himself, ripples of liquid gold and falling sand cover his armored legs like a robe, a band of dark crystals travels diagonally across his chest, dividing his sandy right and liquid gold left that composite his dripping arms. Several crags of sandstone make up his helm and alternate with purple crystals to form two curved horns above his head. Green eyes stare quizzically at Jetstorm as he hastily bows. “Uh!”

“What?” Asks the Chaosbringer. He lacks the apparent panels, substructure, and kibble that marks a Transformer’s anatomy. Nor does he have the tissues and organs of an organic lifeform. The closest thing Unicron resembled was a protoform in stasis or a newly forged still being sculpted by the blacksmith. “Were you expecting something different?” 

Jetstorm clasps his hands together. “Um…perhaps I was. You just seem so…humble for the Lord of Chaos.” Is this what’s swirling around in the Mantle? 

“Oh? It’s not. This is my preferred form, unlike that…” Unicron eyes the ground. Jetstorm looks down. Thousands of miles below, in what would be the Earth’s mantle, is a massive, mangled mech. Molten magma clings, congeals, and connects his thin, spiky limbs, curved horns and claws, and bare, branching wings. He twitches and thrashes through his restless slumber. “Surely you understand the feeling…” Jetstorm looks down on himself: boxy plating, delta-shaped wings along his back, red and purple paint sprayed over him, legs touching the ground. He quivers as a sandy hand drapes over his shoulder. It takes him back to his construction, first in a new line of Seekers not given life from the Sparks sourced within Avion, rather…procured from other Titans, and he had the greatest role to play of them all as Starscream’s newest look alike.

He collapses to his knees and covers his cloned face “I submit to you! Do what you want to me!” He screams. Through the gaps of his fingers, he sees Unicron’s true form raging meanwhile the Chaosbringer recoils his hand and shakes his head. 

“My apologies. I wanted to better understand you, not cause you discomfort.” He says as Jetstorm returns to his current frame. “Interesting, it seems my sibling found a method of surviving in this universe…hmm by separating his essence into two; a physical compound capable of incorporating the atoms of any of this universe’s elements without losing its homogeneity and something else…”

Jetstorm grips his chest plating with his claws, painlessly pulling it off to reveal his spark, only to find nothing. “I…where’s my spark! Have you snuffed it out already? Are you making me into your co-star?”  

“Ah! So that’s what it is! Intriguing. The second half of his essence! A sapient fission reaction that divides the physical matter into a positively charged cloud or a series of precise electrical pulses. Capable of storing, retaining, and relaying knowledge yet it interprets it biasedly. It has a personality, a mind, emotions. It’s nigh immortal if not for its fragility. It’s time in the new universe, normal space is finite, before it returns here. Look!” Unicron points over at the impression of Cybertron, magnifying it through the bubble. In place of his homeplanet’s metallic plains, highways visible in space that connect its glowing city-states, deep chasms and pits where a slice of the planet had been removed, and spiraling mountain ranges; there's a swirl of Sparks surrounding a giant yellow orb of light. “Amazing! They all return and share their knowledge with… him. ”

Jetstorm hears the venom he expected return to Unicron’s voice yet…it's remorseful. His outstretched arm begins to “Uh…yeah that looks like the Allspark alright. But who cares about that when you got the …the…AllDark! Yes! The AllDark here!”

“So…that's what he wanted to share with me. He found a way for us to sustain ourselves in this universe.” Unicron ignores him. 

“Wait, what? You and Primus were going to share something? Plot twist!” Jetstorm does jazz hands and floats in front of the chaotic progenitor. He then goes slack as Unicron muses the thoughts. “What are you? Not species wise or anything but like occupation? What do you do?”

` “Hmm?” Unicron looks at him confused before he bursts into hearty laughter. “Well…what do you think I am? I’ve become vaguely familiar with your kind’s opinion on me but it would be refreshing to see some new assumptions.” Then I’m the interviewer? It is at this moment that Jetstorm becomes aware of his own significance in all this, the knowledge he now processes, and what can be done with it. The dogmas, teachings, and doctrines he’ll upend and establish in his image in knowledge! What’s a pastor without presentation? Unicron frowns at him. “As if the others will believe after this.” 

“What?” Jetstorm stares at him. 

“Oh. You haven’t realized yet that while my matter flows through your veins, while we remain in symbiosis, that I can read your thoughts. The currents running along your neural circuitry are dependent upon the power stored within my crystals.” Unicron explains. 

Jetstorm’s optics dart around before starring the Chaosbringer down. “Then why haven’t you turned me into a Terrorcon yet! Made me your slave!” 

“They one thing your kind has always gotten right about me is my association with chaos. As such, why would I force my will unto others? That is the mark of order.” Unicron corrects. 

“I…then what are the Terrorcons? I’ve heard of them popping up all over the Earth. We gotta zombie apocalypse in the making.” An army for the taking. Jetstorm remarks. 

“The crystal you held in your hand was once a bit of my flesh. It's not unlike your own. I’ve never sought to separate my spirit from it, my Spark if you will. While you live, our flesh and energy fight each other. Parasite and host. Predator and prey. Yet equally matched. Until the end of life and its organization. Its order. Its rebellion against entropy, against chaos. Against me!” Unicron screams then regains his composure. “But even then, I have no control over it. All that remains within me inside those crystals is my rage, my resentment, and the dying dreams of an empty shell. I hear them. Sometimes.”

“I think I know what you are.” Jetstorm admits, allowing his scripted bravado to slip. “I’ve heard of you as a God of Death and destruction. I look at you and I see a progenitor. I hear you speak and I listen and I think ‘scientist’. But that would imply testing and you’ve never seemed willing to apply yourself. Then I think maybe he’s a philosopher because that's what he looks like. But really…you are a has-been. A relic. An outmode. A dying old mech left here to rot and rant because you can’t care to innovate.” 

Unicron smiles. “Now you get it. Still want to follow me? Not as though I’d stop you. It's not in my nature.” 

Jetstorm vision begins to fade, the Dark Energon is starting to leave his system. He gets sensations from the real world, the wind rushing over his plating, the faint screams of the other Seekers as they check him over. No. I need to look forward. So what if Starscream disregarded me…us! Every Seeker who wouldn’t fit his mold or control! And so what if they ended up not following me. For every cancellation there's an elevator pitch! The last he sees of the chaosbringer is him giving an understanding nod before dripping away.

“Oh thank Primus! You’re awake!” Acid Rain screams as she carries him on their arms. 

“You haven’t been turned into one of them? Have you?” Slipstreams asks. 

“Uh…it's kind of hard to fly with only a single engine. And what are those down there? Those flippy organics.” Red Wing complains. 

Jetstorm looks around. He’s held precariously by Acid Rain. Slipstream and Red Wing fly ahead of them. Below, tropical blue-green sea with calm waves briefly disturbed by breaching bottlenose dolphins. Beyond, a few white-sand islands and a cruise ship. “And as a prize you’ll receive an all-expense-paid trip to the Caribbean! Enjoy the beaches, resorts, and snorkeling with Flipper and friends! That’s all folks hope you enjoyed the show! See you all next week!” Jetstorm chimes. 

“Great. He’s talking nonsense. He’s back. He’s uninfected.” Skywarp remarks. She flies overhead and shoves a drogue into his face. “Transform and drink. It's only a matter of time before they catch up to us.” 

Jetstorm transforms and shoves his nosecone into the basket. A rich energon-infused oil fills his fuel tanks, buttery and energizing. He finds it sickening and demeaning. “Ugh. How long have you been a tanker and chauffeur for his Lordship? And what exactly is following us?” He asks as he checks his long-range scanners, no Autobots inbound. 

“He gave me such a ‘prestigious’ role to ensure my loyalty as you were planning your stunt . Didn’t want me to go the way with you. But he’s gone now. Saw his slimy Spark get eaten by one of the native creatures. The Seekers may as well be leaderless.” Skywarp retracts the drogue and levels out her flight. Her rudder sways cheekily. 

“Thrust and Thundercracker will probably take over, at least behind the scenes when it comes to military planning and publicity respectfully. I doubt the Leiges will allow for Starscream’s ‘deactivation’ to be made public anytime soon. Unless you wish to take over…” Jetstorm speculates as three bogies appear on his long range scanners. Piloted aircraft perhaps? 

“Maybe Sky Lynx might try taking command.” Slipstream posits. 

“Hmm…okay now that would be entertaining!” Skywarp declares as she climbs again. “But only because you aren't anymore, Jetstorm.” 

Normally, such an assessment would send him into a tailspin. “I have several new projects in the works, Skywarp. Solo projects.” 

“Does that mean you won’t need me anymore?” Acid Rain asks relieved. 

“Though your audition was commendable, I won’t be giving you a call back. So book it.” The Storm Seeker confirms. 

“Well don’t go around completely disregarding your last passion project, because your followers are on our tails.” Skywarp remarks as she generates a groundbridge portal and flies through it. 

“Wait!” Acid Rain climbs after her only for the portal to close and a massive fork of lightning to strike them. Advancing towards the Seekers was a mob of Terrorcons, most made out of the half-fossilized bestial frames of Eukarian pilgrams but lead by the three Storm Seekers: Ion, Nova, and Sun.

Underneath an Ice cap, the Past

Hoisted above the hatch, Windblade extends her wings and activates her turbines, pushing back her assailant. The grip around her faceplate loosens before the stinger is driven into her neck. A paralyzing cyber-venom is injected into the Cityspeaker, locking up her servos and motors, cutting the fuel from her engines. Her turbines slow to a stop and she’s left motionless save for her mind. 

Her attacker takes a few steps back. A large vespine insecticon queen stares back with compound optics. She transforms into robot mode; a sensuous femme with iridescent blue-black plating and rusty-orange accents, her helm flares out into two horns, upon her chest plate is a purple, downturned arrow shaped insignia that Windblade fails to recognize. 

“You are mine, little robot. Your Titan is mine. He will forge forth a new generation of my lineage.” The insecticon speaks in her head through a remote psychic connection, like an open door it's a two way connection. For once the shadows playing with her memories do something well in obscuring what information the insecticon can glean. A nice yet unnecessary back as she casts up a mental shield, forcing the dark femme out. “Uh! How? My venom should have shut down every non-necessary circuit and conduit, locking in both your mind and body. Hmm…unless…those facial markings…” The insecticon plucks the golden fan out from Windblade’s clenched fingers and slices it deep into her left wing, hitting a fuel tank. Liquid blue energon spills out, splattering the icy metal atop Metroplex. Her optics widen in recognition of Windblade’s heritage and probable skill. She flings the fan blade over the edge and dives down the hatch, out of sight to infect the stasis pods or worse…the Hot Spot. 

“ METROPLEX! Transform and prepare for intruders. Terminate any spark signatures that aren't part of the crew manifest.” Windblade orders the Titan as she remains paralyzed. 

“Yes…Windvoice.” The cityformer replies as the floor underneath her paralyzed peds steepens. Metroplex rises; the thick plating, gigantic engines, and turrets along his alternate mode part and recede as giant, clenched fists, a broad, blocky chest, and surprisingly kind face take shape. However he cannot bring himself to stand. Scraping against his armor is a several kilometer piece of ice. It presses down on him, keeping him in a prone, laying down position. “What is your next task, Windvoice?” 

“Ugh…working on it.” Windblade manages to speak as her jaw loosens, her fingers fidget back and forth, her ankles flex. The venom loses its effect on her rather quickly, meant for more ‘high powered’ victims. She takes out a pack of glass bandages and sticks them over the open wound on her wing. The fuel tank was a reserve, not a main source, yet it will make her weight unbalanced in flight, so she’d need to compensate with an asymmetrical power output on her propellers, increasing fuel needs. So, she walks instead of flying. At Least until she reaches atop Metroplex’s left kneecap. She leaps and transforms. Her glide is clumsy and leans to the right, on her heavier wing. It's a purposeful inelegance as she lands upon Metroplex’s navel. She taxis down an entrance ramp and back in Metroplex proper. 

A faint red strobe flickers above the corridors. Autoguns lower from the ceiling and target anything that moves. They fixate on Windblade until recognizing her as one of their own. Except one. 

Above the entrance into the left arm, a gun turret fails to ratchet out of its position. Across from its barrel is a bullet hole with Windblade in the middle. Cyber-venom drips down from the still barrel. Windblade transforms and walks down the hallway. More bullet holes pepper the walls. Gun barrels are bent out of shape or slashed in half. She’s heading towards the stasis pods. Metroplex, give me strength. The Cityspeaker runs her hand over the wall, a strip of metal rides along her fingers and coils up into a spear. Armed, she enters the stasis pod chamber. 

Stasis pods are arranged in hexagonal patterns along the floor. The pods come in three different sizes: small at around 3 meters in height, medium at 6 meters, and large at 10 meters. Through the thin metal buckles and curved glass that encase the protoform, she sees them rest with their sparks pulsing within blue photonic crystals above. Towards the end of the chamber, she sees the insecticon hunched over a large pod while in beast mode. Two others trail her, one large and one small, each with cracked glass and the purple crystals. Windblade shuts her vents with shock and brandishes the spear. “Step away from the pods, intruder!” 

The invading femme doesn’t respond, compound optics fixed to a control panel atop the pod as her stinger plunges into the crystal, pumping the frozen Spark with a phenotype-rewriting venom. Her claw-tipped limbs type upon the panel and plug into the onboard computer, installing shell programs and viruses. Windblade gasps in horror. No…this isn’t the will of Metroplex or Solus Prime or these Sparks. Just her. How dare she! “Metroplex! Shake your arm! Open all hatches! Dislodge this parasite!” Windblade orders as she activates her turbines and dives toward the insecticon. 

The chamber quakes. Long entrances open along the ceiling and down the length of the walls. All uninfected pods magnetize to the floor, safe from the Titan’s thrashing. “AHH! NO!” Shrieks the vespine transformer as the stasis pod is launched out of her grasp, breaking the tip of stinger in the process. 

Windblade dives in from behind and plunges her spear through the metal wasp’s abdomen, splintering segments and spilling critical energon, a vivid purple liquid, and cyber-venom. “UHH! You couldn’t have given me two more astro-minutes? I had only managed to install the Deceptiwall on that protoform! Uh, no matter. I’ve done what I came for.” 

The spear in her hands tenses and snaps as the invader transforms into a sleek, black helicopter. Windblade stumbles back as the triple changer flies out of the titan. Before she can get far, Windblade makes her second to last order to Metroplex. “Activate a Spacebridge!” 

The Caribbean Sea, Present

Jetstorm never feared the consequences for his actions. It’s what distinguished him from lesser mechs like Starscream. Each failure just breeds new opportunities. He had been the old Air Commander’s first body double and one of the first in a new generation of Seekers made five million years ago from Avion’s smelt, aluminum sheet metal, and borrowed Sparks. He was stapled to Starscream’s side like an over-important post-it note through meetings, declarations, gladiatorial arenas, and battlefields. Close call after close call. He had taken bullets, blasterfire, slicings, stabbings, and mutilation only to be repaired afterwards. He had grown proud of his duty as the Seeker above Seeker’s mimic, body double and guard, confidant, and perhaps even successor. He grew even more proud once Skyfire had been left for offline following the outbreak of the War. But Starscream had no need for a successor. Why would you when you are immortal? All Jetstorm was to him was a spare glass in case he dropped his current. After the Siege of Polyhex and the Autobots fled Cybertron for the first time, a celebration was held among the Decepticon Leiges. While preparing, Starscream had noticed his only wound from the prior battle, a small rust infection on his finger tips that prevented him from washing the energon off. It could have been such an easy fix…a touch up of paint, the replacement of a panel, dipping his fingers into vinegar and then scrubbing with wire brush. But why do that? Why admit that you were rustable? Fallible? Touchable? Jetstorm had walked in on Starscream who came up with a different solution. An orb of orange light ambushed him and phased into his body where it fought but couldn’t dislodge his Spark. His body was then shut down. He awoke several cycles after his Spark was placed into a new body, a half-completed shell within the reject pile. A perfect, new canvas. He languished as a Rankless, without classification and recognition within the Seekers alongside several others, the old, outmoded, and outliers. He gathered their attention, becoming a rallying point, the eye of the Storm. 

Starscream called it an act of mercy by sending Jetstorm and his Stormseekers away. Really he was giving Jetstorm an opportunity to rule over a developing world. He came to Earth 2 million years ago, where it was facing a turning point. Sapience had arisen below the equator and was quickly spreading, diversifying. At that time, the Storm Seekers numbered in the hundreds, but steadily, in this unfamiliar world filled with chaotic influence, unpredictable weather, and fierce Autobot protectors, it dwindled down to a few. That the defections. The countless defections. All it took was a few claw swipes from a giant ground sloth or teratorn, a winter snowstorm, or trebuchet chuck to dampen the glory of the Storm into a wet puddle. All that remained were the fanatical or the apathetic. And the apathetic left. And the fanatical died. 

Acid Rain climbs upward toward the cloud layer. Slipstream slows and positions herself above and behind Red Wing, shielding the young Seeker from any follow up attacks. They bank together towards the cruise ship in the distance. Jetstorm transforms to meet the gaze of his fallen Storm Seekers, refusing to raise his weapons. The Terrorcon trio similarly stop as the rest of the undead flock chase after the other Seekers. 

Death has desaturated their paintjobs, giving the appearance of military aircraft. Mauvine flames sputter from thrusters as they each transform. Savage, janky motions overtake each jet, an unnatural mimicry of a transformation scheme as the cockpit and nosecone snap down, engines and intakes yank back into legs, and wings break against the back. Wires sparkle and metal shreds. Dark Energon crystals grow out from the wounds of Storm Seeker’s bodies, clear markers of cause of death. Tiny shards form a U-shape along Sun Storm’s chest plate where Gnashteeth had clamped down upon him and applied the full force of her plasma-breath during the Dark Ages. Their fight had witnesses, inspiring tales of dragons fighting. His head is nothing more than drippy globual above a ball-joint. Two crystals poke out from the underplating upon Nova Storm’s upper thigh, a thin point in her otherwise thick armor that the Autobot Nightviper was able to sink her fangs into. Ion Storm, despite being the most recent death, is seemingly the most changed. So different without her bright blue hue. Giant crystals rupture from where Whirl’s blades struck five times. Like himself, none of them charge. 

They all still recognize me to some capacity. It’s as Unicron said, he doesn’t control them, only his rage revitalizes them. Their only will is to fight after what they could not have while online. Jetstorm gives an exaggerated bow. “We’ve reached the curtain call, my friends. My co-stars. You’ve earned yourself a bow. And…” Jetstorm bends and snaps back up. He rattles his claws against themselves. “A round of applause. That’s all folks.” 

The small crystalline shards and veins that coat Nova and Sun Storm’s plating fleck off slowly before the Terrorcon’s thrusters shut down and they plummet into the waves below. 

“But I see that you are sticking around for the cast party, ay Ion Storm?” Jetstorm observes warily. 

The Terrorcon tilts her head. “But…the show keeps going on. Your story is not finished. And there’s still a place for….” 

Jetstorm brushes a claw past his optic, popping his bubbling tears. “No there’s not. The storm’s gone. And all that’s left is the winds. Rest.” 

Spacebridge, The Past

The helicopter swoops at the Camien, machine guns drawn. Windblade stiffens her stance and reaches out a hand, her fingers glance against the invader’s skids. A connection is established. As she lowers her hand, she finds herself in a melded mindscape. She stands on the precipice between her mind, represented as the flame-lit silver plains and ice fields of her homeworld, and the insecticon’s, an alien jungle razed to the ground as purple storm clouds patrol overhead. The clouds swiftly condense into a thick lavender fog, concealing the trunks and scorched ground. “Give me the anti-venom. If you can inflict this upon the protoforms then you can cure it. Surely.” Windblade shouts into the fog. 

The steady chopping of helicopter blades disturb the mist as the invader comes forward. At the transition point, she transforms. The insecticon looks down, tugging at her arms and wings, a quiver to her lip. “My name is Airachnid. You must understand, Cityspeaker. I am the last of my kind. I…you can see behind me, my homeworld. Burnt to a crisp during the Razing of Eukaris by transformers who forced me into their ranks.” She points to the arrow-shaped badge emblazoned upon her. Beyond, the fog clears, revealing a blockade of capitalships feeding a continent-spanning wildfire beneath. Somehow she made it on the ship before the catastrophe. A prisoner? “All that I have left of them is their source code.” 

“Why couldn’t your new buddies help?” Windblade asks. 

“You and your people have been out of the loop for a while. You enter a galaxy at war. Here, we use protoforms to heal the wounded and not give life to the next generation. I had to look elsewhere. Eventually, through some reluctant yet dutiful service, I was granted sabbatical. I tracked down this Titan. I have revitalized two of my kind. Now. Let me go and I will care for them.” Airachnid explains. 

Windblade raises an opticbrow. “What’s with the fog? On your side.” 

Airachnid smiles awkwardly as her shoulders hunch. “My captors…implanted false memories into my mind. They call it shadowplay. It is only out here, far from their reach that I can gather myself and break through the fog.” 

The Cityspeaker’s optics glow at the mention of the word that slips away from her speakers. “Shado…” As she tries to mentally mouth it, lightning crackles behind her. Dark storm clouds rumble down from Caminus’s normally thin atmosphere. Smoke coils above the frosted metal and black ice. 

Airachnid frowns. “Oh. I see.” She briefly disappears and then returns. The fog flickers away behind her in static. In its place; a small, dark spaceship parked among the scorched wilderness. Skulls and horns are visible through the windows, lining the cockpit like mice placed by a shrike. “Release me!”

Windblade clutches her forehead as a processor ache sets in. “I can’t! Not until this passes! Unless you have a counter strategy!” 

Airachnid glares back but fails to act. 

“Figures.” Windblade snaps. “You are nothing but a virus sprouting forth lies! With…this,” she gestures to her surroundings. “I’m clawing and fighting for clarity. And most of the time. I have it. Until I question what I lack. Then the darkness sets in. You can’t fake it. Not to me. And I doubt you know the cure. You’re adept at telepathy, I’ll give you that but not at mnemosurgery. You’ve avoided an outright fight with me at every turn, perhaps you predicted that I would win. When the offenses of your insect mode were bested, you changed into a helicopter. But your hovering is sloppy, an ill-weighted propeller and your tail-rotor isn’t fast enough. You’d topple aft over canopy if I didn’t bring you here. You’re a Fateweaver. Or were at some point. The truth is the source for lies.”

“Clever. Yet prideful. I didn’t fight you because I never needed to. I’m a parasitoid Insecticon. My kind has been without Titans for stellar cycles. We invade Titans, Cyber-ninja Dojos, and medical facilities. Anywhere that might hold protoforms. I became a Fateweaver to best predict my host’s defenses. I joined the Decepticons to avoid the extinction of those accused vertebrates and crustaceans.” Airachnid unveils. 

“You sold them out!” Windblade shouts. 

The vespine con scoffs. “Suicide is preferable to rule under that saurian. I climbed through the ranks, the natural instincts of propagation always a distant task. However, I was afflicted with visions of this very planet. I am fortunate to be somewhat of a free-agent at the moment. I came here to investigate and I found this. A Titan from the colony of Solus Prime. But this is not all. I see fire, chaos, and treachery in this planet’s future. And my return.”

Something clicks. The reconnection of Windblade’s circuitry. 

“It will take several more millenia for my children to develop and hatch from their pods. In that time, you surely could reclaim and deprogram them but I imagine you are getting quite exhausted. I will return and not alone. This planet is a convergence point.” Airachnid severs the bond. 

Windblade reawakens in the physical world. The helicopter tips over as she predicted and tumbles through an open window and into the void. Metroplex lands atop a patch of barren, rocky land, surrounded by sheer cliffs and cold, roaring ocean. She hears the distant squawks and bellows of the native lifeforms and the putrid ammonia-based waste produced. “How are you doing, Metroplex?” She asks as she walks back toward his brain module. 

“Tired…Battery at 0.35%....left central fuel tank rupture in….computing…computing….

in right calf and shoulder assemblies…Spacebridge range is greatly reduced and in need of repair…three Sparks are unaccounted for. Gone…I miss them…Windvoice.” The Titan replies. 

“They're not gone, ‘Plex. You’ll see them again. In one way or another. Until then implement emergency hull repair then power down. Once fuel tanks have been emptied acquire a power-generating form and bring us back online. Then we’ll fuel you up.” Windblade assures. This is a strange planet full of secrets. But surely, there are answers, ready to be unearthed.