Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s gone. 

All of it reduced to ash and a memory in one fatal swoop of an energon sword. 

Very few Autobots escaped the bloody aftermath of Optimus Prime’s execution by Megatron. Those captured were faced with the cumbersome decision to either bend the knee to Cybertron’s new lord or face the same fate of their once noble leader. A brave majority refused to submit, allowing their energon to paint city streets in brilliant rivers of shimmering magenta. Others stubbornly—selfishly—decided to avoid the Well of All Sparks to serve Megatron. 

Those who refused to surrender their lives or morals somehow evaded the grasp of Starscream’s Seekers guarding Cybertron’s atmosphere. They scattered to faraway galaxies for sanctuary, asylum, a new beginning. Among them: those once closest to Optimus Prime and the now dissolved Autobot senate. They follow the stalwart command of Ultra Magnus, eventually leading them to an uninhabited planet unmarred by corruption’s infectious rot. A planet where they can bide their time, hoping and praying the Matrix will reawaken to bestow itself to a new Prime and light their darkest hour. 

║┠ RATCHET ┨║

Ratchet’s optics strain to maintain their focus as exhaustion threatens to pull him to the floor. His worn, grayed expression cast in the console’s gentle glow. Four more hours. That’s how long they have until their feet touch solid ground and their vents fill with fresh, natural air. 

The veteran medic peeks over his shoulder to the three other bots crammed in that small frigate with him. Rung— golden, quiet, small, and pensive— sits, legs crossed while he pours over a data pad. He hardly moves other than to occasionally adjust those goofy round glasses. On the rare occasion he speaks it’s in a polite tone barely audible above a whisper. Ratchet picked him up while running towards the last open frigate to escape Cybertron during the chaotic fallout of Optimus’ execution. The two had not met prior but he wasn’t about to leave the defenseless bot behind. Not with Seekers and Vehicons nipping at their boots. 

Beside Rung stands a far more impressive mech, though one just as thoughtful and quiet. Handsome white livery with red tattoos slashing down his obscenely tall finials and dark face; across his shoulders, arms, chest, cutting down his legs, and breaking up a modest waistline. He keeps his arms crossed firmly over his chest, sharp optics darting between every corner of the unimpressive vessel. Ratchet somewhat knew Drift before, but they weren’t close. Drift was once a Decepticon which is enough for Ratchet to maintain a certain level of leeriness when alone with him. Converted or not, that Decepticon lethality lingers. He saw it in how Drift fought off the Cons chasing them towards their frigate with nothing but two swords now sheathed at his hips. A bot doesn’t need guns to be considered a great threat. Yet there is no way to downplay the importance of his presence that day they ran. 

Drift glances up at Ratchet and the medic shifts his focus to the last of their small motley crew. The only bot he has any personal ties to. She sits with her legs tucked to her chest, staring out a window at the passing stars dotting space’s darkness. A young femme training to be a medic, training to one day take his place. She wears the same white and red livery common for bots in the medical field, she wears it better than Ratchet. Her build sleek with a jet alt-mode capable of break-neck speed. Ratchet appropriately naming her Zephyr was one of those small victories he kept to himself. He had no idea that little sparkling would be a flier. 

“Feeling nostalgic?”

Ratchet blinks before returning his attention to Drift watching him with a rather intrusive stare. He frowns. “Is now not a good time to reminisce?”

Drift shrugs his shoulders. “More or less, I suppose. Lingering on the past won’t bring it back, however.”

“How astute of you.” Ratchet responds curtly. He peeks at the distance calculator on the console once again. Just four more hours. 

Drift tuts. “I remember your bedside manner at the hospital being far more pleasant.”

“It’s my job to be nice to patients.” Ratchet reminds the bot firmly. “As of right now you’re not a patient therefore I don’t owe you that courtesy, kid .”

What hint of a smile Drift forced fades and he moves to sit beside Zephyr. She watches him warily out of the corner of her eye. Dismayed, he leans his back against the wall and sighs. “How long do we have until we can be relieved of each other’s company, doc?”

“Just a few more hours.” Ratchet says, finally allowing himself to sit in the captain’s chair behind him. He rubs between his eyes. It’s a wonder there’s not more hostility between the four of them. After all, being stuck together in space inside the rocket-powered equivalent of an oil can for almost five months would be enough to drive most people to violence— or suicide. Stupid arguments rattled its metal walls a time or two, but no one dared to yell at the risk of blowing someone’s audio receptors because of it. The only motivation Ratchet has to remain sane is the simple fact Zephyr would be absolutely crushed if he allowed himself to falter. In the midst of grieving the love of her life the last thing she needs is to worry about her guardian’s own crumbling mental health. And she will. She will worry. 

Three more hours now. 

Ratchet begins to wonder who all will be on this planet. The encrypted signal was transmitted by Ultra Magnus, Optimus Prime’s interim successor. Assuming they all survived and traveled together, it’s likely majority of the faces will be familiar. He could only hope, at least. 

“Anyone up for a game?” Drift asks, digging around a small storage chest beneath the ship’s control panel. He produces a small metal box with evenly spaced round divots along its top. Ratchet scoffs, but Zephyr seems to perk up. Rung is still lost in whatever he is reading. 

“What game is that?” Zephyr watches Drift curiously, unfolding her legs to lean forward. 

“It’s pretty simple,” Drift sits down on the floor and opens the box containing an equal amount of black and red glass orbs. He picks one up and holds it up, allowing the light to illuminate delicate flecks of precious metal hidden within. “Two players sit across from each other and bounce these little marbles trying to land them into these ‘nests.’” Drift points to the divots. “You aim for the row furthest away and the more bounces you manage before landing the more points. Each nest is worth a different amount with the furthest from the middle being the most.”

Zephyr nods and climbs down to the floor across from Drift, crossing her legs. 

“Aht aht!” Drift wags a finger. “Legs out. Our feet have to touch.”

The femme narrows her eyes and glances to Ratchet. He nods and she does as Drift advised. “Why do they need to touch?”

“Keeps us from leaning too much.” He sets the nests directly between where the bottom of their boots meet. “Also gives you a slight disadvantage being shorter— you have less distance for bounces.” He winks. Something hitches in Ratchet’s digestive tank and he scissors his jaw. 

“That’s not fair!” Zephyr protests.

Drift shrugs, smiling sweetly. “It’s the rules. Consider it a challenge, little femme.”

Zephyr frowns, scooping up her red marbles with obvious determination. Ratchet suppresses a smile. Seems Drift has managed to peg her competitive nature. 

Drift takes his turn first, completing a triple bounce but missing the nest by a thin wire. Zephyr collects his lost marble and rolls it back before taking her turn. A single bounce but she lands in the nest just one spot in from the edge. “Yes!” She pumps her fist. 

“Lucky shot.” Drift chuckles, but his optics briefly darken. He aims his marble before letting it fly, that time landing in the middle with two bounces. Zephyr groans and tosses his marble back. 

The two quietly play for a respectable length, now with the attention of Rung alongside Ratchet. Ratchet sniggers to himself anytime Zephyr becomes visibly frustrated. A needed glimpse of who she used to be— before. 

Drift easily catches the marble Zephyr launched at his head and snorts. His gaze slicks up and down her form, a glance which forces Ratchet to sit up. He can now feel Rung’s eyes are on him. 

“Can I ask you something? Something a little personal.” Drift says, expertly rolling the marbles between his fingers.

Zephyr hesitates but nods. “Sure, I guess.” Ratchet frowns at her but she waves him off. 

Drift seems to mull over what he intends to say next. Perhaps to avoid offending her or Ratchet. He tucks one leg up to his chest, resting an arm over his knee. “Were you ever a Decepticon?”

Silence fills the frigate. Ratchet tenses while waiting for Zephyr’s response. 

Two more hours. Don’t butt-in. 

The femme crosses her own legs and offers a half-hearted smile. “No, why?”

“Your build— it’s very Seeker-like.” Drift points out. “This whole time I wondered where your thrusters were, somehow missing them being in your boots. That’s a design element rather unique to Seekers.”

“Ah, well, I wasn’t designed .” Zephyr passes a sideways glance to Ratchet very blatantly scowling at her. She looks away and grabs the box to return her marbles. 

Drift cocks his head to the side, also glimpsing Ratchet out of the corner of his eye. “Oh real—“

“Were you— born ?” 

All heads turn to Rung who recoils slightly, clearing his throat. “I apologize, Drift, for interrupting, but Zephyr, are you implying you weren’t traditionally forged— hot or cold?”

Ratchet turns away before she can seek his approval or assistance. She already said too much; she can explain the rest. 

“Uhh, well—“ Zephyr rubs her face, her cheeks pinked with an overflow of warm energon beneath. “Yes— that is accurate, yes.”

Drift’s smug disposition is replaced with infant curiosity. He leans closer to her. “So you were born— from a carrier?”

Zephyr nods slowly, glancing at Ratchet as he glares out the forward window. 

“That’s incredibly rare.” Rung says with equal fascination as Drift. 

“It’s not as rare as perpetuated.” Ratchet interjects. A speck of light comes into view. So close.  “In fact, it’s nearly as common as forging.”

Drift and Rung look at each other, obviously sharing in their shock. Rung speaks up, shaking his head. “That’s not possible, or— how is that possible?”

“Long story short, most carriers are embarrassed by it. They keep themselves isolated until labor, then they come in, deliver, and move on.” Ratchet shrugs. ”I’m one of a small handful of medics trained to deliver sparklings.”

“What happens to the sparkling?” Worry laces Drift’s question. “You know— afterward?”

“They’re placed in incubators until they’ve fully matured and released with no memory of what happened before they woke up.” Ratchet shrugs again, crossing his arms after. “It’s essentially forging with extra highly unnecessary and rather expensive steps.”

That speck of light has grown into a sphere of pastel greens and blues. Just a little longer. 

“So why does she kno—“

“I’m not talking about this right now.” Ratchet snaps, making sure everyone behind him can view his displeasure head-on. “Just move on.” He returns himself forward.

Drift glances at Zephyr. She has her eyes down, twirling her thumbs over each other. He sighs. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—“

“It’s okay, really.” She forces a smile before looking at Ratchet. “It’s just not something we talk about.”

“Is that it?” Rung stands to approach the console beside Ratchet. He removes his round spectacles to wipe them off. Once back on his face, Rung is able to focus his sight better. “It’s an organic planet.”

Drift and Zephyr now stand at the console. Drift rests a hand on the hilt of one of his swords. “Do we know if it’s inhabited?”

“From my understanding it’s not.” Ratchet says, pulling at a lever on the console to prep the frigate for landing. The planet’s atmosphere is thick and fastly approaching. “Ultra Magnus didn’t include much information in his transmission, but there was no mention of native threats.”

“I guess that’s somewhat assuring.” Drift says, drumming his fingers on the hilt at his palm. “It will certainly be nice to have more space to— exist .”

“You’re telling me.” Ratchet mumbles. The planet draws nearer and he clicks on the console. “Everybody strap in, we’re about to pass through the atmosphere and it’s…” he checks preliminary scans, brow pinched, “strangely dense.”

As metal clasps click and lock into place within the cockpit, Ratchet increases the frigate’s speed, pointing its bow down to dive directly through the planet’s misty atmosphere. Right as they strike the edge, everybody lurches forward in their restraints, the planet seeming to push back as Ratchet increases the frigate’s thrust to maximum with his weight full-forward on the yoke. “Come on, come on…” Ratchet keeps his teeth clenched, the frigate barely moving a few feet each passing minute. If they can’t break through they’ll have burned through all their fuel for nothing. A much larger ship could pass through with far less effort, but they don’t have a large ship. What they have barely meets the legal definition of a ‘ship.’ 

Ratchet shakes his head. “Screw it.” He unlocks a switch cover on the control board, flipping the plastic up. The cabin lights flash red as the computer system’s robotic voice echoes warning: SURFACE PROXIMITY ALERT. DO NOT ENGAGE OVERDRIVE. 

Zephyr grabs hold of Drift’s arm while Rung tightens his restraints until he can barely heave his chest to breathe. Ratchet takes a breath and punches the switch. 

The ship lurches again, its thrusters roaring to life as all of its reserve fuel is dumped into the combustion chamber. A sudden explosion barrels the frigate through the atmosphere and straight towards the ground. Ratchet rips up on the yoke, the frigate’s belly skimming the surface of a crystal clear sea, still powering forward at speeds typically impossible for a vessel its size. He hardly knows where they are or where they’re going, all he can focus on is not plowing them into the side of a fast approaching mountain. 

Ratchet unhooks himself from his restraints and pops open the side door, intense wind speeds tearing it from the ship’s frame. “We have to jump!” 

Drift breaks free first, helping Zephyr out before swinging his swords to free Rung as he struggles with his wickedly tight straps. Drift quickly scoops the two smallest bots up and joins Ratchet by the door. Ratchet looks at him then to the mountain as its shadow swallows the ship. “GO!” 

They all leap, landing hard in the water. Ratchet, ignoring the screaming pain along his joints and metal, kicks to the surface just in time to see the frigate slam into the mountain, filling the sky with billowing fire and smoke. Metal and stone shrapnel pelt the water’s surface, cutting Ratchet’s shoulder and arm, turning the water around him an opaque pink. He winces, but turns just as Drift resurfaces with Rung and Zephyr on his shoulders. They all watch the fiery remnants of their ship tumble into the water, creating rough waves. Drift struggles less than Ratchet, noting the shoreline to their immediate left. “Over there.” He grabs Ratchet’s wrist and carries all of them to the pebbled beach before the wreckage’s suction has a chance to rip them under. 

Zephyr collapses onto the ground alongside Rung, but she sits up first to look him over while Drift lays out on his back beside Ratchet. Both of them stare up into the foggy blue sky, catching their breath. “Quick thinking, doc.”

Ratchet rolls his head to the side to look at Drift. “You too, kid.”

Drift smiles. 

“Ratchet.”

The addressed medic props himself up on an elbow. Zephyr is bent over Rung but looking at him over her shoulder. “What’s the matter?”

“Rung’s unconscious.” She says calmly. Ratchet moves to his feet, dropping to a knee once beside her. The small mech is indeed unconscious, but there’s nothing visibly wrong with him. Medically speaking, that’s never a good sign. 

“Come on.” Ratchet scoops Rung up before climbing the embankment. The lacerations in his arm bite and burn from the strain. “We have to find Ultra Magnus quickly.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Drift follows, matching pace with Zephyr. 

“Could be something was damaged internally when we hit the water.” Ratchet calls over his bleeding shoulder. “Rung isn’t built for combat, not only that he’s older than all of us. His body simply can’t handle sudden shock.”

“This planet is huge, how are we going to find Ultra Magnus?” Zephyr says, looking around to the vast mountains and forests surrounding them at every corner. 

“Those coordinates landed us within ten miles of his ship.” Ratchet points out. He stops, taking a moment to find his bearings. In his palm he can feel Rung’s fading sparkbeat. “Ultra Magnus has always been very particular when it came to providing a location. The coordinates were never exact, but—“ he stops as they crest a hill overlooking a lake surrounded by densely packed forests. On the northernmost end stood a tall, grassy plateau barely visible through the planet’s foggy air. Ratchet smiles pointing towards it. “He always said ‘land fast; move forward.’ In the world of wayfinding, North is forward.”

Zephyr and Drift look at each other then to the plateau. At first glance there appears to be nothing until a brief shift of light gives away the breath-like ripple of a suppression shield. 

Chapter Text

║┠ THUNDERCRACKER ┨║

Coming to Megatron with disappointing news is never a job any self-respecting Decepticon desires to take on. That’s why chain of command exists, only those needed and vaguely respected by his lordship are tasked with breaking bad news. They’re least likely to be killed depending on the day and his mood. This is one of those moments Thundercracker quietly thanks Primus for his younger brother surpassing him in rank. All he has to do is stand quietly at the back of the room with Skywarp while Starscream takes the brunt of Lord Megatron’s frustration. 

And this exchange had the makings of being a doozy. 

“Don’t be surprised if he ropes you two in.” Starscream hisses as the three Seekers approach the large heavy doors to Megatron’s newly built throne room. “This wasn’t just my blunder.” 

Skywarp crosses his arms, curling his lip in annoyance. “Yeah, but you’re still our commanding officer. In the end it was your guidance we were following.”

Thundercracker keeps quiet, watching Starscream’s fists ball at his sides. It’s no mystery who of the three has the worst temper. 

“We’ll hash this out later.” Starscream says after taking a steadying breath in and out. He places his palm on the reader at the center of the door and steps back as it heaves its weight open enough for them to pass. 

As is protocol, Thundercracker and Skywarp keep themselves to the back wall of the massive throne room. They skirt along its edge until they’re close enough to hear and stop, Thundercracker holding a finger to his mouth at Skywarp. 

Starscream kneels as he reaches the steps of the dais, bowing his head. “My Lord, I—“

“You and your Seekers lost Autobot command.” Megatron’s growling baritone cuts off his First Lieutenant before he can make any excuses. He saunters down the steps until his hulking silver metal is glinting beneath the light of Cybertron’s moons. He bends at the waist, grabbing Starscream at his throat and lifting his head so his wide eyes meet Megatron’s own lethal gaze. “You better have a damn good explanation because your value to me is depreciating by the second .”

Starscream then breaks into the excuses, leaning heavily into the chaos Optimus Prime’s execution caused. Thundercracker tunes him out, focusing on his master’s new body. After claiming Cybertron for himself, Megatron took on a switch-cog, making himself into a triple-changer. At his shoulders and boots the tread of his tank mode is visible, but along his back are the folded arms and blades of his VTOL helicopter mode. A very clear display of dominance as triple-changers are damn near extinct— the Decepticons now possessing the only known three amongst their ranks. One of whom is now threatening to crush Starscream’s throat. 

There’s a pit in Thundercracker’s stomach as he watches Starscream helplessly plead for his life. A lethal flier, terror of the skies, master-manipulator reduced to near tears in the presence of Megatron. It’s pathetic on Starscream’s part, yet impressive on Megatron’s. At one point the two were nearly equals, but as their revolution broke into an all-out war, Megatron quickly outpaced Starscream in the brute-strength department. Though Starscream was never one to rely on physical strength. He was built for speed, made evident by his slender, almost feminine build accentuated by razor sharp wings and tall, narrow thrusters at the heels of his boots. Of course, Primus clearly has a sense of humor because attached to that ridiculously attractive body is a voice that grates against the audio receptors. All Starscream has to do to go from a ten to a two is open his mouth. A fact that often leaves Thundercracker feeling satisfied. His seemingly perfect middle brother couldn’t possibly have it all. 

“What do you think’s gonna happen, TC?” Skywarp whispers, leaning closer to the larger Seeker. 

“I thought I made it clear to keep quiet.” Thundercracker retorts, not moving his eyes from Megatron and Starscream still arguing. 

“I know, but I’m worried— Megatron looks pissed .”

Thundercracker rolls his eyes and leans against the wall. “He always looks pissed.”

“I don’t want to die, TC!” Skywarp squeaks, grabbing Thundercracker’s arm and pulling them together. “We let the Matrix get away, there’s no chance we’re walking out of this room alive!”

“Don’t be so dramatic, we’ll be fine.” Thundercracker assures, lightly patting Skywarp’s hands while they dig into his bicep. It stings a little, but it’s better than the twitchy thing having a breakdown in front of god and everyone else. “He’ll probably put us on graveyard rounds or something for a while.”

Skywarp shudders. “That’s not very helpful.”

“Hey, it’s better than dying.”

“I guess.”

Thundercracker shakes his head and focuses back on Starscream. Megatron has released him and he’s rubbing the base of his neck, clearly in a lot of pain. Then Thundercracker realizes Megatron’s attention is on them. He swallows and nudges Skywarp who looks up then shrinks further behind his older brother. 

“You two— come here.” Megatron crosses his arms after waving them over with one very irritated finger. 

“Just shut up and let me do the talking.” Thundercracker whispers. Skywarp nods quietly and lets go of his arm before they both step into the light of the vast yet empty throne room. Made to appear as a seemingly endless void of black walls, stone floors, and an open air ceiling. One might assume it a decent place for a bot to contemplate— relax even. Oddly enough, Megatron spends a lot of time alone in this room, possibly doing exactly that. 

Upon reaching the dais, both Thundercracker and Skywarp bow to their Lord who looks at them as if he’s bored. He turns his back to mount the steps to his throne while speaking to them. “I’m putting you two in charge of searching for The Lost Light . I’ve confirmed it’s the ship Ultra Magnus took as it wasn’t in port when we first settled into Iacon. He’s the only one I know of who possesses its launch key.” Once at his throne, Megatron turns and sits with an odd amount of grace for a mech his size. He leans forward, resting his elbows upon his thighs to show off the curling black tattoos stretching across his broad chest all down his biceps. “Ultra Magnus has the Matrix, you know this, everybody knows this. As of right now there is no Prime and the Matrix has gone dormant meaning we have an undetermined window of time to find it and destroy it. If my rule is to be lasting I need that thing gone as soon as possible. Otherwise we risk things going back to how they were before: where bots were shackled by factors out of their control. I don’t imagine you two wish that to happen again.”

“No, my lord.” Thundercracker says. Skywarp just shakes his head. 

“Good.” Megatron laces his fingers together and leans back in his throne. “It may take some time to find them, but they’ll get comfortable and let their guard down. Their power-grid faltering for even a millisecond could be the difference between our permanent victory or another five-million-years of war. I know it seems a waste for mechs with your abilities to sit by scanners at all hours, but I’d consider this a fair punishment for your brother’s incompetence .” That last word dripped with venom, sending chills down Starscream’s spine while warming Thundercracker’s core with ire. 

“And when we locate the ship—” Thundercracker inquires carefully after calming himself. “What do we do?”

A breath of a laugh quirks up a corner of Megatron’s mouth. “Go after it, of course. Though, I can’t send you two alone, and Starscream has other duties which demand he remain here.” The overlord ponders for a moment before releasing a fully devious grin. “I’d say that would be a good mission for Commander Blitzwing to accompany you on.”

Thundercracker’s eyes widen, but only for a moment. He composes himself while quietly grabbing Skywarp before he could stumble backwards. “It would be an honor to work with a Decepticon of his caliber.” He says once Skywarp is steady. 

Megatron hums, seemingly pleased, then waves his hand as if to shoo them off. “You’re dismissed.”

The Seeker brothers all bow and quickly, yet reverently, file into the corridor, waiting for the doors to shut before allowing each other a moment to breathe a little relief. A moment Skywarp sees as the perfect opportunity to freak out. 

“Commander Blitzwing?! ” Skywarp howls, dragging his hands across his dark face. “That guy’s a raging lunatic . He’d eat us to sate his appetite before burning that entire ship to the ground and sipping up the Autobot’s bled energon with a straw !”

Thundercracker scoffs. “Again with the dramatics, Skywarp. Blitzwing isn’t a vicious cannibal.” ’ Raging lunatic’ is certainly accurate. 

“Yeah, but he’s actually insane.” Skywarp doubles down, sliding to the floor with his back against the wall. “I can’t work with him, have you seen when he’s gone manic? He has absolutely no control! He breathes white fire. Do you two not realize how hot fire has to be to appear white? ”

“But he can control when he has episodes. It’s a last resort sort of thing for him.” Starscream points out, leaning against the wall by Skywarp and crossing his ankles. He then looks down at his mewling baby brother. “Have you ever even spoken to him before?”

“No! He freaks me out. I see him coming my way and I just dip.” 

“Look, buddy, it’ll be fine.” Thundercracker assures. He sits down with Skywarp and pats his back with a rare smile. “I’ll keep myself between you and him if it makes you feel better.”

Skywarp nods. “Okay… that works.”

Long story short, Blitzwing is a miraculously living example of the madness that wiped out the majority of the triple-changers. Three alt-modes have a way of messing with a bot’s processor. Messing with it to the point bots couldn’t live with themselves so they’d suck-start a rifle, jump into a fire pit, some even tore out their cogs and allowed themselves to bleed to death. Hopefully Megatron doesn’t become part of that statistic in the future. 

Thundercracker squeezes Skywarp’s shoulder and stands up again, meeting Starscream’s disapproving eye. “What?”

“You have to quit babying him.” Starscream says. Skywarp glares up at him but he ignores it, then gesturing down towards the conversation’s new subject. “He can barely polish his own livery without you butting in ‘cause he has the setting too high.”

Thundercracker looks down at Skywarp and suddenly that full-fledged mech is gone. Just a pair of bright, wide eyes and stumpy limbs trapped in a recharge-crib remain. His processor floods with the intrusive sounds of screaming, breaking furniture, and a younger Starscream shouting at him: 

“Just kill him! Kill him so things can go back to normal! Please—“

With a slow breath out and his focus returned to the present, Thundercracker squared his shoulder to face Starscream head-on. “Do you really want to start this? Do you really want to pick a fight right here after having your ass chewed or are you trying to distract us from suffering with a bullshit assignment because of your incompetence?” 

For a moment Starscream hesitates, sizing up his heavy-hitter of an older brother. Physique-wise, Starscream is the lightest of the siblings. Skywarp possesses his same height, but is not as petite in the arms and waist, while Thundercracker is the obvious powerhouse. Not nearly as fast as the other two but can break a bot’s skull open with one hand while taking down another troop with a quick snap of his fingers and a fatal crack of lightning. He simply doesn’t need to move fast. 

Then Starscream scoffs with a hateful smirk. “So you go and get yourself covered in a bunch of fancy tattoos and suddenly think you’re tough?”

“Trust me, it’s not the tattoos that make me tough.” Thundercracker sneers, leaning closer to his smug brother. “You just don’t want to fight me because you know the only way you’d win is by running away— that’s what you do best, after all.” 

“Maybe if you hadn’t slacked off during your training to protect that sniveling little twerp you’d be the one getting your ass handed to you by Mega—“ A fist cracking Starscream’s jaw silences his insulting tirade, sending the First Lieutenant sprawling on the floor. He lets out a painful groan, clutching at his face as Energon puddles at the floor beneath his head. 

Thundercracker stops his brother from attempting to stand up, placing a heavy foot at the center of his chest, slowly cracking his cockpit’s amber glass. He crouches down to the point he can smell the sickly sweet scent wafting from the blood leaking out Starscream’s nose and mouth. “Trust me, I don’t want your fucking job. If I did I would have it. Just know that if it were me in charge I wouldn’t have to worry about having my ass handed to me by Megatron because I actually know how to work within the scope of my abilities. You’re far too arrogant to know when to stop,” he grabs Starscream’s face, tilting his head from side-to-side before letting go and flicking off the Energon clung to his fingers. “Which is why we lost the Matrix, and also why your jaw is now most likely broken.” He grins and stands up, lifting his boot to release his brother. “Go get yourself fixed up and maybe try to learn to quit picking fights you can’t win.”

Skywarp is quick to follow Thundercracker, matching his long strides as best as possible. He clears his throat. “Thank you, TC. I—“

“He’s right.” Thundercracker says. “I do need to stop babying you.”

They turn a corner, stepping out into a courtyard of burnt trees and twisted metal. Thundercracker takes a seat at a bench outside what used to be a meditation garden. Its winding rows of flowers have all died but the platinum statue of Primus remains a reverent ghost of coated ash at its center. Cybertron has many centuries of healing before returning to its full former beauty. 

Skywarp takes the space beside his brother. Dust kicks up from beneath his heel. 

“You have no idea your potential, Skywarp.” Thundercracker continues now that his black and violet brother has settled. “You possess quite literally the rarest and most powerful ability of any Cybertronian, yet you use it to screw with Soundwave and skip briefings when you’re bored.” He laughs, rubbing his face. “I guess I also have myself to blame for that. I let you get away with too much.”

”You're not my father.” Skywarp stiffens his jaw. “I’m not really your responsibility.”

“Actually, you are.” Thundercracker bites back, now glaring at his baby brother. “ You've been my responsibility since day one. Starscream wanted nothing to do with you and our guardians they—“ he sighs, biting his tongue. “They had too many personal issues to deal with you so I was all you had.” He crosses his arms and leans back on the bench. “I’m not a monster, I wasn’t going to let you be neglected and die.”

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because shits about to get serious.” Thundercracker says. “The war isn’t over. This ‘victory’ is merely a glorified ceasefire and when tensions kick back up I guarantee it’ll make the last five-million-years look like child’s play. Us now loudly targeting the Matrix is just asking for retaliation, so I need you to be able to go out on your own and handle your shit without me breathing down your neck.” He exhales sharply out his nose. “You’re not a sparkling anymore and it’s time I allowed myself to see that. I’m not doing you any favors by holding your hand— I’m sure as hell not admitting that to Starscream though.”

Skywarp laughs and nudges Thundercracker’s shoulder. “So, uhh, how much trouble do you think you’ll be in once Megatron hears you realigned Screamer’s jaw?”

“None, probably.” Thundercracker declares with a confident grin. “I’m convinced the only reason Megatron keeps that mech around is because he’s good eye candy. That and he’s a pretty persistent punching bag.”

Skywarp makes a twisted face of disgust. “You think Starscream’s hot?”

“Not for me personally!” Thundercracker shoves his little brother’s head down. “Don’t be such a perv.”

Skywarp leans back and gives Thundercracker a firm yet playful kick to the side, a move met with a sudden shock of electricity paralyzing him briefly and knocking him to the ground coughing. “HUUUH, you asshole!”

Thundercracker crosses his legs with an exaggerated grin of victory. “I already taught this lesson once today and I’m not a huge fan of repeating myself.”

“Oh, but please do— I need a review.” Skywarp pushes himself upright only to be shoved back down by his brother. 

“I won’t break your jaw but I will gladly humiliate you by locking your t-cog while mid transformation.” Thundercracker raises his brow just as Skywarp tries to stand again only for him to flop back down upon seeing his brother’s disdainful stare. It wasn’t too pleasant of a threat either. One he’s followed through on before during a rather petty argument while on Earth. 

“I hate you.” 

Thundercracker wipes at his mouth. “Get over it. I’m the only reason you’re even alive to be a pain in everyone’s ass.”

Skywarp takes a breath, accepting his loss. “Do you think we’ll actually find the Matrix?”

“Maybe.”

“And… what about Blitzwing?”

“We’ll worry about that when we have to.”

Chapter Text

║┠ HOT ROD ┨║

A sudden shockwave briefly rattled The Lost Light and its inhabitants. Hot Rod sets his glass down on the bar top, narrowing his optics to see out a nearby window. Just above the ridge line a few clicks south, black clouds billow above peaks of slate stone. He frowns and quietly dismisses himself, leaving behind a group of murmuring and confused Autobots. 

Through a seemingly endless maze of corridors containing hab suites, private offices, vacant functional suites all spanning multiple stories, Hot Rod reaches the captain’s office just outside the ship’s bridge. Inside sits Ultra Magnus typing at his console. He obviously sees his First Lieutenant walk in but doesn’t acknowledge him. 

Hot Rod stares at his commander for a moment, listening to those fat fingers clacking away on the keyboard. Of course, the staredown doesn’t last long as Ultra Magnus lets out a long sigh after only a few seconds. “What is it, Hot Rod?”

“Did you not feel that shockwave? You know, the one that shook the whole ship for a good half minute?” 

Another sigh. “Yes, I felt it.”

Hot Rod opens his arms with a sarcastic yet expecting half-smile. “So uhh, we gonna go check it out? I saw smoke just on the other side of the mountains, there could be some—“

He stops when Ultra Magnus calmly raises his hand. “You know the protocol, Hot Rod. We are to not set a single foot outside the suppression shield; the moment we do, we risk detection by the Decepticons.”

“But you’re the one who sent out that message.” Hot Rod points out— evenly though not without the bite of frustration. “If it’s more of us then what does it matter if we step out? The ‘Cons could pick up the their energy—“

“If it’s more Autobots they will know how to find the ship.” Ultra Magnus interjects again. He lifts his visor to rub at his optics. “And they aren’t scanning for our signatures, specifically, because no energy signature could be detected by them at such extreme distances. They’re scanning for the Matrix which has a more detectable radioactive signature. Radiation which all of us on this ship have been exposed to for an extended period which means it’s now embedded in our metal.”

Hot Rod feels himself heating up but he takes a breath to keep his voice level. “Be that as it may; they obviously crashed, they could be injured and not able to make it without help.”

“Look, I’m not happy about having to sit and hope they don’t actually need our assistance, but I can’t jeopardize the rest of us. It would be irresponsible of me as their leader.” Ultra Magnus leans back in his seat, though not to shrink away from his Lieutenant’s obvious disapproval and judgement. “You have a good spark, Hot Rod, but you don’t think these things through. If you ever hope to lead one day you need to understand it’s a position that often requires choosing who to save and who to leave behind.”

PROXIMITY ALERT. PROXIMITY ALERT. MOVEMENT DETECTED. 

Hot Rod and Ultra Magnus both dart into the bridge, pulling up its security cameras through flashing red lights. Approaching the stern of the ship is a group of four bots. The Autobot commanders immediately recognize Ratchet and disengage the security alarm. Hot Rod clicks on the ship’s intercom. “Pharma you’re needed at the stern gangway. Repeat: Pharma you’re needed at the stern gangway ASAP.” He shuts off the intercom, joining Ultra Magnus at a brisk run towards the back of the ship soon outpacing the larger, heavier mech. 

Rounding a corner, Hot Rod nearly loses his balance, catching himself before sliding down an incline and punching the switch to deploy the ramp. Cool wind buffets his metal and he shields his eyes from the planet’s near blinding white sun until they can adjust and he lowers his arm just as the ramp settles into the grass. “Ratchet!” Hot Rod jogs down the ramp to greet his old friend, his smiling fading upon seeing his injured arm. “Are you sure you should be carrying— him?”

Ratchet frowns. Ratchet always frowns. “I’m not worried about me right now, I need to get Rung to the medibay or he will die.”

Hot Rod looks down at the unconscious bot in the medic’s arms. Small and unimpressive, undoubtedly a scholar of some sort. God, those can’t be glasses. 

“What’s happened?” Ultra Magnus joins the converged group as Hot Rod leads Ratchet with Rung up into the ship. 

“I’m taking them to Pharma.” Hot Rod says, then addressing Ratchet over his shoulder. “We should run into him on the way up.”

Ratchet nods then starts calling to the bots behind him. “Zephyr; brief with Ultra Magnus and Drift then find me at the medibay. We’ll likely need the extra hands.”

The white and red femme who walked up with Ratchet acknowledges him with a slight nod before she faces Ultra Magnus with the last of their group— Drift? 

“Hey, you taking us to Pharma or what?” 

Hot Rod shakes his head realizing he let his eyes linger a little too long down the ramp. “Yeah, sorry— this way.” He leads Ratchet up into the main corridor of the ship just as another medic sporting white and red with hints of blue rounds the corner with a medkit. “Pharma!” Hot Rod waves him down and the new medic comes to a stop in front of Ratchet, focusing on Rung. 

“What happened?” Pharma checks Rung for a pulse at his neck and removes his glasses. He opens his optics lids to find them dulling steadily. “We’re losing him.” Pharma grabs Rung and hands him to Hot Rod, spitting out instructions almost too fast for him to comprehend “You’re far faster than either of us, even on your feet. Run him to the medibay, I’ve already got a berth set up in the first trauma room. To the immediate left of the berth is a rescue spark support box with magnetic chest leads attached on either side. Place those leads on his chest plates with the spark chamber as perfectly center as you can manage. All you’ll need to do is switch on the box and it’ll keep him with us until we can determine what’s wrong.”

Hot Rod nods, adjusting the unconscious bot in his arms before turning and breaking into a sprint down the hall. He makes sure to hold Rung close to him so as to not jostle the weakened bots innards too much, skirting corners, dodging other bots, rushing through doors, and climbing seemingly endless stairways. Hot Rod’s own spark feels as if it’ll explode through his chest by the time he reaches the medibay and shoulders through the cracked door. He blinks away condensation while looking for the first trauma room, relieved to find it is the only one with the lights on. He slides the door open with his foot and carefully lays Rung down on the berth. 

“Okay, okay—“ Hot Rod whips around, looking for that box, but the adrenaline burning his veins has his vision slightly out of focus. “Oh come on . Fuck— where are you, ya stupid box!” 

Finally, he catches a glimpse of something white and blue obscured by the room’s computer console shadow and hoists it up onto a side table. He removes the leads and sticks them as neatly as his mild panic allows and switches the machine on. There’s a slight metallic hum before its components kick on with a whir, giving Rung’s body a jolt before his color steadily returns. 

Hot Rod drops into the stool in front of the console and takes a breath of relief. “Nice to meet you, Rung.” He mumbles wryly, shutting his eyes. 

Ten minutes later, Ratchet and Pharma burst in, startling Hot Rod out of his almost nap. He’s quick to move out of their way as they start checking over Rung. Ratchet produces a diagnostic scanner from a supply cart behind him and hovers it over Rung’s torso while talking quietly to Pharma some medical jargon no one but them understands. 

As Hot Rod goes to slip out the door, he bumps into another, shorter bot. “Ope, sorry about that.” He says. 

“That’s okay.” The femme Ratchet called Zephyr, gives him a brief smile before squeezing past to join the other medics. 

Hot Rod watches her for a moment as Ratchet seems to be giving her a list. She pulls out a data pad and stylus to write down what he’s telling her before turning back to the door, her head still down. Hot Rod goes to move out of her way only to bump into yet another, this time taller bot. “Primus on a bike, could people please stop standing so damn close to me!” He barks. 

“Or just focus on where you’re going and not who's walking away.” A new deep, strangely accented voice drones. 

Hot Rod grits his teeth, pinning a glare to the bot behind him. “What makes you think I’m not paying attention, pal ?”

“Because your eyes were following that femme like a pair of little lustful electromagnets.” He holds out a hand. “It’s Drift, by the way, not ‘pal.’”

Hot Rod’s brow lifts but he begrudgingly takes the new bot’s hand, giving a single firm shake before letting go. “Hot Rod.”

Drift crosses his arms and seems to size up his new acquaintance before breathing a laugh. “Do those flame tattoos somehow make you faster?”

With a frown, Hot Rod can’t help but look at the orange and yellow curls of fire adorning his coordinating armor. They wrap all the way up from the wrist of one arm to his chest where they fan out behind his Autobot sigil at its center. Sure it’s a bit much, but what else would a bot expect someone named Hot Rod to look like? Pink with flowers? 

“They don’t.” Hot Rod concludes. He waves to Drift and his own fancy tats. “Do yours make those swords sharper?” He makes a gesture with two fingers down the sides of his own face from his eyes. “And what’s with this bullshit? Trying to hide your ugly face?”

Drift just smiles, which makes Hot Rod’s misguided confidence waiver. “First of all: I’m far from ugly. Secondly: my tattoos have religious significance to me and aren’t just a poor way to inflate my weak ego.” 

“Religious—“ Hot Rod stops himself, losing his smugness entirely. “Oh my god, you’re one of those .”

Drift moves to sit down on an empty bench, crossing his legs. “One of what? Enlighten me, Hot Rod .”

Zephyr comes back around, rolling a cart of scary and sharp instruments into the room before the door hisses shut behind her. Again, Hot Rod realizes he was distracted and looks to find Drift watching him rather smugly. “You’re one of those bots that can read people’s auras or whatever.” Hot Rod says, pulling the focus back on Drift. “The weirdos that place a lot of importance on color.”

Briefly, Drift’s optics dull in what Hot Rod can only assume is irritation. He then points at the new bot’s face. “Oh, and you can do that.”

“Do what?”

“Manipulate your optic color based on mood.”

“Hm, I can’t imagine I’m the first Spectralist you’ve encountered.” 

Hot Rod shrugs, casually leaning against the wall. “You are, but I’m also not an idiot.”

“No, however, you act like one.” Drift’s smile returns which makes Hot Rod scowl. 

“Bold assumption of someone you just met.”

“Perhaps, but I can see that you’re nervous and trying to play it off. Reading people is kind of my thing.” Drift nods to the occupied trauma room. “Though it’s his job to get into the why of it all.”

Hot Rod shudders. “Is he a shrink or something?” When Drift nods, Hot Rod throws his head back in a sigh. “Great, that’s the last thing we need on this ship.”

“You never know. He’s not bad to simply have a conversation with if he’s actually in the mood for casually talking. Otherwise he’s preoccupied with his ship models.”

Hot Rod scoffs. “Nerd.”

“Everyone has their thing.”

“What’s yours? With those wheels and that name I don’t think it’s a bit of a stretch to assume you’ve raced a time or two.” 

“I may have. I spent a little time on Earth while doing some soul-searching and was a frequent participant of underground racing circuits in Japan.”

“Nice.” Hot Rod feels himself easing up and shifts his weight on his feet. “Maybe you and I could have a little race sometime. I can show you the real flames that do make me faster.”

Drift’s eyes shift to the line of triple chrome exhaust pipes on both of Hot Rod’s forearms. He chuckles, then pointing to them. “Oh, please don’t tell me you shoot fire out of those.”

“Oh—“ Hot Rod lifts an arm and balls his fist. Steady fire curls up out of the pipes. “But I do.”

“Primus.” Drift laughs. “Everything about you is obnoxious.”

“What can I say?” Hot Rod shrugs, still smiling. “I’m the greatest.”

The pair of them go back and forth for an undetermined amount of time up until Ultra Magnus steps in with his usual lack of— anything. He directs his attention to his First Lieutenant who has dropped his smile and laughter. During their conversation he joined Drift on the bench, but stood up before his commander saw him.“Any update on Rung?”

“No, sir.” Hot Rod says. 

“It’s been nearly four hours.” Ultra Magnus points out. “Surely they know something.”

As if they were waiting for the right time, the door to the room glides open. Zephyr steps out while wiping her hands with a towel covered in oil and energon. She looks between the mechs all watching her, stopping twice on Hot Rod before focusing on Ultra Magnus. “It was a bit hairy at first but Rung should be fine. He had a lot of internal damage from the crash but it was nothing Pharma and Ratchet couldn’t repair.”

Relief falls over the bots and Ultra Magnus nods with satisfaction. “Good to hear. I’ll leave you to it, keep me updated on his progress.”

“Yes sir.” Zephyr bows her head as Ultra Magnus walks out. Her optics then shift to another. “You’re First Lieutenant Hot Rod, I’m assuming.” She points to the fiery mech. 

“Yes.” He responds, withholding a confident smirk. 

“Thank you for your assistance with Rung.” She’s now smiling. “Without you bringing him here as quickly as you did we probably would have lost him. You’re very light on your feet.” Then she extends a clean hand to him. “I’m Zephyr of Iacon, Ratchet’s apprentice.”

Hot Rod takes her hand much lighter than he had Drift’s. “Zephyr of Iacon— that’s a tad formal, but I’ll bite: Hot Rod of Nyon, but I’ll also respond to: Rod, Roddy, Rodders, Greatest of All Time, That Asshole, Sir, LT, Fastest Bot Alive, and, obviously— Hot Rod.”

Zephyr laughs, letting go of his hand. “Wow, a bot of many names. Very impressive.”

“Ah, it’s nothing. I’m not smart enough to be something like a medic so I just get put in the position to boss around bots somehow dumber than me.” He glances at Drift then winks at her, letting that smirk appear. 

“Ooh, don’t do that.” Zephyr says with a nervous laugh, holding up her hands. “You don’t want me like that. You think you do because you think I’m pretty, but you don’t want me. I mean, you’re very cute in spite of the cliche tattoos all over you but I’m just not— yeah… no. Thank you again, though.” She slips back into the room. Hot Rod swallows and his smile vanishes. 

“What the hell was that?” He asks Drift, sounding far more offended than he meant to but less than he truly is. 

Drift shrugs. “Like I said, the shrink’s in there. I’ve only known Zephyr for not even a year and the most she’s ever said to me was right before we landed. Ratchet mentioned in passing something about her struggling with the relocation but he was lying— can’t say why though.”

Hot Rod rolls his eyes and tightens his arms over his chest. “Whatever.”

“At least she thinks you’re cute.”

“Cute is for sparklings.” Hot Rod sneers. “Cute is for your younger sibling when they do something stupid. I’m not cute— I’m hot . The type of hot that makes you sweat and want to touch yourself at night when I’m not around. I’m not fucking cute .”

Drift picks up a roll of gauze and turns it over in his hands, clearly suppressing laughter. “You don’t handle rejection well, do you?”

Irritation rattles within Hot Rod’s chest. “Shut up—“ he ducks as Drift suddenly lobs that roll of gauze at his head, nicking the tip of one of his golden finials. He straightens up with a burning rage directed at the snickering mech. A rage clenching at his throat and stinging his eyes. “ Asshole ! You know I can write you up for assaulting an officer.”

“Yeah, but you won’t.” Drift mocks, tilting his head. Hot Rod glares at that mech’s own weirdly tall finials. And he thinks my tattoos are unnecessary.  

“Not yet.” Hot Rod throws the gauze back and Drift catches it without flinching. “I can’t stand you.”

“Weird ‘cause I actually kinda like you.” 

“I’m not into mechs.” Hot Rod states plainly. 

Drift rolls his eyes. “Apparently you have a bad lying habit too. We should really work on that.”

“I’m not working on shit with you.” Hot Rod starts out the door, stopping to grab one of Drift’s finials, pulling at it before shoving him away. “And your helm looks stupid. Cut those down before they catch on something.”

“Hah!” Drift throws his head back in laughter and calls after Hot Rod now halfway down the hall. “I believe that’s what someone like Rung would call: deflection .”

“Go fuck yourself, new guy!”

Only when Hot Rod rounds the corner and is out of view of the medibay does he give himself a moment to quietly laugh while wiping away tears. 

Chapter Text

║┠ ZEPHYR ┨║

Why are these pieces so tiny?!

Carefully, with hands as steady and precise as the medic she hopes to be, she picks up the last microscopic panel detail with her tweezers and moves to place it. She holds her tongue part way past her lips while supporting her wrist with her free hand, her head cocked to the side and eyes nearly going crossed. There’s a light chuckle at the head of the berth. 

“Shush, you’re gonna make me drop it.” Zephyr huffs, not pulling her eyes from the model as she places the piece in its spot at the ship’s bow. With the blunt end of the tweezers she presses the piece down until it clicks into place and leans back with a satisfied smile. 

“Oh, that looks wonderful.” Rung says, voice still hoarse from the ventilator tube that spent the last week down his throat. “I can’t wait to display it in my new office.”

The femme picks up her model from the table and inspects it. A one-to-fifty scale model of the Autobot ship The Ark . She smiles, holding it out for Rung to see in the light. “You better put this one on your desk.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of placing it anywhere else.” Rung croaks out while returning her grin. 

Behind her, the door slicks open. “Morning, Rung, how’s your throat feeling?”

“Still a bit scratchy.” Rung says while rubbing his neck. 

Ratchet logs onto the console. “Think you could swallow a bit of cooling compound? It’ll help relieve the burning.”

“It’s worth a try.” 

“Zephyr, would you—“

“On it.” She stands up before Ratchet can finish his request and trots out of the room towards the pharmaceutical storage area, slinking through the propped open door and searching the shelves. 

Her optics land on a glass bottle full of swirling silver liquid at the top shelf. With a sigh she stretches up onto the tips of her boots, reaching as far as she can but only managing to tink the bottle with her fingertips. “Son of a—“

“Hold on, hold on— let me get that for you before you blow a strut.” An arm easily reaches over her and grabs the bottle, passing it to her. 

“Thanks.” Zephyr moves out of his way, keeping her head down. 

Pharma gives her a playful nudge and a wink. “No worries, love. Good to see you out of hiding.”

Zephyr rolls her eyes and walks past the senior medic. “I’ve not been hiding.”

“Oh, so what do you call spending every waking moment—meals, rounds, spare time— in Rung’s room?” Pharma follows her down the hall, clasping his hands behind his back wearing a hooded (and slightly unsettling) grin. 

Zephyr turns to look her superior head-on, stopping him mid-step. Once she’s certain she has his attention she gestures around her. A medibay full of vacant berths and quiet rooms. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize we were inundated with patients. Are my services needed elsewhere?”

Pharma takes a deep breath, crossing his arms over his chest. He doesn’t pull his eyes from the snarky femme before chuckling. “Heh, Ratchet failed to mention that little attitude of yours.”

“I don’t have an attitude.” Zephyr insists, turning back towards Rung’s room. “I just hate pointless questions. We have exactly one patient at this point in time and so I see nothing wrong with me staying at his side to keep him company.” She stops, clicking the button to open the door to his room, watching Pharma approach her. “And can you stop taking such a patronizing tone with me? It’s really not cute. I’m an adult.”

They both walk in and Pharma snorts. “Ratchet, it seems your apprentice has picked up a little more than advanced medical knowledge from you.”

Ratchet lifts his optics from his data pad, shifting them to Zephyr who quickly looks away. “Oh?”

“She’s got quite the mouth.” Says Pharma, taking a seat on the side of Rung’s berth opposite from the femme in question. “Might I suggest a little reprieve from this room for her to clear her head? Perhaps give her the chance to remember how she’s to speak to her superiors.”

Zephyr directs a nasty glare to Pharma who gives her a smug wink in return. There’s a light squeeze on her arm and she looks to Rung. With his glasses off she can see his sympathy full on. “He's right. You would benefit from socializing with other company. You’ve practically been isolated for the better part of a year.”

“But I’m fine.” Zephyr insists. “Really.”

Ratchet leans against Rung’s berth beside her. He has that look. A look she knows she can’t ignore. He’s not looking at her as her teacher giving her instruction, but as a guardian—a father— concerned for her wellbeing. “Zeph, go have lunch with the rest of the crew. There’s a good number of bots here your age so make some friends. If we need you I’ll page.”

She takes a moment to consider it, not that she really has an option. When Ratchet tells her to do something she better damn well do it or face severe consequences later on. Especially once he goes into dad-mode. People who fear Ratchet as a stern medic should consider themselves lucky they weren’t raised by him. 

With a frustrated huff, Zephyr pushes to her feet and goes to leave, but a hand around her wrist stops her. “Look at me.” Ratchet commands gently. She does, expression incredulous, and says nothing, allowing Ratchet to say what he needs to say. “Please try— for me. Just try, okay?”

She nods and he lets her go. 

She took the long way to the mess hall, but even walking what feels like miles around the monstrous ship doesn’t take long enough. Sooner than preferred she finds herself standing outside the frosted glass doors of the ship’s cafeteria. Through them she can hear indistinct chatter, laughter, metal utensils clinking together. Colorful blurs pass by the doors completely unaware of her presence on the other side. Outside Hot Rod, Pharma, and Ultra Magnus, she hasn’t met a single other Autobot on the ship. She purposely skipped their orientation, wanting to avoid the inevitable moment where Ultra Magnus would introduce them to a crowd of strange faces. Making friends was never Zephyr’s strongest suit, more or less because of her complete disinterest in the concept of friendship. She’d always been a loner. Before— him. 

She shakes her head and steps through the doors into the hall bright with sunlight from massive windows on the wall opposite of her. Nobody looks up, they all continue talking amongst each other, sharing in jokes, stories, and pointless, happy conversation. All those cheerful vibes filling the room are jarring to her as she crosses it to grab a tray of food. Her spark beats loudly in her head and she barely pays attention to what all she’s grabbing before turning around, her optics like magnets to the single empty table near the outside of the room. 

Only a few steps away from her seat, Zephyr is yanked away by someone. “ Hey !” She yelps, raising her hand to smack their hand away but they catch her wrist and she looks up into Drift’s laughing face. “Let me go, Drift!” 

“I’ve been given rather strict orders to make sure you socialize.” He whispers, a satisfied smile lilting his words with bemusement. “And socializing starts with sitting at full tables, not empty ones.”

Zephyr frowns at him and continues to hold the glare as he guides her over to where he was sitting and forces her down in the seat beside his. He sets her tray and drink on the table. As soon as she looks up she’s met with Hot Rod’s self-righteous smirk. “‘Sup, beautiful. How nice of you to join us.”

“I had no choice.” She says flatly. Drift sits down beside her, taking a sip of his energon. 

“She’s been hiding out with Rung.” He says. “Helping him build model ships.”

Zephyr shoots him another glare. “Seriously?”

“What? I’m just helping get this conversation going.” He then points to the other bots around them, looking at Hot Rod. “Roddy, feel like introducing her?”

Roddy?  

“Absolutely!” Hot Rod enthuses. He wraps an arm around a stocky red mech to his immediate left. “This stumpy asshole is Cliffjumper. He’s currently going through withdrawals as he hasn’t killed a ‘Con in ages— a tragedy, truly.” 

“Ignore him.” Cliffjumper says, reaching across the table to shake Zephyr’s hand then sitting back down. “Most of what comes out of his mouth is nonsense anyway.”

“Yeah, I’m picking up on that.” 

Hot Rod rolls his eyes then nicely pats the shoulder of a deep blue mech absorbed in a data pad while sipping tea. “This nerd is Bluestreak. He has an unhealthy obsession with all things human.”

Bluestreak lowers the data pad and Zephyr blinks upon seeing his face. He looks exactly like Iacon Police Chief Prowl. “There’s nothing wrong with me taking a fascination to an outside culture.” He shifts his attention to Zephyr and she can’t help but smile upon seeing his own beaming face. “I’m sure you don’t remember me but we’ve met before. You were barely to the bend of my knee last time I saw you. Ratchet is good friends with my twin brother, Prowl.” He gives her a polite once-over. “You’ve grown into a very fine femme, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

She shakes her head. “Not at all, I’m sorry I don’t remember you better.”

“It’s alright, you were little. I used to walk around the hospital Ratchet worked at with you on my shoulders. You had the cutest little giggle and such tiny feet and hands and—“

Her cheeks heat and she rubs her face. 

“Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” Bluestreak recoils and Hot Rod gives him a reassuring pat on his back. 

“It’s alright, buddy.” The lieutenant assures. “She doesn’t seem to take compliments well.”

Zephyr straightens up. “I take them just fine, thank you.”

Hot Rod takes a bite of an energon cake. “Easy, I meant no harm.” He rests his elbows on the table, leaning forward to really look at her. “Primus, you’re defensive.”

“And you’re annoying.” She retorts, jabbing a fork into a sweet fruit. 

“You and I have barely had a decent conversation, so how exactly can you make that judgement?” 

“I know your type.” Zephyr pops the fruit in her mouth and forks another. “Always has something to prove, loud and confident yet insecure as hell.”

“Hmph.” Hot Rod snatches the fruit from her fork and tosses it in his mouth. “Guess you’ve got me pegged, huh?”

“I guess I do.” 

“Okay, Miss Smarty-Wings.” He says, producing a data pad and dropping it onto the table. He holds her gaze firmly. “You’ve been a medic for nearly two million years yet Ratchet has yet to sign your release from training or allow you to perform procedures unsupervised. Seems a little odd for someone insisting to be so clever.”

Zephyr grabs the data pad. “Why the hell are you reading my file?”

“I’m First Lieutenant, it’s kind of my job to know everyone aboard this ship.”

Zephyr holds up the data pad and stares at Hot Rod in complete disbelief. “Are you trying to spite me for what I said to you the other day?”

“No, but I did find it an odd thing to say so I got curious.” Hot Rod admits, crossing his legs. Drift, Cliffjumper, and Bluestreak watch the pair in silent shock. No one around their table appears to detect the strange tension and go about their own business none the wiser. “I don’t really think it’s that big of a deal.”

Zephyr stared at the First Lieutenant for a few drawn-out seconds. Her breathing picked up in an attempt to settle her raging spark and hopefully withhold all those embarrassed tears. She finally manages a new sentence. “You have to be the single most stupid mech I’ve ever met in my entire life.” She shoves to her feet, still firmly holding onto her data pad. “I was just trying to have a fun, maybe even flirty conversation and you thought this was appropriate to bring up?” She rounds the table and just as she passes behind Hot Rod, that choked down anger suddenly boils over. She whips around, meeting his wide eyes with pure hot ire before smacking him over the helm with the data pad, cracking it in half. “That was a hateful thing to do!” She shouts in his face, slamming the remains of the pad to the ground and stomping it while continuing to scream at him. “You’re hateful! Hateful, hateful, hateful !”

Hot Rod rubs the back of his head while wincing and flinching away from the irate femme. “I’m sor—“

“ Shut up !” She hollers. “Shut. Up. You think you can get away with treating someone you don’t even know like that—“

“ Hey !” Hot Rod is now standing over her, sending daggers through her optics. “Don’t forget: I'm your commanding officer and I can have you locked below for insubordination. You can stay quietly mad all you want but I will not tolerate you belittling and screaming at me in public.”

Zephyr scissors her jaw and turns to storm off. “You’re a hateful bot, Hot Rod. Absolutely hateful!”

Hot Rod sits down and mumbles something under his breath, Zephyr doesn’t hear all of it but her audio receptors tick at the uttering of a single biting word: bitch.  

In a blink she’s back at the table, sending her fist right into Hot Rod’s jaw, nearly knocking him to the floor. “Say that to my face, shithead! ” 

Drift is quick to grab Zephyr after leaping the table, holding her arms back before she can try to land another hit. And now all eyes are on their table. Hot Rod grunts, touching his jaw, wiping away energon as it drips from the corner of his mouth. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

“Zephyr!”

Attention shifts to Ratchet at the entrance of the cafeteria. He’s honed in on his charge held tight by Drift; spotting her cracked knuckles and Hot Rod’s bloodied face. ”Someone start explaining now .” 

“She’s officially on probation!” Hot Rod shouts while pointing to the femme who immediately stills upon seeing Ratchet. “She’s to not leave the medibay without you or Pharma present until further notice and I expect daily behavioral assessments until I’m personally confident she’s stable.” He then shoves past the medic, stopping for a moment to hiss quietly to him. “Get her under control or I’ll do it myself and my way involves a cold, lonely cell with shackles.”

“Are you out of your mind, Zephyr? You actually assaulted a senior Autobot officer in front of Primus and everyone and you don’t seem the least bit rueful.” Ratchet stops his pacing to look at the femme as she sits on the edge of her berth. He brought her to her own hab suite to talk, which she silently appreciates as it’s soundproof and no one will be able to hear if he starts yelling. “Well?” He presses, obviously expecting a clear answer and quickly. 

Zephyr sighs, crossing her arms. “He started it.” Is all she says. 

“Oh for the love of— ugh , Zephyr, please.” He sits down on the berth beside her, rubbing between his optics. There’s a slow exhale from the older bot and he lays a gentle hand on her thigh while staring out the foggy porthole window above her little desk. “I know you’ve been having a hard time dealing with Offset’s death, but hiding out in the medibay and picking fights with officers to avoid socializing is not how you go about dealing with it.”

She grinds her teeth and says nothing. The topic of Offset has been one of great sensitivity to her, but Ratchet bringing him up was inevitable. He’s only been dead a year, but even ten or a hundred years from now might have seemed too soon. “So— what? He’s already ordered you to keep me on a tight leash, but I assume you have another punishment in mind.”

“For starters you’re going to apologize, profusely.” Ratchet pats her leg and stands up. “And you can do that when you go to repair his jaw.” 

“ What ?” Zephyr also stands. “You can’t make me do that! I won’t— absolutely not!”

“I can and you will .” Ratchet opens the door. “I’ll give you a few minutes to compose yourself— he’s in eighteen when you’re ready.”

The door closes and Zephyr throws herself down on the berth. There’s a painful twinge in her belly— the familiar twist of guilt for what she did, but her stubborn nature— her pride— make the idea of apologizing even less appealing than merely living with her actions.

She sits up again, grabbing her communicator from its dock beside her bed and clicking it at her hip. Might as well get this over with. Of course her first time treating a patient solo the patient is also her victim. It makes the milestone less satisfying, which is more than likely Ratchet’s point. It’s not a reward if she’s agitated the whole time. Jerk. 

Outside room eighteen is a data pad containing Hot Rod’s chart. Zephyr snatches it from the mount and pulls it open to give it a once-over. Unsurprisingly, she finds a host of major surgeries as a result of high-speed accidents. He’s a whole generation older than her but almost every part of him is new or refab. She shakes her head and knocks on the door. A half-hearted ‘come in’ comes from inside and she walks in, their eyes meet and Hot Rod is unimpressed. “I hope you’re not here expecting me to accept an apology.” He says. 

Not anymore, thank Primus. “Actually, I’m here to fix your face.”

“The face you broke.” Hot Rod clarifies, wincing from the strain of talking. 

“Yes, I’m going to fix the face I broke.” Zephyr maintains a smile and a soft albeit condescending tone of voice. She walks up to the side of the berth to unfold a smaller work light, angling it towards the damaged half of Hot Rod’s jaw before clicking it on. “I don’t suppose it’ll make you feel better to know this is the first time I’ve ever hit anybody.”

“That kinda makes me feel worse.”

Zephyr breathes a low laugh, sitting down. She lowers the head of his berth so she can see his jaw without having to stretch too much. After spraying her hands with a sterilizing mist she gently takes his chin in her hands and turns his head away. The bleeding had stopped and all the dried energon was wiped from his face, though a few crusted splatters remain along his neck and shoulders. “It’s definitely not broken.” She mumbles, mostly to herself. “But I will need to replace a few torn wires before I can fix this gnarly crack.” She’s careful not to touch that specific spot. A jagged line of separation running from the side of Hot Rod’s mouth and down to the edge of his jaw and up to the edge of his cheek lines; a cluster of frayed wires spark every few seconds. Their surge somehow causes Hot Rod’s optics to flicker. She stands up and clicks off the work light for a moment, pulling out a smaller pen light. “Follow my finger. Don’t move your head.”

“Okay.” 

Zephyr holds the light right at his optics, watching their apertures twist and focus on her finger while she slowly hovers it from one side of his head to the other. Their response is normal up until they’re fully engaged towards the injured side of his face. They flicker and stutter and Hot Rod quickly looks forward again, rubbing at his eyes and groaning with discomfort. 

“Well crap.” Zephyr sits back down in the stool, flicking on the work light. 

“That’s not exactly something a patient wants to hear their doctor say.” Hot Rod says with as much lightheartedness as he can manage. “What’s the—“

Zephyr holds up a silencing finger. “Shut up, I’m thinking.”

Hot Rod settles into a pout, staring ahead at the door while she mulls over what to do. They both sit that way for a few solid minutes before Zephyr grabs his face again to inspect the frayed wires with a more precise eye. 

“Are you even going to tell me what’s wrong?” Hot Rod presses, not trying to hide his annoyance. “This is my face you’re screwing with, ya know.”

“Yes, I know.” She releases him to grab some items from a cabinet, scanning them at the console before sitting down again and placing them on the rolling tray table beside her. “So the force of my… hit … may have jammed one of your optical servos. Typically anything optical requires full removal of your facial plate but this crack along your cheek may allow me just enough room to reach under and fix it.”

Hot Rod blinks. “ May ? It may allow you to fix it?”

“I‘ve never done this, but it’s also bad luck to speak with certainty in medicine.” Zephyr grabs a glass tub of numbing salve. “The universe has a habit of taking offense to overly confident doctors.”

“Yeah but you’re not even a doctor yet.” 

Zephyr stops before she can put the salve onto his cheek. “Do you want me to mess up the other half of your face?”

“Not particularly.”

“Great, so keep those smartass comments to yourself.” 

“You’ll come to learn I’m incapable of doing that.” He says, forcing a smile. 

Zephyr applies numbing along the edge of the laceration then stops to glare at the mech again. “I suppose you think that’s a charming trait to possess.”

“Hey, I’m not the one here with no friends. I was trying to be your friend but then you had to go and punch me in the face.”

There’s a bit of silence following his statement. Zephyr looks away to wipe at her eyes and reach for the angled tweezers. She moves to her feet and magnifying lenses click down over her eyes. “Try not to move please. I don’t want to blind you.”

Hot Rod settles onto the berth, keeping his eyes up while she works. His hands lay over his chest, fingers interlocked. While she carefully maneuvers the tweezers beneath his faceplate, his eyes continue to flicker towards her. She does her best to ignore his obvious leering, but at a certain point when she’s trying to push the servo back into its socket his cheek lifts. She sighs and stops. “Quit smiling, you’re moving my tweezers.”

He relaxes his face again, looking away. “Sorry, your tongue was out and I thought it was funny.”

“Just don’t stare at me while I’m poking around inside your head. It’s distracting.” As if to prove herself, she pushes the servo back into place with one try after making her point; Hot Rod’s optics brighten and stabilize. She pulls out the tweezers and sets them aside. Pride swells in her chest, but she pushes it down before her cocky patient has a chance to pick up on it. “Okay, now to make your face pretty again.”

“Awwe, you think I’m pretty?” Hot Rod teases, smiling again. 

Zephyr ignores him, grabbing small nippers and a soldering iron to replace and repair the frayed wires. While she works her expression is focused and stern with no sign of wavering. She’s careful, thoughtful, and efficiently meticulous. And that entire time Hot Rod is just staring.

She finishes the wires and grabs a fine-line welder to close his face. “What did I say about staring?”

He shrugs. “I can’t help it. You’re hardcore like Ratchet, yet far more enjoyable to look at. To be honest, I don’t know if I’ve ever met a bot with a frown as nice as yours. I might actually prefer it over your smile.”

Zephyr rolls her eyes, the corner of her mouth twitching up slightly as she starts to carefully weld the wound closed. And of course, Hot Rod notices. 

“So you don’t completely hate my guts?” He presses confidently. 

“You say that like you’ve given me a real reason to like you .” Zephyr says calmly. “What you said in the cafeteria today was hurtful and also private. I don’t know any of you well enough to speak openly on something so personal. While I understand you have a right to access my information as an officer you do not possess the same right to disseminate it to everyone else in a very poor attempt to impress me.”

The mech exhales through his nose. “You’re right, I’m sorry. And, uhh— I’m sorry for calling you a bitch too.”

Zephyr stops to look at him. He’s not smiling and he’s holding her eye. He’s actually serious. She blinks then goes back to finish the welds. “Thank you.”

“Think we could try again?”

“As long as you’re okay with just being friends.” Zephyr states firmly. “Because you’re not gonna get anything past that.”

“Not even friends with benefits?” Hot Rod winks. Metal smacks metal.  “ Ow!—“ he rubs the back of his head where Zephyr struck him. “Okay okay— just friends .”

She allows a smile, wiping at his cheek with a cloth after smoothing out his welds. “You’re not my type anyway. I’m not into mechs who can have their shit rocked by bots a whole head shorter than them.”

“ Ouch. ” Hot Rod dramatically clutches his chest. “That cuts me deep, Zephie.”

“Ew, we’re not doing pet names.” She rolls away from the berth on her stool to toss the cloth into a bin. “It’s Zephyr, that’s it.”

“Okay fine —“ Hot Rod kicks his feet over the edge of the berth and stands to check his face in a mirror. Zephyr watches him, her own face warming. He glances at her through the mirror and she looks back at her screen. “You did a pretty good job. I can’t even see the crack.” He says, strolling over to lean against the console while she types. “You’re still on probation though. You’ve got issues, chick.” He reaches out and pokes her nose. 

She swats his hand away. “Sure sure, you can leave now.”

“Alright.” He drums on the side of the console. He stops in the doorway and looks over his shoulder. “We can try that whole mealtime social thing again tomorrow if you want.”

All Zephyr does is nod. Hot Rod straightens up, waving goodbye as the door slides shut behind him. 

Chapter Text

║┠ RATCHET ┨║

“How long do you expect to be gone?”

“It’s just a short field mission to test some new tech, we should be back after a day.” Ratchet faces Pharma, giving his friend and colleague a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. “She won't give you any real trouble, she’s just young and moody, you’ll be fine.”

“I don’t babysit.” Pharma states with a pointed stare. 

Ratchet sighs. “You’re not babysitting, you’re training.”

“I’m not permitted to leave her alone, that sounds an awful lot like babysitting.” Pharma’s scowl deepens. There’s no convincing him at this point. All good medics are deeply stubborn which is why Pharma is one of the greatest— but not quite the best. 

“Be nice to her and she’ll tolerate you.” Ratchet says, patting his arm and turning to leave. “I’ll be back.”

All the chief medic hears is a deflating sigh before the door slicks shut behind. To his right is a familiar, but far different face leaning against the wall. “Ready to go?” Ratchet says, giving Perceptor a gentle nudge. 

“I am, are you?” Perceptor straightens up from the wall, resting his rifle against his shoulder. 

“I really don’t think you’ll need that.” Ratchet points to the scientist-turned-marksman’s long gun. He leads the pair down the hall to the stairwell. “We’re just having a look around. I’d rather we not kill anything— assuming there’s anything to kill.”

“It’s preferable over us dying instead. I don’t really have anything of importance keeping me here but you’ve got your apprentice. Do you wish to leave her on this ship of strangers on her own? Do you really want to leave her career in the hands of Pharma ?”

“Alright alright,” Ratchet forces a laugh if only to hide the irritation. “You’ve made your point. Let’s just make it a goal to keep this mission as antiseptic as possible.”

“Of course.” 

Just before they reach the final flight of stairs, Drift heads their way climbing from the bottom, his focus down while typing a message on his communicator. He pauses his texting to lift his head as Ratchet and Perceptor squeeze by, nodding to Perceptor but smiling at Ratchet. Perceptor returns the subtle greeting as does Ratchet, but he looks away quickly before picking up speed on the last few steps.  

They reach the lower deck and Perceptor moves ahead of the medic to deploy the stern’s gangway ramp. This will be the first time since landing that any bot aboard The Lost Light has set foot past the suppression shield. The only way they’re able to without detection are Perceptor’s experimental radiation shields which this mission is set to test. He attaches one to himself and Ratchet, the bots now surrounded by metal-tight fields designed to keep the Matrix’s radioactive signature down to undetectable levels. “These should last us until nightfall. As we move around more I’ll need to check that they’re holding stable.”

“Boy, I love being a guinea pig.” Ratchet jokes, drawing a brief smile from his mission partner. 

Perceptor maintains his position ahead of Ratchet as they shove through the suppression shield emerging on the other side into welcoming sunlight. Ratchet pulls his scanner and clicks it on. So far no life forces are detectable by it. He points to a forest on the other side of the lake. “I guess we can start there. It’s not safe to walk the mountains, they’re pretty steep and craggly.”

“Save that nonsense for the few of us who fly.” Perceptor nods. He lowers his rifle, holding it firm against his chest after racking a round into the chamber. He takes the pole position and Ratchet follows with his scanner. The planet’s variable biome is eerily similar to that of Earth, yet there appears to exist no fauna for it to support. As their boots crunch the pebbly lakeshore Ratchet grows more curious as to why this planet has no other inhabitants. 

Stopping at the water’s edge, Ratchet crouches down, taking a few drops of water into a clear vial and clicking it into his scanner. He hears Perceptor walk up behind, peering over his shoulder as the device reads the liquid’s chemical makeup. Perceptor scoffs. “It’s just water, Ratchet.”

“I understand that.” Ratchet straightens up and empties the vial contents back to their source. “I’m trying to understand why this planet is so strangely empty.”

“Could have something to do with that thick atmosphere.” Perceptor points to the cloudless, foggy sky. “That’s an extremely rare phenomenon often indicative of a possible “choking planet” as they’re referred to in layman's terms.”

Ratchet frowns as they scale the steep embankment towards the forest. “I don’t believe I’m familiar with that.”

“In short; a choking planet experiences a sudden increase of gravity from its core. We can’t feel its strong pull since our bodies and ships are built to survive within even the most extreme variable gravitational environments, but obviously the planet’s biome itself will eventually take a hit as time passes. All those natural gasses produced by this planet’s numerous trees have become trapped within its atmosphere because of the increased gravity and made the air toxic for any organisms living on it before the shift.” Perceptor holds up a branch for Ratchet to pass by without being hit in the face and they stop by a bush of stunningly vibrant flowers. “If my observations are correct, we can conclude that this planet was once inhabited.”

“But then everything died.” Ratchet bends over to view the flowers and the strange details along their slender, pointed petals. “And all those gasses released from the decay likely made the atmosphere even thicker.”

“Explains why there are no clouds yet the sky is white, appearing grainy like fog.” Perceptor says, resting his rifle against the soft white trunk of a nearby tree. 

“You’d think this planet would smell like rotting flesh because of that.” Ratchet muses while scanning the flowers. 

“Its mass extinction likely occurred millennia ago.” Perceptor says as he checks Ratchet’s shield. “All that odor would have been neutralized by sunlight after a few decades or so, leaving behind extremely fertile soil and scentless air so toxic that anything with soft-tissue lungs would succumb in under a minute.”

“Makes you thankful for our filtration systems, doesn’t it?” 

Perceptor chuckles. “That it does.” He finishes checking his own shield and picks up his rifle once satisfied with their function. He looks around, pointing towards what appears to be a clearing at the center of the forest. “I won’t be surprised if we located more water headingthis way.”

“And I won’t be surprised if you are right.” Ratchet says with a smile. It is nice seeing more of the old Perceptor. Curious and thoughtful, scarily intelligent. War and near death have a way of changing people, but on occasion are others offered a rare glimpse of who they once were. A peek into their lives before it all went to hell. 

Weaving through lines of soft-bark trees, the pair of scientists take on a more reverent mood. The weight of what Perceptor told Ratchet suddenly caught up to the medic. This planet was once abundant, lively, fruitful beyond mere flowers and greenery. Yet all those souls were suddenly stolen by a freak glitch in nature. It makes one realize just how treacherous life can be. But Ratchet was made privy to that concept once before. 

Just as Perceptor predicted, they reach the opening in the trees and find themselves hugging a steep cliff edge, at its base a still lake as clear and clean as glass. They both search around for a safe path down but nothing stands out. Ratchet nudges Perceptor towards a side of the basin that’s more sloped than the rest. “That might be our best bet so long as you’re okay with a few surface scratches.”

“Fine by me.” Perceptor locks his rifle onto his back and follows Ratchet where the ground is loose and safer for them to slide down. 

Ratchet stops at the edge, gauging the steepness of the slope as best he can while grinding his teeth. Grass bends and rocks crunch as Perceptor joins Ratchet to view the slope. “It might be best if we stay up here.”

“You think so?” Ratchet looks from the still water to his friend. “It’s not uncommon for basin water to have different makeup than other sources.”

“No, but we need better tools to climb down there safely. These shields are holding up well; I can't imagine why we couldn’t come out again.”  

Ratchet looks up into the sky’s fading light. “I guess we can wander a few more miles before we need to head back. I promised Pharma I wouldn’t be gone longer than a day.”

“Is dealing with your apprentice really that bad?” Perceptor asks with a slight laugh. 

Ratchet can’t help but laugh with him. “It’s not, she just doesn’t get along with him.”

“Seems to be a common theme with her.”

They come to a field of tiny white flowers swaying against a loving breeze. Once in the middle, Ratchet decides to seat himself, resting his arms over bent knees. Perceptor joins him, laying back on his elbows and closing his eyes. The two of them exist in silence together. They listen as the wind whispers past their helms, dances with the flowers. For the first time in a very long time the two bots are allowed a moment to shut off their processors, to feel a semblance of peace. Their sensors are not on high alert, no need to keep their heads on a swivel. Nothing will ever be the same and with Megatron still on the hunt for the Matrix eventually they may have to run again, but at least for now they’re invisible. For now they can breathe. 

Perceptor’s deep breath in breaks their stillness, he speaks on the exhale: “Arcadia.” 

Ratchet continues to stare at the snow-like field, the flowers glittering beneath their planet’s soft sun. “What was that?” He asks, nearly too quiet to hear. 

“That’s what we should call this planet; Athena-1 died ages ago. Now it’s where we call home and where we reclaim our peace: our Arcadia.”

The medic lays back in the flowers, staring up at a sun that doesn’t burn his optics. He pats the side of Perceptor’s arm. “It’s perfect.”

There’s a shift, and Perceptor is now watching Ratchet with a look that could only be described as knowing and playful. The old bot sits up again, frowning at the scientist. “What?”

“Maybe some of us might find love here as well.” Is all he says. 

“What do you mean?”

Perceptor shrugs, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I just couldn’t help but notice how Drift smiled at you in the stairwell. He only nodded at me.”

Ratchet rolls his eyes with a dismissive chuckle. “Don’t even go there. I’ve known him longer than you have, that’s all it is.”

“If you say so.”

“Oh I do.”

“Hm.” Perceptor chews at his cheek. “What about that little spat between Hot Rod and your apprentice? That was quite— explosive. So I heard at least. I was in the lab and missed all the action. Did she actually punch him?”

Ratchet sighs, rubbing his eyes. “Yes, she’s uhh— a little defensive. I can’t exactly blame her, I just wish she went about it differently.” He shifts his focus to the flowers tickling at his metal. “I made her fix him and apologize. To be honest, I’m not confident she actually apologized, but Hot Rod seemed far less miffed when I saw him the next day.”

“Hot Rod can be a hard pill to swallow at times. I can name a few times I wanted to do just that: break his jaw.” Perceptor admits. “But he means well. At his core he’s kind, selfless even.”

“Yeah, his age is just working against him. He’ll wise-up one day.” Ratchet clears his throat and looks around. With very little hard light hitting the planet’s surface, as the sun falls behind its horizon it’s as if the world falls flat. There’s no shadow to outline details or give any depth. ”Damn, this is kinda… trippy , as Hot Rod would likely say.” Ratchet pushes to his feet and holds out a hand to pull Perceptor up. The pair click on their flashlights and start back towards the edge of the basin. Perceptor does another quick check of their shields. Still holding steady. 

“After a little fine-tuning I’ll start building more of these so the rest of the crew can have a break from staring at the same four walls every day.” Perceptor grabs his rifle again and they make sure to step wherever their lights land. 

Ratchet hugs the treeline, keeping further from the basin’s edge while Perceptor wanders closer to the cliff. After a few steps there’s a rumbling shift in the ground. Ratchet freezes, as does Perceptor. The pair converge their lights on the ground at Perceptor’s feet where a fresh crack cuts through the dirt and grass. 

Neither of them have a chance to process the danger before the ground gives out from beneath Perceptor and he tumbles down into the basin. Ratchet charges after him, sliding down the slope made less steep by the landslide. At the bottom he sees Perceptor laying in the shallow water slowly turning pink as energon bleeds steadily from his head. “Primus!” Ratchet jumps into the water, grabbing Perceptor’s unconscious body and hoisting him onto the shore, out from under a pile of heavy rock. 

Of all the injuries along Perceptor’s body, Ratchet latches onto the worst. The eye not enhanced by his magnifying monocle is completely missing, gouged out by a rock from the fall. Energon pours from the empty socket, his breaths are fast and shallow, but another problem arises as Ratchet looks him over. The tiny pod keeping his radiation shield active sparks from a crack in its shell. Ratchet checks his scanner to see if it picks up the Matrix’s signature but luckily there’s no hit. He quickly plugs Perceptor’s eye with a resin patch from his emergency kit and hefts the bot over his shoulder. As he trudged back up the fallen cliff he dials his comms. 

“Pharma speaking.”

“Get an operating room ready.” Ratchet orders, huffing once reaching the top and breaking into as fast a run as his aching joints can tolerate. “And make sure Zephyr is up to speed on how to perform a complete optical sensor replacement.”

“You can’t be serious? She’s on probation and you’re rewarding her with surgeries?”

“It’s not a reward, it’s her job, and it just so happens to be the easiest thing we need to repair. You and I will need to focus on everything else.” Ratchet snarls, weaving through the trees and stomping small bushes. “So just do it! I don’t have time to argue, Pharma.”

“Yes sir.”

The call drops and Ratchet picks up speed until the ship’s plateau comes into view and he can shove through the suppression shield. 

Ratchet assists Zephyr in pulling the patch from Perceptor’s damaged optical socket. She takes a steadying breath upon seeing the exposed wires and clotting energon then looks up at her mentor and he smiles. “You’ve got this. Pharma and I have our own work to do but if you need anything just say so, okay?” 

She nods silently and goes to examine the remaining wires for anything that might be salvageable. Ratchet forces himself to not hover while he and Pharma discuss how to tackle his remaining injuries. Perceptor has a torn shoulder, cracked neck strut and coil, a broken leg, dislocated hip, and his t-cog suffered a severe puncture. Ratchet glances up at the clock: 2245. It’s going to be a long night. 

Minute-by-minute. 

Hour-by-hour. 

By the time Ratchet sits down again his optics are fighting to not cross from exhaustion. He takes a rag from Pharma to wipe the condensation from his face and tosses it to the floor soiled with oil and energon around the operating table. Peeking under he spots Zephyr tucked up in a corner of the room fast asleep with a data pad and stylus still in her hand. After successfully replacing Perceptor’s optic she assisted Pharma and Ratchet in repairing the rest of the damage, but the last hour of his surgery she was starting to sway on her feet so Ratchet charged her with starting Perceptor’s chart for when they finished. She didn’t even have the energy to wash the energon off herself. Her hands, arms, and little specks on her face were still pink with blood. “She did well.” Ratchet says as Pharma sits beside him with two bottles of coolant. He hands one to Ratchet. 

“Yes, she did well.” Pharma admits with a touch of annoyance. “We all did. You did for carrying him all that way that quickly. Gave Hot Rod a run for his money.” He takes a big gulp from the bottle and settles comfortably in the chair. 

“No I didn’t but thanks anyway.” Ratchet takes a drink himself, the coolant tingling as it hits his throat and chills his overheated insides. 

“Well whether you want to take credit for it or not, he’s alive because of you.” Pharma presses, finishing his coolant and tossing the bottle into a bin. “Guess we should clean this mess up.” 

“Yeah.” Ratchet sets his bottle on a nearby rolling tray and stands up, shuffling over to Zephyr. He takes the data pad and stylus out of her hands before scooping her up and starting to the door. 

“You’re not gonna make her help?” Pharma grumbles as he starts collecting bloody rags. 

“She helped plenty. There’s no advantage to wearing her down this early on. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Pharma sighs as he tosses the rags into a hamper to be washed. “You’re getting soft, old man.”

For any of the ship’s medical staff there’s a corridor for hab suites within the medibay. Leading to it is a maze of inpatient rooms, a lab, an operating theater, and supply closets. Lining the hallways are carts carrying monitors, leads, IV fluids, and diagnostic scanners. All of which have hardly been touched. It’s hardly a bad thing that these items have yet to be needed, but it’s likely there will be more demand for them once Perceptor has recovered and can finish developing more radiation shields. Obviously, accidents happen. 

Ratchet rounds the corner towards the hab suites and stops upon spotting Drift wandering around. Pale afternoon sunlight hits the taller mech in a way which flatters his already appealing body shape. Ratchet shakes his head. “What are you doing here? This is for medibay personnel only.”

Drift looks up. “I’m sorry, I’ve been walking as much of this ship as I can since we arrived. I prefer to thoroughly know my way around a new place.” He glances around. “I didn’t know this was back here until I took a wrong turn.”

Ratchet’s eyes narrow but it’s not the worst excuse he’s heard. Drift is an odd one, extremely mindful of himself and others. The medic concedes and nods towards the door to Zephyr’s suite. “You mind getting that for me?”

“Oh, sure.” Drift opens the door and follows Ratchet inside. “How’s Perceptor?”

“He’ll live.” Ratchet says rather boorishly. He turns the light on in her washroom with his shoulder and puts her down on her feet, holding her upright until he feels her standing on her own. With his hands freed up he can turn on the shower, though Zephyr remains dazed, propping herself on the edge of the counter swaying sleepily. 

“Do you want me to do that?”

Ratchet looks at Drift standing in the doorway. “Do what?”

“Clean her off. I’m sure you have things you need to take care of with Perceptor still.”

The medic hesitates, looking between his apprentice and the mech still somewhat strange to her. There’s nothing suggesting Drift has ulterior motives. He’s been quietly tending to her since they arrived. Keeping her company since being confined to the medibay, bringing her meals, playing more of that marble game. He’s surprisingly considerate for a bot who used to be a Decepticon. 

Ratchet reluctantly steps out of the way. “I suppose that’s fine.” He points a finger at the mech. “Just don’t try anything funny.”

“With her? Of course not.” He smiles, taking her shoulders to steady her and turn her towards the shower before giving Ratchet a sideways glance and a wink. “I prefer bots with a little more life experience anyway.” 

It takes quite a bit to fluster Ratchet, and that was quite a bit. The medic coughs out an awkward laugh. “Oh, well, uhh— just be careful with her wings. They’re pretty delicate.” He goes to back out of the washroom, all at once becoming painfully aware of how attractive Drift really is. He had been shoving that observation down pretty much since they met but now Ratchet can’t seem to unsee it. All those tattoos, that build, his ghostly smile, the way he carries himself. His deep voice and curiously foreign accent. He’s also so damn smart it’s almost intimidating. 

“You okay, Ratchet?” Drift has guided Zephyr into the shower and now she can’t see her mentor fumbling over himself like a hormonal juvenile. 

“Oh yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” Ratchet nods and starts to leave. He points towards the shower. “Just take care of her— and stop staring at me like that!”

Drift’s smile grows. “Like what?”

“You know exactly what like, kid .” Ratchet makes a b-line towards the door just to hear Drift’s voice casually calling out to him as he steps into the hallway:

“Ratchet, you do know I’m older than you, right?” 

The medic frowns, glancing at a clock as he picks up his pace down the corridor: 1545.

Chapter Text

║┠ THUNDERCRACKER ┨║

“ Ugh— fuck , man— this sucks!”

“Yes, I know, but do you really think whining about it makes it any better?” Thundercracker shifts around in his seat, passing a sideways glance to Skywarp who has about slouched himself out of his own chair. “I don’t think that’s very good for your back.”

“If I break it do you think I’ll get out of doing this?”

“Doubtful. You can still sit and look at screens with a damaged spine.”

Another overly dramatic sigh from his baby brother. They’ve been sitting at this console for almost a week waiting for something to alert the scanners and it’s been nothing but resounding silence for all hours. Skywarp’s theatrics aren’t exactly unreasonable , just juvenile— like him. He’s pretty much vocalizing all the noise Thundercracker has been internalizing. Unfortunately, someone has to maintain their focus. 

Skywarp creaks to his feet. His back crackles as he stretches it out. “Alright, I’m over this.” 

Thundercracker sighs while watching his little brother storm out of the room in a finalizing huff. The eldest Seeker glances at the empty screen while it flickers with each refresh every few seconds. Nothing. It has been nothing and it will continue to be nothing. This whole assignment is nothing . “Screw it.” Thundercracker minimizes the screen and follows Skywarp down the hall. He already knows exactly where his little brother is headed and Thundercracker is not about to deter him. 

Just across the street from New Kaon’s capitol building stands Swindle’s, a shady dive bar procured and owned by an even shadier mech. The drinks are egregiously, hilariously overpriced, but they’re also delicious and strong so if a Con has the Shanix to spare they flock through the threshold without a second thought. 

Skywarp opens the door for Thundercracker, allowing his elder brother entry first before strutting up behind him. Inside the house lights are off while flashy strobes fill the foggy air with waves of nonsensical color. Everything about that place is overwhelming, the bumping music, the loud people, the lights . They take the only two seats remaining at the bar only to shrink back upon seeing who else is occupying the counter. “Oh shit—“ Skywarp whispers to his brother. “I didn’t know he came here.”

On the other end of the bar sits Commander Blitzwing sipping on a tall frosted glass of diluted engex. There’s an open seat beside him but the cocktail on the bar top suggests it’s already taken. Thundercracker waves the bartender down to distract himself and his brother. 

“Well if it isn’t my two favorite troublemakers!” Swindle exclaims, tossing his towel over his shoulder. He eyes the Seekers up with wide violet optics and a conniving trademark smirk. “Will it be your usuals or are we mixing it up this evening?”

“Just give us something strong, asshole.” Skywarp commands.

Swindle chuckles, nonplussed by the insult. He grabs a couple glasses and sets them on his counter. “Well I can definitely do strong, but the question is: what kind of strong are we needing? Are we looking for a good time that goes down sweet and smooth or just trying to forget this day happened even if it fights the entire way down?”

“How about something in the middle?” Thundercracker suggests, feeling himself lightening up. Between engaging in harmless, meaningless banter with a con-artist arms dealer and the lively beats of the dance floor, he already feels the stress of the week melting away. Now to just make sure it remains. 

“Sweet and spicy— got it.” Swindle goes to mix their drinks, throwing in Primus knows what until he presents the brothers with two glasses of swirling twilight. He taps the rim of one and winks. “See how these beauties fare for ya.”

Skywarp grabs his first and throws it back without hesitation only for his entire body to lock up the second it hits his throat. “ WOAH! ” He chokes it down, slamming the glass back onto the bar top with another self-motivating hoot. “Primus below that— that, what the hell is this?”

“Can’t tell ya what’s in it.” Swindle muses, cleaning out a glass to make another for the young Seeker. “It’s Megatron’s go-to and while he doesn’t mind me making it for other patrons, he ordered I not put it on the menu nor disclose the recipe.” He shrugs. “Bot likes his drinks hard— and expensive.”

Thundercracker swirls the drink before raising it to his lips then pauses, brow arched. “How expensive?”

“Couple thousand.” Swindle shrugs, sliding Skywarp another. 

Skywarp shoots the drink before coming up for air with wide eyes. “ Thousand ?”

“Of course it is.” Thundercracker mumbles. He downs his first glass with not as much showmanship as Skywarp, though his jaw and shoulders lock up for a moment while that deceptively molten liquid scrapes down his throat before hitting his belly. Instantly his body warms. He leans to Swindle, holding his empty glass for the bar owner to view. “How many of these does Megatron usually have? Can you tell us that at least?”

Swindle takes the glass from Thundercracker. “Depends on his mood. On a good night maybe no more than four, but a bad night could be anywhere north of twenty.”

“Good god.” Skywarp sits down, already beginning to lose his sense of balance. He slams his fist against the bar top. “Keep ‘em coming, Swindie. I wanna— holy shit is that Starscream?”

Thundercracker follows his brother’s trembling finger back to the once empty chair beside Blitzwing. By Primus it is… He narrows his eyes watching the two talk. It’s clear his brother is hammered, he can barely keep his eyes open and is leaning against the bar for stability. He's too immersed in whatever Blitzwing is saying to notice he’s being watched and the triple-changer is wearing what can only be described as “bedroom eyes.” 

Thundercracker takes his refilled drink and shoots it with much more ease, groaning as he can feel Skywarp breathing down his neck. “What?” 

“Why does Blitzwing look like he wants to fuck our brother?” Skywarp slurs, probably louder than he should have. Hopefully he doesn’t intend to match Megatron’s intake if this is him only three glasses deep. 

Another drink. “Probably because he does— assuming he hasn’t already.” Thundercracker grumbles. “I always thought there was something weird between those two.” Blitzwing is very much Starscream’s type. Big, strong, powerful, yet the mech is surprisingly mild-mannered. He speaks evenly in a strange deep accent, often wearing his mouth in a thin line, his remaining optic hooded and aloof while the other sits as a lifeless monocle. 

“Gross.” Skywarp makes a weird face before dropping back into his seat. “Sex does sound nice though.” 

“Been a while, huh, kid?” Swindle interjects again after making a few more drinks for different patrons. He’s fast, so fast anyone drunk enough would miss his movements. Such a strange bot. 

Skywarp nods slowly. “Yeah…”

“What about you, big guy, that berth of yours collecting dust too?” 

Thundercracker finishes his third glass before providing a disgruntled “perhaps” in response. 

“Well, it’s not like you’re in a bar or anything.” Swindle points out. He gestures to the dance floor behind them full of gyrating, sweaty, drunken bodies. “You’re good looking mechs, go find someone to help empty your tanks.” He leans in close to them, pointing a thumb down to the end of the bar top. “Besides, do you really want to be out-gamed by Starscream?”

The three of them all shift their optics to Blitzwing and Starscream, now wrapped up in each other against the wall, Starscream’s light legs hug the triple-changer’s sturdy, thick waist. Their mouths locked and hands wandering places they have no business being. 

“Awh hell no!” Skywarp grabs Thundercracker to yank him onto the dance floor. “C’mon, TC, if that asshole is getting laid tonight, so are we.”

Skywarp is quickly lost in the ever-changing collective of movement. Thundercracker moves slower and with less enthusiasm; he isn’t so much overwhelmed as he is slightly dizzy. He finds a nearby table and grabs it for balance while holding his head steady. The room spins as does the contents of his belly. A small burp of air passes his lips followed by an intense wave of mouth-watering nausea. How can Megatron drink over twenty of those things?

He lifts his head to find a few half-finished drinks abandoned at the table while circulating his breathing. Desperately, he mixes them into one glass and swallows them after reaching for a nearby bin. He hides behind the tall bar table to quietly expel into the bin with his back to the dance floor, completely unaware his subtle display of drunkenness has caught someone’s attention. 

“Damn, rough day or something?”

Thundercracker glances up while wiping his mouth, struggling to focus on the feminine voice’s owner. Eventually his vision settles along with his belly and a little something naughty in the back of his mind awakens almost instantly. “Uhh, sort of.” He clears his throat, setting the soiled bin down. “More like a rough week.”

“Makes even more sense.” The femme smiles. She’s dark, curvy, with a deadly sexy smile and fire tattoos hugging along the dips of her torso and around her breastplate. She points a slender finger to him. “Thundercracker, right?”

The Seeker smirks. “How’d you guess?” 

“You’re pretty hard to mistake. Been loyal to Megatron since day one.” The femme walks up to him and leans against the table. “Might as well be a celebrity.”

“So is that what you want? My notoriety.” There is nothing Thundercracker is better at than being coy in spite of his body’s rather screaming hunger. 

“More or less.” The femme scoots closer, resting her weight on an elbow to better pop out her generous hips. “I’m Flamewar, by the way. Since you never asked.”

Thundercracker chuckles. “I was getting there.”

“You come here alone?”

Ohhho yes. Thank you, Swindle. “I came with my brother but he’s off doing his own thing.”

She seems to perk up at hearing “brother,” moving close enough for Thundercracker to feel her warmth without touching. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

“And why is that?”

Flamewar closes the gap between them, their bodies now pressed into one another while she floats a hand up his chest to hold his jaw. “I’ve just been here a while and need someone to take me home. It’s too late for me to safely walk alone.”

Thundercracker grabs her wrist, leaning forward while pulling her up. That sickly feeling now long gone, replaced by something far more carnal. “I’m not a free escort-service. If I take you home I expect to be paid.”

“Well, what’s your fee, gorgeous?”

Thundercracker moves his hand from her wrists to her jaw, tilting her head up to better stare into those vixen eyes. “I was thinking you in a berth with those sexy legs up on my shoulders while I fuck you senseless.”

Her smile broadens. “As bold as you are handsome.”

“I’m not stupid enough to think you came over here interested in small-talk and learning my favorite color.” 

“Hmm, is it not blue?” Her optics flutter dreamily while his finger traces the rounded edge of her jaw.

“It’s red.”

Flamewar blinks. “Oh yeah?”

Thundercracker grabs her face, yanking her into a drunken, mouthy embrace. She tastes sweet, a subtle burn of hard distilled engex tingles the tip of his own tongue as he swipes it across hers. His hands explore her curves, lingering at the crease of her aft, fingers sliding up her spine. She moans softly into his mouth then breaking their kiss to turn herself around. With the back of her body against him, he nips along the chords of her slender neck. His hands cup at her breastplate then slither down to that delicate space between her thighs. She’s still shut but the heat of arousal tantalizes the Seeker’s fingers. He places his hands on her hips, holding them firm while he whispers in her ear. “Change of plans: you’re coming home with me.”

“I think I prefer that idea.” Flamewar hums.

Thundercracker kisses her cheek. “I just need to do something real quick, okay?”

All she can do is nod. He takes her hand to lead her out the bar. As they cross the dance floor out of the corner of his eye he catches a glimpse of Starscream and Blitzwing. No longer totally wrapped around each other but still holding themselves close enough for their noses to touch. Thundercracker frowns, seemingly watching them dance and sway in slow motion. He sees a rare smile stretched across Blitzwing’s face and the twinkle of something more than lust in their eyes. 

Thundercracker shakes his head to return his focus to the sweet sexy prize just within his reach. Check the scanner. Get laid. Check the scanner. Get laid. 

They walk into the capitol complex, passing through an ashen courtyard neglected by graveyard patrol. Thundercracker moves quickly but Flamewar is light on her feet and matches his pace with minimal effort. Once inside he guides her down several curving corridors, stopping at a secure door where he scans his optics at the control panel. The door unlatches and glides out of their way with a pneumatic hiss of steam to reveal a modest control room full of powered down consoles and empty seats. At the head of the room sits the console Thundercracker and Skywarp have been using to scan for the Matrix. The Seeker activates it to input his credentials while Flamewar watches from a safe distance behind, her optics widening with curiosity. “Am I supposed to be in here?”

“No, so keep your voice down.” Thundercracker says over his shoulder. 

All the femme does in response is nod with a slight impatient frown. 

A light pinging through the console speakers freezes Thundercracker where he stands. On the screen are the remnants of a signal, but it’s far too weak and dispersed for it to even be triangulated. He positions the map, the signal at least consistent enough for him to pinpoint the galaxy it came from. They don’t have the time to search every rock within the quadrant, but it’s a lead and assuming the Autobots aren’t moving a stronger signal within that area will reappear. Once it does they will catch it. Like Megatron said: one millisecond of a slip up is all it will take. They did once already, undoubtedly they’ll do it again, and next time he won't miss it. 

Thundercracker swells with newfound confidence. He shuts the room door from his console's keypad before snatching Flamewar by her neck and slamming her face-down over an empty table. 

Chapter Text

║┠ DRIFT ┨║

Another bullseye from the cocky Autobot First Lieutenant. He hoots, pumping his fist in the air before he nocks another arrow to his bowstring. Drift lays down in the grass beside Perceptor who is perched up against a rock. It’s only been a week since his accident, but Ratchet, Pharma, and Zephyr did such a brilliant job patching him up he was discharged from the medibay after only three days. With a quick glance to the side, Drift can see Perceptor’s calm aura, though he still wears his usual unimpressed affect. He pops a piece of energon candy in his mouth from a baggie before holding it out to Drift. “Take one and stop looking at me please.” He drones. 

Drift snorts and grabs a candy. “My apologies, I didn’t mean any disrespect.” He rolls the small cube between his fingers, lifting his eyes to Hot Rod as he looses another arrow to nail the target dead center yet again. Drift shakes his head. “Why am I irritated by how good he is at that?”

“Probably because it demonstrates he’s more competent than he leads on.” Perceptor says, chewing his candy. 

“Probably.” Drift repeats. He grabs another candy as the bitter-sweetness of the last fades from his tongue. A buzz at his waist pauses him mid-chew and he pulls out his communicator to answer the call. “Ratchet?”

“Are you outside?”

Drift sits up, resting his arms over his knees. “I am.”

“Who all is out there?“

A gentle breeze manages to push through the suppression shield. It tickles Drift’s tall finials while he looks around. “It’s myself, Perceptor, and Hot Rod right now. I believe Bluestreak will be stepping out after setting up for tonight’s movie.”

There’s a slight groan on the other end of the call. “Well, I was going to see if you’d be willing to supervise Zephyr for a little bit, but I’m not so sure about her being around Hot Rod.”

“I thought they worked that little misunderstanding out.”

“I’d rather not chance her getting into more trouble.”

Drift smiles. “Send her out. I’ll see to it things stay civil.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.” Drift shrugs and glances around. “Anything for you.”

Slight nervous laughter answers him. “Oh ho-kay. I’ll let her know.”

Ratchet hangs up. Drift looks at the communicator before locking it to his belt and laying back in the grass and shutting his eyes. There’s a strange shift in energy directed towards him. He smiles, but doesn’t look. “I don’t have candy to offer to make you stop staring, Perceptor, so what do you want?”

“Who was that?”

“Ratchet.”

“If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were starting to flirt with him in the end.”

“Ah, but you know better—“ Drift then looks at Perceptor, half smiling. “Don’t you?”

A corner of the pensive scientist’s mouth turns up. “What did he want?”

“I’m on babysitting duty.” Drift says. He speaks louder to be heard above the breeze and by another set of audio receptors a fair distance from them. “Since Hot Shot over there decided to put her on probation for hurting his feelings.”

Hot Rod’s energon arrow slicks into the bullseye, splintering the one already there. He lowers his bow. “Don’t call me ‘Hot Shot.’”

Perceptor and Drift look at each other. “It feels more fitting the way you handle that bow.” Drift points out. 

“Yeah, well,” Hot Rod quickly fires again, splintering the last arrow again . Show off. “It’s still not my name.”

There’s a brief second of silence between the three. Perceptor continues to gnaw on his candy while Drift and Hot Rod have a little stare-down. Mainly Drift is staring, as Hot Rod has yet to actually look in his direction. The Lieutenant’s aura is shifting; red as fire now flickering with self-doubt. Almost every confident bot he’s met has had self-esteem issues and it appears Hot Rod is no different from the rest. He finally decides to break the silence. “I’m surprised you’re not denying my comment about Zephyr hurting your feelings.”

That statement somehow (yet unsurprisingly) sent the next arrow straight into the grass behind the target, forcing Hot Rod to face Drift with a burning glower. “She didn’t hurt my feelings, she hurt my face .”

“And she fixed your face before snubbing your invitation to join us for breakfast, which in turn hurt your feelings.”

Another bad shot. It skips the rim of the target and ricochets off the ship’s metal hull with a resounding bang . Hot Rod exhales steam from his nose. “Is there a point you’re trying to make here, Drift ?” He growls. 

“Sort of, but I’ll let off. I’ve no interest in one of those arrows finding its way through my spark.”

Before any more remarks can be made, there’s a knock from atop the open gangway ramp. Drift turns back towards the ship’s open hull to find Ratchet with Zephyr waiting to step out. He nods at the femme to join them. “Don’t be shy, Perceptor has candy.” He says with a wink. 

She rolls her eyes but smiles. Ratchet whispers something to her and she waves him off before starting down the ramp to take the spot between Drift and Perceptor. 

“Things are getting stale in the medibay?” Perceptor inquires playfully. He offers her a candy which she takes after a brief pause. 

Zephyr tosses the treat in her mouth and leans back on her elbows. “A bot can only check an unchanging inventory so many times. After a while attempting to give Megatron a lobotomy sounds more appealing.”

Hot Rod snorts, taking yet another shot, this time hitting his target as effortlessly as before. Perceptor shifts the conversation before she can open her mouth to smart off. 

“Now that I’m on the mend I can finish work on the radiation shields Ratchet and I tested. Hopefully in the near future we’ll be able to traverse past the ship’s own rather limited field.” He says. “Of course we can still come outside as we are now but it’s rather constrictive.”

“Yeah, not really enough space to use our alt modes.” Zephyr points out as she views the warbling dome of energy surrounding them and the ship. It distorts the view of everything outside and makes it virtually impossible to see anything within. “Not to their fullest extent at least.”

More crackling from Hot Rod breaking his own arrows. Drift has been watching him while Zephyr spoke. His body keeps tensing and his aura fluctuates while he refuses to look in her direction. Yet another arrow looses and breaks its brother stuck on the target. “You’re going to run out of arrows if you keep doing that.” Drift points out rather smugly. 

“I have more in my hab suite.” Hot Rod leans down to grab another arrow from his steadily dwindling supply stuffed in the quiver at his feet. “Besides, these are just for target practice.” He spins one around his fingers. “They’re not actual Energon arrows, only hard light. I wouldn’t waste my real ones.”

As Hot Rod continues his practice, another bot joins the group sitting in the ground. He digs into Perceptor’s bag of candy to pull out a fistful. “What’re we doing?”

“Watching Hot Rod waste arrows.” Perceptor drawls with a scowl to Cliffjumper. 

“Sounds boring.” 

Drift chuckles, glancing at Zephyr seemingly not paying much attention. “I’d rather be bored out here than bored in there.”

“In there has engex and movies and unfiltered access to the universal internet.” 

“So why come out here?”

Cliffjumper stops his chewing. “I got bored.” He tosses a candy to Hot Rod who catches it without looking. “I’ve got a hundred Shanix that says you can’t hit that mid air.”

The Autobot Lieutenant considers the goodie in his palm. It’s hard and rather small, but Drift sees the way he lights up at such a challenge. He sits back with a smile, knowing Cliffjumper is about to lose some money. 

Hot Rod takes a step back, tossing the candy in and out of his hand. His final toss it’s nearly high enough to hit the ship’s hull. The candy falls fast toward the ground only to be immediately pinned and shattered against the target by Hot Rod’s impressive aim. His small audience all clap, though Cliffjumper does so begrudgingly and with an exasperated sigh. 

“How do you even do that?” The stumpy red bot whimpers. 

“Perceptor isn’t the only sharpshooter on this ship, Cliff.” Hot Rod muses, walking over to grab his own bite of candy. 

Cliffjumper grumbles. “I thought being freakishly fast was your thing?” 

Hot Rod takes a moment to squeeze himself between Perceptor and Zephyr. The latter moving to be closer to Drift. “I can have more than one thing.” He says once settled. “I’m not a one-trick-bot… What about you, new girl,” he says, glancing at Zephyr. “I see you have actual wings, you a decent flier?”

She shrugs. “I don’t fly all that often. I don’t really get out .”

“Hm,” Hot Rod hums for a second, chewing his candy. His optics then shift to Drift. “You and I still need to race.”

“So let’s race.” Drift declares, pushing himself to his feet. He views the perimeter of the suppression field. “We’ve got a generous loop around the ship we can use.”

Hot Rod jumps to his feet. “Oh so we’re doing this right now?”

“I don’t see why not.” Drift crosses his arms, grinning at the young Lieutenant. “Unless you’re scared.”

“Like hell I’m scared!” Hot Rod declares. 

“Five hundred on Rodders.” Cliff whispers to Perceptor. The scientist nods and shakes the bot’s hand as they agree on their bet. Drift and Zephyr lock eyes for a moment and she straightens up. 

“And I’ve got double on Drift.”

Drift’s smile broadens and the two mechs beside her sit in silent surprise. Cliffjumper then nods and lays back with Perceptor, suddenly appearing not so sure of his loudly placed bet. 

“Why don’t you come count us down, beautiful?” Hot Rod calls to the femme. She quirks a brow but moves to her feet and stands between the bots at their starting point. 

“Running start?” Drift confirms with his opponent. Hot Rod nods and Zephyr steps back while they lower into position. 

“A single lap around the ship.” Hot Rod says. “That should be enough for us to know who's the fastest.” 

Drift rolls his shoulders. “Works for me. Whenever you’re ready, Zephyr.”

The femme moves to stand before them, throwing an arm up in the air before starting her countdown. “Ready… set… go! ” She slashes her arm downward and the two mechs bolt past, nearly knocking her lighter frame over from their quickness. 

Two seconds pass and Drift tucks and rolls into his alt mode. His engine roars, his exhaust popping with every downshift until his tires grip the grass and he thunders off. Hot Rod soon flies past, fire screaming from his side-dumped pipes as he takes the first corner in an easy drift, tearing up grass and kicking rocks towards his opponent. Drift downshifts again as they straighten out, leading Hot Rod into the next corner, their rear wings mere inches from the field before they come out of their slide and rocket over a small hill. 

As they near the final turn, Drift allows Hot Rod to make headway, but only for a moment. Another shift and a dump of nitrous into his engine sends Drift howling down the line in a hissing white mist. The last thing Hot Rod hears before losing the race is the spooling whine of Drift’s turbochargers. He transforms quickly, his chest heaving as he catches his breath before confronting Drift. “What the hell was that?”

“I believe that was me beating the freakishly fast bot.” Drift jeers. Off to the side is Zephyr very proudly accepting her winnings from a surprised yet further disgruntled Cliffjumper. 

“Okay, but nobody said anything about using boost.” Hot Rod points out. He’s very clearly struggling to not be a sore loser. 

“And nobody said anything about not using it either.”

“ I have boost !” Hot Rod hollers. “I would have smoked you had I known!”

“Maybe— maybe not.” Drift pats the Lieutenant on the shoulder. “That was fun though, we should make it a regular thing.”

Hot Rod crosses his arms, but smiles. “I’ll think about it— cheater .”

Zephyr jogs over to Drift just as Bluestreak appears and starts chattering with Cliffjumper. She waves the container of money in her hand victoriously before passing a hundred of it to Hot Rod. “I think Cliff forgot to give you that earlier.”

He snorts, taking the coins from her. “Thanks.”

“Yep.” She mulls over what she wants to say and clears her throat, pointing to his bow laid on the ground. “I didn’t know you were an archer.”

“Yeah, it catches most people by surprise for some reason.” 

“Can’t imagine why.”

Hot Rod’s brow lifts. “And what exactly do you mean by that?”

“Nothing really, you just seem more the type to wield explosives or something.” Zephyr’s shoulders shrug and a smile teases her lips. 

“Well, sorry to disappoint.” 

“You didn’t.”

Hot Rod blinks and starts walking away after picking up his bow and quiver of arrows. Unsurprisingly for Drift, Zephyr follows him, keeping a decent amount of space between each other as they walk and talk. She laughs intermittently at things he says and Hot Rod’s aura blazes with confidence each time she does. 

Perceptor joins Drift still standing and watching Zephyr and Hot Rod interact. She’s firmly guarded, arms tight over her chest and she doesn’t stand too close, but there’s a looseness in her smile, the way she tilts her head while he talks in his usual animated way. Ratchet may not have to worry about her hitting him anymore. 

“You’ve got a strange look about you, Drift.” Perceptor says after another moment of silence between them. 

“Ah, well, it happens.” 

“What’s on your mind?”

“Just observing.” He replies. He sees Zephyr then take Hot Rod’s face in her hand, turning his head carefully while looking him over with familiar scrutiny. “Don’t you ever do that— observe?”

Perceptor scoffs. “Of course I do, it’s a critical part of my job.”

“Which one: sniper or scientist?”

“Both.”

They share in a quiet laugh until Drift’s attention is snagged by another strolling down the ramp. Ratchet approaches Zephyr carrying a data pad, stepping between her and Hot Rod to show her its contents. He’s stern as he speaks, but it’s a sternness which Drift has learned to be rather normal for the grumpy mech. He’s almost always lightly fuming over some unspoken crisis, which explains the creases beneath his optics and his murky crimson aura. Yet Drift can’t help but find this unpleasant demeanor charming. It entices him to wonder what it is that made the mech so unapproachable to bots outside his patients. Well, suppose it isn’t much of a wonder. He suffered through millions of years of war, watching bots’ lives slip through his fingers day-after-day despite his great efforts. It likely gets to a point where the ones saved can’t make up for those lost. 

“Perceptor!”

Ratchet waves the scientist over. Drift continues his observing as Ratchet clicks on a small pen light to check Perceptor’s replaced optic. Ratchet then speaks to Zephyr who all at once appears a little flustered. With a quick breath out, Drift turns to face the diffused sunlight and soaks in what little warmth it provides. Soon he’ll be able to meditate by a lake, or in a quiet forest clearing away from the noise of his fellow refugee Autobots. Until then, this little spot just outside the ship still consumed within its shadow and in proximity of its noise will have to suffice. “You’ll have to teach me how to shoot like you one of these days.” Drift says. 

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” Hot Rod replies while tapping Drift’s blades with his bow. 

Drift gives the bot beside him a sideways glance. “Think you can handle it?”

Hot Rod tuts. “You do know who you’re talking to, right?”

“Sort of,” Drift admits with a grin. “But you must be something to have such a high rank at your age.”

“Yeah…” Hot Rod trails off, turning towards the distorted horizon. “Maybe I’ll believe that one day.”

So he does possess a shred of humility. “What’s up with Perceptor? Ratchet seemed a little worried when checking his optic a second ago.”

“Ah, nothing major. Apparently Pharma was reading the notes in the post-op chart or something and found Zephyr didn’t properly attach a cord.” Hot Rod shrugs. “Least that’s what it sounded like. They were talking all medical which I understand next to nothing of.” He glances at Drift and crosses his arms. “Anyway, they’re taking Percy back to fix it before it detaches and he goes blind.”

“Is Zephyr okay?” Drift probes— carefully. 

Hot Rod raises a brow. “Yeah… she’s fine. It was a little mistake, Ratchet wasn’t even mad— for once.”

Drift continues to push more openly. “So are you two friends now?”

“Civil is what I’d call it.” Hot Rod corrects, adding in a slow sigh. 

Drift can’t help but laugh. “Better than her punching you in the face.”

Hot Rod cuts his eyes. “About that— can I be real with you for a second? I assume I can trust you; you don’t exactly strike me as the type to really gossip.”

“If you expect my confidence you will have it.” Drift says. 

Another breeze passes between them. Behind the distant pair Cliffjumper and Bluestreak argue about what movie to view tonight. Bluestreak has his spark set on a showing of some animated title called Spirited Away while Cliffjumper is adamant on watching Tropic Thunder citing their last viewing also being animated and less “mature.” 

Hot Rod taps his bow against his boot, throwing his head back while collecting his thoughts. Finally he speaks, making sure to avoid Drift’s eyes as he does. “Once I got over being absolutely pissed at her for punching me I kept replaying that moment over and over in my head and the more I thought about it the more I realized I… liked it . Not the actual hit itself but how unafraid she was of putting me in my place. Frankly, it was kinda hot.”

“I can believe it.” Drift says, though not with any intended malice. “You can appreciate a bot willing to stick up for themselves even at the cost of your own ego, which is quite honorable. Many others might’ve begrudged her for a long time over something like that.” 

“Yeah, well, I begrudged her a little when she never came to have meals with us.” Hot Rod drags a palm over his face. “But you knew that already I’m sure.”

“I did.” Drift pats the Lieutenant on the back. “Nobody’s perfect.”

Hot Rod snorts and grabs Drift’s wrist, pulling him close until their foreheads clink together while staring serious daggers through the much taller mech. “Remember, this stays between us— got it?”

“As I said: you have my confidence.”

“Good.”

Chapter Text

║┠ HOT ROD ┨║

That did not help. 

Why did I think that would help?

Primus , I’m such a perv. 

Hot Rod slams his breakfast tray down, slouching onto the bench beside Cliffjumper before dropping his face into his arms on the table. He lets out a long, overly dramatic sigh while his belly continues to roil over his early morning— impulses. 

“You good, man?” Cliffjumper whispers through a mouthful of food. 

All Hot Rod can do is shake his head while it remains nested in his arms. He can’t speak or he might cry, swear, flip the table— something . Sure as hell won’t be making eye contact with any of them in spite of their searing stares directed towards him. 

Cliffjumper smacks his lips. “Weird that I don’t believe you.”

“I’m not talking about it, okay?” Hot Rod mumbles. “It’s not a big deal.”

There's no further pressure for clarity, but Hot Rod doesn’t need to see Cliff to know he’s suspicious and judging while he stuffs his face. Hot Rod closes his eyes as firmly as he can to the point he can see white light and his head begins to spin. He finally manages to tune out the chitchat around him until he’s lost in his own head, but that winds up being a mistake. Suddenly his spark starts racing, his legs feel weak, there’s a bubbling warmth deep within his belly. He balls his fists as his subconscious brings him back to his room, back to the shower and the scalding water trickling down his spine, off his nose, along his wings. Back to his deep breathing and the whispers of her name through clenched teeth. 

Fuck!

Hot Rod sits up, startling himself by the cafeteria’s bright fluorescents bearing down on him. He blinks until his optics can focus just in time for Zephyr and Drift to sit down across from him. She actually offers a slight smile to the First Lieutenant that he returns rather awkwardly. 

You’re such a perv!

“You okay?” Her smile drops as she takes in Hot Rod’s uncomfortable posture. 

“Uhh— yeah, yeah— I’m fine.” Hot Rod drags both hands down his face and forces a laugh. “Just uhh… had a weird dream last night, that’s all.” He clears his throat. “Nice to see you joining us finally.”

Zephyr shrugs. “Yeah, well, I’m still required to have an escort and for whatever reason Ratchet has designated Drift as such and since Drift likes hanging out with you lot— well, here I am.”

“Okay, but why you?” Cliffjumper asks, pointing a fork to the heavily tattooed mech. “Shouldn’t she be with a medic or something?”

“Ratchet is busy assisting Perceptor with finishing those radiation shields and Pharma doesn’t like babysitting so—“ Drift shrugs, taking a sip of his tea. “That leaves me, I guess. Ratchet seems to trust my judgement enough.”

The femme scoffs, resting her cheek against a fist while poking around her plate with a fork. More guilt threatens to choke the Autobot First Lieutenant. Putting her on probation may have been a bit of an overreaction but there’s no marching it back, not now that Ultra Magnus has his pointed sights on her. If he had his way she would have been ejected off the planet in a survival pod with minimal rations and a pat on the back. He won’t admit it to anyone but Hot Rod wound up standing up to Magnus for that very reason. In the end, her punching him was his own fault. 

“He’s also making me visit Rung twice a week.” Zephyr confesses, her frown deepening. She stabs her fork into a biscuit. “He claims I have a lot of repressed anger or something.” She lifts her eyes to look at Hot Rod. “Maybe he’s a little right.” She goes back to stabbing her food but not eating. 

Cliffjumper chooses now to chime in. “Who the hell is Rung?” 

“He’s the small golden bot with the glasses and single antenna.” Bluestreak answers readily. “He likes to collect and build model ships. He’s nice to talk to if you ever need an ear.”

“Yeah, but isn’t that like his job?” Hot Rod says, happy to see the conversation shift to something relatively distracting. “He’s a psychbot, that’s what they do: they listen and they talk and they act like they know what’s wrong with you.”

“Sounds like you might benefit from talking to him, Rodders.” Cliffjumper teases. 

“Get real.” Hot Rod hisses. He leans back to cross his arms. “I don’t need a therapist.”

“And that’s exactly what someone who needs therapy would say.” Drift points out mid-chew. 

Hot Rod scissors his jaw. He opens his mouth to retort only to be cut off by Zephyr. 

“So what’s everyone got planned for today?” She says. She has her hand resting over Drift’s, giving it a squeeze. 

“Not shit.” Cliffjumper grumbles. 

Bluestreak pipes up immediately after. “I’m planning to read. I found this novel—“

“Yeah, yeah, no one cares about your little nerd hobbies.” Hot Rod waves a hand towards Bluestreak. He then sighs and rubs his face. “I actually have to work on expenditures. Magnus has been on my case for the past week about it. I’m several months behind at this point.”

“Why the hell is he even making you do those?” Says Cliffjumper with an incredulous frown. “Isn’t that his job? Like, what the fuck else is he good for besides barking dumb orders and scrutinizing our grammar?”

“There isn’t much else for him to do right now.” Drift points out after taking another sip of tea. He’s still holding Zephyr’s hand. “We’re sort of in limbo at the moment.”

Hot Rod shakes his head, forcing himself to stop looking at Drift and Zephyr’s growing closeness. “He tells me it’s necessary that I learn the clerical side of leadership. I don’t even know where to begin with this. I’m charting out the cost of supplies and energon for over four-hundred bots; there’s a stack of invoices up to my waist beside my desk. He’s so much better at this shit than me.”

Cliffjumper tosses his fork to an empty tray. “Why do we even have expenditures? Who exactly are we sending them to?”

“I imagine Ultra Magnus is merely trying to maintain a sense of normalcy.”

All heads turn to a new bot standing at the head of the table. Tucked in his arm is a small stack of data pads and he adjusts the glasses positioned beneath a strangely broad pair of eyebrows. He smiles. It’s warm, genuine, humble. “Apologies, I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop.”

Hot Rod points a finger at the bot. “Rang?”

“Rung.” The psychbot corrects gently. 

“Right, sorry.” 

“No harm done, sir.” Rung adjusts the pads in his hold. “Anyway, we’re all doing our best to find our footing in this new life. It doesn’t hurt to humor a few unnecessary yet harmless tasks every now and again if it helps keep some of us sane. Ultra Magnus strikes me as a mech who demands order and while the paperwork may seem frivolous it could be all he has to prevent him from spiraling.”

Hot Rod shrugs. “Sure, I guess that makes sense.”

“Anyway, I have my own work to catch up on. Good luck on those reports.” Rung winks and walks away. 

Another exasperated sigh from Hot Rod. He shoves his mostly full tray away and crosses his arms with a huff. Whatever Magnus’ reason is for having him do the paperwork doesn’t help ease his frustration. There’s plenty of things he’d rather do than play pretend secretary. 

Zephyr shifts around in her seat. “Do you need some help?”

Hot Rod’s brow lifts. “Help?”

“Yeah, I can help you if you’d like. I’ve lost count how many expenditure reports I’ve written for Ratchet back in Iacon and that was for a hospital that regularly housed thousands. I could probably do it with my optics off.” She smiles and the Lieutenant’s stomach flips. He nods as she moves to stand. “Okay, I just gotta make sure Ratchet is okay with it and I’ll come by your office.”

Zephyr leaves with Drift and Hot Rod taps a finger against the table. Cliffjumper is staring at him. He’s staring at him in his smug, knowing, irritating way. Bluestreak must see it too because he’s avoiding Hot Rod’s eyes all together. “ Primus, what is it?” The Lieutenant barks. 

“You like her .” Cliffjumper teases, poking his friend in the arm. 

“Shut up, no I don’t.” Hot Rod insists with a scowl. “I don’t know a thing about her other than she’s a medic and can hit really fucking hard.”

“You can crush on someone and not know them.” Bluestreak adds with a touch of apprehension. “I mean, what you do know is enough to catch your eye so… that’s kind of how that works. How well did you know Arcee before you two started— you know?”

Dude… 

“Not long.” Hot Rod says. “And you see how well that worked out.” He pushes up from his seat, grabbing his tray. “And I’m also done talking about this. I don’t do relationships, situationships, friends with benefits, whatever the hell else, okay? Been there, done that— not doing it again. Cool? Cool.”

Both Bluestreak and Cliffjumper can’t help but look at each other but Hot Rod ignores them. Them and their looks. They’re definitely not hearing about this morning now. He slams his tray on top of the trash bin, keeping his steps out of the mess hall as calm as he can without seeming stiff. Once in the hall and out of sight his shoulders slouch and he leans against the wall. “Idiot.” He takes a breath, willing himself forward to his office just down the corridor. Standing outside his door he can see Ultra Magnus is, unsurprisingly, in his own office beside him. Hot Rod groans as his door slicks open and he clicks on the lights. 

The young Lieutenant’s office is modest— messy . His signature flame motif painted across the wall behind his desk. His furniture is scattered, dented, burnt. Patches of lazily welded sheet metal dot the walls and his desk sports a sharpened knife stabbed into the middle. 

Mental note: don’t let Rung see my office. 

He flops down into his creaky chair. It spins freely against his weight until he stops himself with a foot propped on the wall. Shortly after they landed he had crudely painted his single picture window black. The planet is pretty, but he finds it difficult to look at on bad days. Better than him breaking the glass. 

There’s a knock and Hot Rod drops his head backwards, viewing his opened door upside down where she stands holding a data pad, her optics darting around the office space. “Hey.” He says as nonchalant as he can manage. She’s gonna think I’m a psycho… 

“Hey.” Zephyr repeats. She takes a seat on his couch after straightening it out to be parallel with his desk. “Nice office.”

Yeah… she thinks I’m crazy.

He shrugs and faces her, still in his chair. “It needs some work.”

“It seems very… you .” She smiles again and Hot Rod feels a brief flutter of emotion within his belly. She takes a breath, avoiding his scrutinizing stare. “If it makes you feel any better, my office used to be the only supply closet where nurses and medics didn’t go to hook up. It was down in the hospital basement by the generators.” She snickers. “I didn’t even have a desk. I’d sit on the floor and use the lowest shelf I could reach to write.”

“Why?”

“I liked the peace and quiet. I don’t know if you’d ever been to Iacon Regional but even at night it was too loud to think.” She taps the data pad now in her lap, again looking around at his patchwork walls. “You know the ship has a training gym with punching bags, right? I feel like that’s something you should know and I shouldn’t considering you’ve lived here longer than I.”

Hot Rod continues to stare at Zephyr, trying to gauge his next words. She was friendly with him the other day, but not so chatty, not so personal. He grabs a stylus and clicks it, still watching her. “I did know that.” He says, finally breaking a slight smirk. “I knew that when I broke them my first week on this planet.”

Zephyr licks her lips then points to the stack of paperwork on the low table in front of her. “Are these the invoices?” She grabs one off the top and skims it. “When does Magnus need these reports?”

“He requested it by the end of the week.” 

Her brow raises. “And I’m guessing you haven’t even started.”

“Nope.” Hot Rod chews the end of his stylus, spinning back and forth in his chair. “Paperwork and I were never good bed buddies.”

She hums her acknowledgement and starts fingering her way through the invoices, organizing each by date, type, amount. Hot Rod merely sits and watches her. Not once does she demand he help, she doesn’t snark about him sitting and taking up space, wasting air. She writes on her data pad, crunching numbers, building spreadsheets quietly with her tongue partially past her lips while she works— perfectly in focus. 

At one point she pauses, her brow pinches while she reads and rereads an invoice. Hot Rod frowns. “Something wrong?”

She flips the invoice over twice then directs her irritated gaze to him, holding up the data pad for him to see. “Is this your handwriting?”

The Lieutenant leans over his desk then nods. “Yeah..?”

“Well it sucks.” She slaps it onto the table and jabs a finger down on the screen. “I can’t tell if that’s a zero or a five . Those numbers do not look alike, Hot Rod. Get over here and translate these scribbles for me please.”

Hot Rod kicks his chair out from under him and storms over to sit across from her, taking the data pad to read it. “It’s a seven.” He tosses it back to the femme, leaning back in his seat and crossing his legs. 

“A sev—“ she takes the pad and glosses it over again. “I swear to Primus. Type your stuff from here on out.”

Hot Rod chuckles. “You sound like Ratchet.”

“You’re an idiot.” 

“Now you really sound like Ratchet.”

She glances up at him then back to her data pad without saying a word. He maintains his smile, but again guilt squeezes at his chest, clawing his spark. It takes everything for him to keep his optics focused on her helm. Not on her modest wings, her sleek waist, her inviting thighs; not on those humble lips or wide optics. The flawlessness of her stark white livery. He can’t see her otherwise that embarrassing urge will strike again. So he just watches her write, he watches her tongue sneak past her lips once she’s locked in again and suppresses a laugh. 

“Something funny?” She stops writing to look up at him. 

He doesn’t hide his grin. “You’re doing that tongue thing again.”

Her cheeks flush and she clears her throat. “And?”

“It’s cute.” 

“Don’t go there.” Zephyr says, returning her attention to the report. “Don’t think I’m cute, don’t stare at me with that sexy hooded gaze of yours. I’m good to be your friend, but please don’t think I’m cute.”

Hot Rod’s smile fades. “Why not?”

“Because I just don't want you thinking I’m cute.” She takes a breath. “It ruins things because first you think I’m cute, then you think I’m pretty, then you think I’m sexy. Later on maybe we kiss, after that I’m in your bed letting you do all sorts of dirty amazing things to me which leads to me saying ‘I love you’ and me saying ‘I love you’ to anyone is not an option. So please; don’t call me cute.”

Hot Rod swallows, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Now that guilt is screaming in the back of his head. He drags his hand over his face before forcing a playful smile. “Dirty amazing things, huh?”

Zephyr chucks an empty oil can at him. “Shut up.”

Hot Rod laughs, catching the can before it wacks his face and tossing into the overflowing bin. “Who hurt you?”

“No one.” She says. “I just don’t think now is the time for all that nonsense.”

“Yeah but you’ve gone and mentioned us doing dirty amazing things and I’m supposed to let that go?” Hot Rod presses. He stands up then sits on the table directly across from Zephyr. She looks at him with unimpressed disdain, but he doesn’t falter. “I’m perfectly fine with us being friends, but now you’ve made me realize you’ve thought about us and that makes me feel— better, sort of.”

“Better? Better about what?”

Hot Rod takes one of her hands between both of his. “It’s not important.”

“I think it is, actually.” Zephyr insists, now smiling. “Did you do something? What did you do?”

Hot Rod chews the inside of his cheek. He struggles to read her expression but it seems she has no issue reading him. The longer he stares the tighter her face pinches, until her lips begin to part in realization. 

“Wait…” she says. Her optics widen. “Oh my god—“ she smacks the side of his arm before he can flinch away. “You pervert !”

“What do you mean?!” Hot Rod moves to his feet to dodge her swats. 

She stands up, grabbing the collar of his chestplate. “You masturbated to me. Did you spy on me? Video me?”

“Uhh— your personnel file has a phot— ah—“ he jumps to dodge her stinging slaps before grabbing her wrists. “ Stop hitting me please . I really don’t want you to make this a habit.”

“You’re disgusting.” She hisses. 

“I’m well aware.”

Zephyr’s jaw stiffens but she sits back down on the couch, grabbing her data pad and pointing to the chair where Hot Rod previously sat. “Stay over there.”

He crosses his arms and does so with a pouty huff of steam out his nose. She shakes her head and returns to her writing while Hot Rod stews in his own embarrassment. Her reaction wasn’t as awful as he imagined, but there was still that shame to contend with. Does he apologize or does he just drop it and not mention it again? Of course, anyone who knows Hot Rod knows he’s not the type to drop something. He clicks his stylus a couple more times before piping up. “I’m sorry…”

She doesn’t look up when she responds. “No you’re not, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

Hot Rod rolls his eyes. “Fine then. Fuck me, I guess.”

“You’d like that wouldn’t you?” Her head is down but the smile is impossible to miss. 

Hot Rod snorts. “Bitch.” 

“Asshole.”

They both share a quiet laugh. Zephyr then points to one of her sorted stacks of invoices. “Make yourself useful and file these away. They’re from over a year ago.”

Hot Rod blinks, glancing to the file cabinets behind Zephyr before looking back to her. “Uhh—“

She peeks over her shoulder at those cabinets and stands up to round the couch. Hot Rod watches her struggle to open the top drawer. He winces once she pries it open to find it cramped tight with broken, mismatched data pads. Her shoulders raise and lower. “I don’t know why I’m surprised…” 

Hot Rod offers her a meek smile before standing up as she scoops the data pads out, dropping them to the floor. He reaches to help start pulling them out with her but she smacks his hand away. “ Hey! What did I say about hitting?” He hisses, rubbing the tingling out of his hand. 

“Sit down and don’t touch; you’ll make it worse.” 

He points an angry finger at the femme’s face, ready to unload a swear-filled diatribe on her only to stop the second her searing eyes lock onto him. He crosses his arms and leans against the wall. “Fine, but I’m not sitting down.”

She scoffs, moving on to the next drawer. “You’re such a sparkling.”

Hot Rod sticks his tongue out until a cracked data pad is lobbed towards his helm. 

Chapter Text

║┠ THUNDERCRACKER ┨║

I have a beautiful bot on my arm. 

I have a beautiful bot on my arm and I’m stuck at this spark-forsaken console. 

Fuck you, Megatron. 

Thundercracker drums his fingers on the console’s metal keyboard. It’s been two months since that faint signal graced his screen and not a hint of anything else since. He and Skywarp take shifts so never is the scanner left without a set of optics glued to it. Oftentimes Thundercracker spends his shift alone writing nonsensical blurbs in his data pad just to release the thoughts. Tonight is one of the rare nights Flamewar is able to join him since she works second shift as a guard at the prison. He can tell she’s antsy, ready for Skywarp to show up so the pair can flee to Thundercracker’s suite, but she doesn’t complain. Not even a passive aggressive sigh escapes that cute little nose of hers but her cutting violet optics often shift to the clock on the console screen. The last time she looks, so does Thundercracker and he grins. 

Only a couple hours left, may as well build some anticipation. 

He leans back in his seat, interlacing his fingers over his belly. “Anything new in the world of convicts and rejects?”

Flamewar scoffs, keeping her arms crossed over that full, fiery breastplate of hers. “They’re all a bunch of little whiners once you lock them down. Brought in a rapist just last night and he had the genuine audacity to cry about fairness when denied his time in the yard— scumbag.”

“I imagine it’s hard working around bots like that.” Thundercracker says. Still nothing on the screen. “You ever wonder what would happen if you encountered them on the other side?”

“I’d kill ‘em.” The femme says with confidence. “Wastes of energon, that’s all they are.” She takes a deep breath and kicks a foot out. “You know I don’t like talking about work.”

“I do, but you spend pretty much all your free time sitting in this boring-ass room with me. I’m just trying to show interest in the name of fairness.”

She looks at him and smiles. It’s small, but genuine. “Well, I appreciate it, but you can show interest in other ways.”

“Oh yeah?” Here we go. Thundercracker shifts in his seat as a wave of arousal heats his core. He tilts his head. “And how can I do that?”

Flamewar’s eyes light up with mischief but she keeps her composure while remaining leaned against the console just outside his reach. Primus, she’s so dark and broody and ugh. “Take me on dates, pretend to like my hobbies, maybe the odd romantic gesture here and there.”

“Romantic gesture.” Thundercracker repeats with a subtle laugh. “You want me to show up to your job with flowers or something?”

“Well, not necessarily my job but something like that, yeah.” She keeps kicking her feet, disturbing a loose floor panel with the toe of her boot. “Weirdly enough I actually kinda like you, TC.”

“Oof, don’t go catching feelings on me.” The Seeker teases with a wink. 

She snorts. “I wouldn’t dream of it, but nothing gets me going quite like being romanced properly.”

“Hmm, I do like getting you going.” His optics shift to the space between her thighs and back up to her pale face. “I know someone else who does too.”

“And who might that be?” She lowers her arms to rest her hands on the console, allowing Thundercracker full view of her sleek build. 

“Come sit in my lap and find out.” 

Flamewar feigns apprehension, glancing at the shut door, surrounding empty consoles, and offline security cameras before taking a few swaying steps and dropping her aft between the Seeker’s thighs. She wraps an arm around his neck while crossing her legs. “Don’t you have a job to be doing?”

“I do, but having a pretty little thing like you in my arms makes it less tedious.” He pulls her close to plant a wet kiss on her cheek. She giggles which prompts him to dot more feathery pecks across her face. 

“Stop it!” She says, though with very little conviction and a half-hearted shove against his chest. “I swear to Primus, TC, quit it!”

“Mmm, but I like your little laugh. I don’t get to hear it often.” He whispers into her neck while his lips graze her metal. “You’re always so serious.”

“So are you.” Flamewar shoves a palm into his face to pry his mouth away from her, though the tingle of his lips remains on her body. “You don’t strike me as the type to enjoy the company of ditzy bots.”

Thundercracker chuckles, grabbing her wrist and holding it back as if she’s a weak sparkling. “You can possess a personality without being a total airhead.”

“Right.” Flamewar yanks her wrist from his hold and rubs the slight sting from her joint. She passes a glance to the console screen. “How long will you be stuck babysitting this scanner?”

“Until it locks onto the Matrix.” Thundercracker says with a sigh. “I almost had it once before but that night I was a little,” his optics snap to the femme then back to the screen, “preoccupied.”

Flamewar shifts uncomfortably in his lap. Her expression now hard and leery. “You don’t blame me for—“

“No no, don’t you go putting words in my mouth. I’m not blaming you, I’m simply admitting that I let myself get distracted.” He squeezes her gently, rubbing the side of her arm until her body relaxes against him again. “But now I need to focus while I’m here. I saw the signal, I know it’s detectable. Now we just have to be patient.”

“Ugh,” Flamewar curls up against his torso and glares through the ember cockpit glass at the center of his chestplate. 

Thundercracker watches the screen and the faint reflection of the two of them in its glass. In it he sees the irritation narrowing Flamewar’s optics and stiffening her jaw. There’s a slight twinge in his belly and he takes a breath to force it away. “You don’t have to wait with me, you know.” He says quietly. “I understand if you have other things you’d rather be doing. I know I do.”

“There are,” she says while her finger drags along the seams of his cockpit, “but I don’t mind keeping you company when I can.”

“It’s the sex, isn’t it?” Thundercracker stabs with a playful grin. 

She giggles again. Primus… “It definitely doesn’t hurt.”

“Well, I’d say you’ve got about half an hour to prepare yourself because the second I get you alone I’ll be doing a lot of things that ‘don’t hurt.’” He rumbles in her ear. 

The femme perks up, straightening her posture in his lap and draping an arm over his shoulder. “What kind of things?” She inquires sweetly. Her legs cross, giving Thundercracker a tantalizing view of the precious gemstones tinkling against the metal of her ankle. “And don’t leave anything out, TC, you know I love details.”

He gives the console another quick glance before grabbing her posed leg and fiddling with the jewelry wrapped around it. “I’ve noticed you only ever wear these when you’re visiting me.” Thundercracker is careful with the jewelry, holding it light between his fingers to watch it glitter in the room’s lowlight. “Why is that?”

Flamewar smiles. “I like the sound they make when you’ve got my legs in the air.” She shakes her legs and the gems ring out like delicate wind chimes. “Like forbidden music only I get to hear.”

“Mm, now who's the dirty bot?” Thundercracker leans in with a chuckle. 

Flamewar’s mouth teases him. “Still you.”

“Ugh, you know they make berths for this stuff.”

Thundercracker slouches in his chair with an exasperated groan before throwing a searing glare towards the doorway where Skywarp stands with his own smug grin. “You’re early.”

“Yeah, good thing too, otherwise I would have been stuck cleaning up your mess.” Skywarp trots in, plopping his aft down in the chair beside his brother’s while sipping a can of bubbly. He points between the pair. “So you two a thing now or is this one of those friends-with-benefits arrangements?”

“Why? Do you want to join us?” Flamewar teases, ignoring Thundercracker’s wide stare towards her. 

The young, violet and black Seeker shudders. “Eugh, no thanks. No offense to you fembots or anything but valves freak me out.”

Flamewar’s brow quirks. “Mechs have those too, you do know that, right?”

“I do, but if I'm the one being bent over I don’t have to worry about it.” Skywarp finishes his can and tosses it into a nearby bin. “Everybody wins.”

The femme snorts and whispers to Thundercracker. “You never told me your baby brother was a power bottom.”

The eldest Seeker rolls his optics. “I think it’s a younger sibling thing because Starscream is the same way.”

“Not necessarily.” Skywarp interjects. He rests an ankle over his knee. “I’ve heard Screamer will occasionally mix things up. Remember when he had that weird fling with Senator Windblade? From what I heard he folded her like a lawn chair a time or two.”

Flamewar frowns. “Lawn chair?”

“Oh, uhh, Earth stuff.” Skywarp waves to dismiss the odd comment. 

“I forget you are where secrets go to die.” Thundercracker mumbles to his chatterbox of a brother. Flamewar gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder before moving to her feet. 

“I’ll let you chitchat for a moment.” She says. 

Thundercracker gives her aft a light swat as she walks by. “You better wait for me at my suite— I won’t be long.” 

She hums her acknowledgment before vanishing out the door, leaving Thundercracker to suffer beneath his baby brother’s prodding optics. He drags his hand over his face before meeting those stupid eyes. “What?”

Skywarp digs his heels in an attempt to scoot his chair across the floor only to sigh in defeat upon realizing it’s bolted down. He stands up and hops into Thundercracker’s lap, poking his older brother’s nose. “So when you two gonna take vows?”

Thundercracker glares down at his brother before shoving him off and into the floor. “And why would we do that?”

“Well,” Skywarp pops back up to his feet and leans against the console, “obviously you like her. When you’re not in here or in a briefing you’re with her.”

“That doesn’t mean a damn thing.”

“I think it does.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you don’t volunteer your free time to spend with people you don’t like.” Skywarp says with confidence. “You’re the least sociable bot I know and I personally know Soundwave and Shockwave.”

“Dude, we’re fucking, that’s it.” Thundercracker insists firmly. “Of course I like her, I’m not going to climb in bed with someone I don’t.”

“Isn’t that the point? Just find someone hot you can barely tolerate. Don’t have to worry about catching feelings that way.”

Thundercracker gives his brother an incredulous sideways glance. “I’m a little pickier than that.”

“Clearly.”

The older Seeker shakes his head and stands up. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“You can’t keep running from your feelings, TC.” Skywarp calls, his tone uncharacteristically solemn. “Just know I’m here when you’re ready.”

Thundercracker merely waves in response before stepping into the corridor to leave his brother to work his shift alone. When a safe distance from the door he stops to take a breath and fight the tightness in his throat. He hears Skywarp trying to be supportive and all he sees is that youngling Seeker toddling towards him with a tiny flower in his round fingers. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, all he knows is his big brother is in distress and he wants to comfort him. It’s Thundercracker’s job to keep that tiny bot safe, not the other way around. Never will he put that burden on Skywarp— or anyone. 

He dials into his hab suite, finding the lights along his ceiling glowing a low, steady red. The Seeker steps inside and shuts the door before his optics land on the dark supple figure posted up in his berth. She has her legs up against his metal headboard, crossed at the ankles where her jewelry can catch the light and dot her lovely body with sparkles. She sees him and arches her back while stretching her arms above her head. “About time you showed up.” She teases knowing it’s only been a few minutes. “I was beginning to wonder if I might have to entertain myself.”

Thundercracker smirks. His optics lock onto her fingers as they float over the bulge of her breastplate, the dip of her torso, the curve of her hips. “I won’t argue with that so long as you let me watch.” He purrs, still eyeballing her hand now hovering between her thighs. 

“I don’t think you could handle that.” She presses two fingers against her interface panel. It clicks open and she slides those fingers along her slick opening. 

Thundercracker scissors his jaw and moves to stand right at the head of his berth while watching those slender fingers gingerly work over her valve. He kneels down. “And I don’t think you can handle what I intend to do if you keep going.”

“Why don’t you tell me about it?” She breathes, her voice hitched by a moan pulled by her own hand. 

Thundercracker keeps silent, his focus locked onto her shiny fingers now curling in and out of her valve. The pressure between his legs builds along with the heat as his lust demands he release his spike, but he has to hold out a little longer. She begins to roll her hips, sighing into his chest. He can see how wet she is just by the strings of natural lube clinging to her palm. His tongue slips over his lips, his fingers dig into the sides of his berth. He can tell she’s close to overload simply because she’s fighting her moans, honing her focus to finish and when it comes it comes hard. It pushes out her fingers and drips down her sides. She works to catch her breath and recover her voice but her recovery is short lived. 

Thundercracker climbs into the berth, relieving the pressure behind his panel so he can shove his spike deep between her spread thighs. The femme groans with a choked laugh, she squeezes his wrists while the Seeker rolls his hard thrusts at a constant pace. He grabs her legs, pushing them down to her sides to spread her more and allow a perfect view of her red face framed by those glittery, twinkling gems. How had he never noticed that lovely sound her jewelry makes before now? He leans down to speak softly. “Tell me again it’s not my sex you crave.”

She grits her teeth and grabs his jaw with a firm hand. “It’s— not, but I fucking love it.”

Thundercracker pulls from her grasp and puts a hand around her throat, squeezing just hard enough to cause discomfort but not stop her breathing. While his thrusts slow, the force behind them doubles. She gasps each time his spike’s length slams her valve, closing her eyes and smiling while holding the hand pinning her down. “Ohh~ fuck, TC—“

“That’s not my name.” The Seeker growls. Flamewar bites her lip.

“Thundercracker…” she sings softly. 

“Much better.” He closes his eyes, dropping his head back to focus on the grip of her silky valve on him. Rogue electricity surges from his spark, popping between his fingers holding Flamewar down. She yips from mild surprise as the energy bites at her jaw. It only took two separate hook-ups for her to realize the Seeker’s lightning acts of its own will when in the height of arousal. Yet, it doesn’t hurt, it hits like a quick flick of heat against her metal, a fleeting kiss from Primus himself. Often it’s a solid indicator of his nearing overload as his senses give way for pleasure, tearing down those stubborn walls for only a minute or so before that control returns and he’s locked back in. 

Usually when they finish Flamewar will sneak out after a cleansing shower, but tonight she watches Thundercracker stare at the ceiling, once again unreadable. He turns his head to look at her and scowls at her analytic gaze. “What?”

“You’re a sad mech, TC. I can see it now.” She says evenly. 

He grits his teeth behind the thin line of his mouth, choosing his response carefully. There’s nothing malicious in her tone, no mocking or cruelty. She’s being pointed as if she’s telling him the walls of his suite  are black, which they are, so he takes a breath and eases his frown. “Life hasn’t given me all that much to be cheerful about.”

“No,” she says, reaching out to lightly drag her knuckles over his cheek, “but still you persist.”

“As if I have another option.”

“Why would you not?”

He returns his attention to the ceiling, to the vents filling the room with fresh, cool air. His chest rises and falls. “Because someone has to take care of him.”

Flamewar blinks. “Skywarp?”

“Yeah.”

“So who’s left to take care of you?”

“Me.”

The femme swallows then moves to curl up at his side, resting her head on his shoulder and taking his hand. Their fingers interlock and she closes her eyes without another word. Thundercracker feels his spark racing in his chest, threatening to burst the armor holding it down. Now he understands why Skywarp doesn’t hook up with bots he actually likes. 

‘You can’t keep running from your feelings…’

His optics narrow while he squeezes her hand. 

I’m not running.  

Chapter Text

║┠ HOT ROD ┨║

It’s nothing but a lifeless orb of onyx. Black as midnight, smooth as glass. Though his optics are what he sees, it’s as if the damn thing itself is what glares back. Every day he comes down into the ceremonial hall where no bot can see him sitting before the dais staring up at the Matrix, praying for the day he can look at it and not hear the sickening slash of Megatron’s sword slicing through Optimus Prime’s throat. The heavy thud of metal on dirt as the former Prime’s body is relieved of its head haunts him. There was nothing he could do but grit through the burning tears while Ultra Magnus held him back, demanding his silence to avoid being discovered. It was so cowardly, so shameful . They could have stopped Megatron, they could have saved Optimus, but instead they hunkered down in the shadows until it was safe to make a b-line for the ship. 

“One day someone will take my place as Prime and do what I was incapable of: bringing total peace to Cybertron. Until that day, protect the Matrix and don’t stop running.”

When Optimus died the Matrix faded with him. No one has been able to open it and at this point it appears to be nothing but an ornament. 

Hot Rod pushes to his feet, grabbing the relic with both hands, gripping its gilded handles with as much force as his hatred can muster. “Stupid piece of shit . Why did you choose now to be useless? Why can’t you just pick a fucking Prime so we can stop hiding?”

His stare down with the angelic ornament ends with him slamming it back down on its pedestal and slumping to the floor, his back against the stand’s cold steel. He sighs, resting an arm over his bent knee while staring through the hall’s shut door, somehow missing when it opens and shuts until his view is obscured by a blue and white pain in the aft. Another sigh as the interim commander takes a seat on the top step of the dais just at Hot Rod’s feet. “Are you hiding from something, Lieutenant?” Magnus drones evenly. 

“I thought we all were.” Hot Rod retorts. 

“I was thinking more on a personal level.”

Hot Rod tenses. “I’m just still processing, I guess. I still can’t believe he’s gone and that—“ he stops, rubbing his face while steadying his build up of emotion. “I dunno, Magnus, I just don’t understand why this stupid rock hasn’t made a decision yet.”

“The next Prime simply isn’t known, but when it knows we’ll know.” 

“Yeah, okay.”

Ultra Magnus sighs, rubbing his optics beneath his visor. “Look, I’m not qualified to unpack a bot’s inner turmoil. More or less I was built to make their insides their outsides but I’ve found talking to Rung has helped me come to terms with— a lot.”

Hot Rod cuts his optics. “I’m not talking to a shrink.”

“Hey, if you’re cool being in this perpetually crappy mood then that’s on you but as of right now I’m your superior so I’m ordering you to try . I’m tired of walking by and seeing you moping around in here.” Ultra Magnus moves to his feet and faces his First Lieutenant with a firm, scolding finger pointed at the young bot’s nose. “You’re not the only one feeling the blow of losing Optimus and the Matrix, but the rest of us are trying to make the best of it. Believe it or not I actually miss the Hot Rod who constantly cut up, ignored orders, and regularly gave me the finger, so suck it up and go talk to Rung. Stop acting like a kicked sparkling.”

Daggers from Hot Rod’s optics attempt to slice through that stupid white finger, but instead he crosses his arms and nods curtly. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Ultra Magnus straightens up and starts to the door in his usual commanding gait. “And that means now , Lieutenant.” 

Hot Rod lifts his optics to stare at the door as his commander’s shadow disappears around the corner. Of course, he knows better than to give the testy young mech a chance to protest so he makes himself scarce anytime he gives Hot Rod an order. While he’s never been the type to flat-out disobey, his compliance rarely came without a swear-infused fight. It didn’t take long for Ultra Magnus to learn the best way to deal with Hot Rod is to not deal with Hot Rod. 

Along the way to Rung’s office, Hot Rod does his best to keep his destination discreet. Ducking into branching corridors, pretending to dig through closets for some undisclosed trinkets, at one point Windblade stops him to inquire about approval for aerial drills for the few flyers on board. 

“I’ll need to talk to Perceptor about that one.” Hot Rod says, his arms crossed, fingers tapping in thought. “I’m not sure how our pucks will handle high speeds and high altitudes.”

“Surely he thought of that.” Windblade pops a hip, seemingly irked by Hot Rod’s lack of an immediate ‘yes.’ 

He notes the black and red femme’s stance but keeps his tone even. “I’m sure he has but right now we can’t afford the risk that comes with making assumptions. If he says the pucks can handle the stress and change in air pressure then whatever, run your drills.” He shrugs nonchalantly. 

“Well please be quick with it, Hot Rod.” She says after softening her expression to remove the wrinkles from the curling red tattoos along her white faceplate. “It’s been too long since we’ve had a chance to flex our alt-modes. You know that’s not healthy for our cogs.”

“I know, I’ll have an answer for you within the next day or so, okay?”

A small smile lifts her round cheeks. “Okay.”

“Alright, I’ll see ya later.” 

They nod their goodbye and continue opposite routes with Hot Rod eventually dragging his peds to stand before Rung’s office door. He stares at it, counting the rivets, following the wiggling lines of its welds, doing anything but actually opening it. 

Finally, he takes a breath and knocks. Too soft to hear.

He knocks again after a bit of silence and checking both ways down the dimly lit corridor. He always hated interior halls. The lack of natural light is a tad unsettling. 

Lifting his fist to knock again, the door cracks open before he makes contact. He tilts his head, peeking through the crack, yelping in shock at a set of round optics staring at him. “ Rung! ” 

“Oh!” The door opens completely so the psychbot can reach to catch his First Lieutenant before he stumbles backward into the wall. “I’m so sorry, sir, I didn’t expect you to be standing so— close .”

“No no, it’s okay.” Hot Rod straightens himself out after taking a few breaths to calm his racing spark. He then clears his throat while avoiding those very invasive optics. “Are you uhh— are you busy? Right now, I mean.”

“Not terribly.” Rung says. His voice is so warm and welcoming even without smiling. It makes Hot Rod feel nauseous. “Can I help you with something?”

“Well I was wondering if maybe we could— talk for a minute, I guess.” Hot Rod crosses his arms, still avoiding eye-contact. 

Then Rung smiles. “Of course,” he moves out of the way and gestures for his guest to come in, “I’m always available to speak to any bot needing an unbiased audio receptor.”

“Sure sure.” Hot Rod ticks his jaw and walks into the bot’s office. It’s warmly lit, less dungeon-y than his own, with model ships lining the walls where windows aren’t found. His walls are clean, white, scorch mark and dent free. It even smells nice. Sweet and floral. 

Is this hell?  

He looks around desperately for anything that might resemble a mess and the closest thing his optics lock onto is at Rung’s desk. Laid over a cutting mat sits an unfinished ship model, tiny bits of cut metal sprinkle the mat around nippers and tweezers. He must have been in the middle of putting it together. 

“Have a seat.” Rung grabs a chair and rolls it up to sit in front of his desk in view of the lounge berth right across. He watches Hot Rod with a faintly bemused smile. “You seem uncomfortable.”

Hot Rod looks at the psychbot and his one weird antenna and frowns. “This whole therapist thing is kinda new for me.” He reluctantly sits on the berth but doesn’t lay back, he grips the edge like it may fly out from under him if he releases. 

“That’s alright,” Rung assures while grabbing a data pad from his desktop, “if it makes this easier you don’t need to think of me as a therapist. Think of me as a friend who merely has no interest in gossiping about what you have to say.”

“Okay.” Hot Rod swallows. He looks down at his feet hovering a few inches above the floor. “I didn’t stare at Windblade.” He says after another moment of silence. 

“You didn’t stare at Windblade. What do you mean by that?”

He takes a breath. “I mean I didn’t stare at her. I’ve never really been into her in that way but she’s an unusual and strangely beautiful bot so I often found myself staring at her when she’s around. I’d look at her face, her breastplate, her waist, her aft, but today I saw none of it. She was just there, just another bot I’m having a conversation with.” 

“Hmm, does this bother you?”

Hot Rod shrugs, now twiddling his thumbs after releasing the berth. “Not really, just feels odd. I don’t make it a habit to objectify people but I find it difficult to ignore when someone looks good, ya know?”

“Seems reasonable to me.” Rung pauses to scribble a quick note on his data pad before adjusting his glasses. “So who told you to come see me?”

The First Lieutenant licks his lips. “Uhh, Ultra Magnus. He’s concerned I’m not… processing recent events appropriately.”

“I don’t imagine he’s incorrect.”

“Maybe.” 

“What events are he referring to specifically?”

More silence until Hot Rod swallows his pride. “The ones that lead us here… to this planet.”

Rung removes his glasses to better look his new patient in the eye. “Saying the details out loud is the first step in working through them. By being indirect you’re still avoiding those uncomfortable feelings associated with them.”

“Okay…” he hesitates a little longer, but maybe Rung does know what he’s talking about. “ Specifically , the day of Optimus Prime’s execution. Magnus thinks I’m dwelling on it too much.”

“You were there weren’t you? You witnessed it first hand from what I heard.” Hot Rod nods and Rung’s small smile falls to a more empathetic line. “I’m sure that was difficult.”

“Yeah…” Hot Rod keeps his head low, staring at the floor while struggling to choke back tears. 

“You know, Ultra Magnus has been involved in this war far longer than you. He’s seen leaders come and go, executions, watched dear friends pass in his arms. He’s quite hardened to these things, but you’re relatively inexperienced in comparison and from what I’ve heard you’re a very kind bot.” Rung takes a moment to breathe, allowing Hot Rod a chance to process without being overwhelmed. “It’s okay to be upset, it’s okay to feel hurt, sad, maybe even a little guilty. All of those are very natural emotions of personal loss and when you box them in—try to swallow those tears and numb yourself— all it does is build so much emotional pressure it will only take something small and meaningless to break you down completely.” 

Hot Rod lifts his head to reveal glimmering optics. His voice comes out a strangled whisper. “Okay…”

Hot Rod inputs the code to his office while wiping lingering wetness from his cheeks. As the door slicks open his brow pinches at the unexpected light pouring into the hallway. He gives his face another wipe with the heel of his palm and peeks inside. His optics widen once they lay upon the complete— cleanliness within. “Holy—“

“ Crap .” Zephyr pops up from behind the couch, knocking the back of her head into an open file cabinet drawer. “ Crap— ow .” She grits her teeth, rubbing the sore spot while turning to look at Hot Rod, her face now scrunched with guilt and discomfort. “Hey.”

The First Lieutenant blinks as he processes everything around him. His half-assed patchwork on the walls grinded down to be flush with the original metal and polished clean of scorch marks. The floors have been scrubbed, his trash bin emptied, all the data pads stacked and thrown around his desk are tucked away somewhere out of sight. Even his desk has been cleared off with all the furniture arranged neat and straight. He takes a breath before forcing a smile to the femme. “Hey.”

“So umm,” Zephyr rounds to the front of the couch, maintaining her uncomfortably crooked and adorable grin, “I know when I first mentioned cleaning your office you were very very clear about how much you wanted me to not do that but— I…” She huffs, sticking her bottom lip out. 

Hot Rod’s brow lifts. “You?”

Her expression hardens and she throws her arms out. “I couldn’t sleep, okay? I couldn’t sleep because you let me into this office and I had to see it. I had to see it every day I’m in here helping you do your job.”

“You couldn’t sleep because of my office?” 

“Yes!” She begins to pace, maintaining hold of a data pad in one hand. The data pad Hot Rod has realized is practically one with the neurotic bot. “Because I was raised in an organized, sterile environment. I was raised to have floors so clean you could operate on them, bins sterile enough to eat out of, not a stylus or data pad out of place. People didn’t carve up their desks with obscenities and insulting caricatures of fellow bots.” She stops to make sure Hot Rod is still listening. He is with a bemused half grin, now leaned against the doorframe. “So I had to break that boundary because this festering hellhole you call an office was encroaching on my peace.” 

Hot Rod tilts his head, still looking at her as she simmers in her admission. He pulls his optics away to walk to his desk, opening a couple drawers to find their contents laid out in perfect order within. “You know I’m liable to mess this up in a day or two.”

“If you do, I will hurt you.” Zephyr says with burning conviction.

He laughs and flops down into his chair, spinning it around. “It is kinda nice seeing my walls not all covered in grime.”

She steps closer to the desk, exasperated. “I spent all last night scrubbing your nasty walls and floors until my joints locked up. Did no one ever teach you how to clean? Or that it’s bad for your ventilation and filtration systems to breathe in crap like that on the regular? Did no one ever even teach you how to sort files alphabetically or by date?”

Hot Rod faces Zephyr, still smiling. “No.” He stands up again and knocks the top of his desk with a knuckle. His answer has the femme attempting to wipe the flush from her cheeks. He shifts the conversation. “Wanna get a drink?”

She sighs. “Hot Rod, how many times—“

“As friends , Zephyr.” He clarifies, holding his hand up to silence her politely. “We never hang out aside from meals or when you’re in here helping with reports which mostly consists of you working quietly and me sitting out of your way. It’s hard to get to know someone like that.”

She shifts her weight on her feet, still seemingly unconvinced. “I don’t drink.” She says. 

“That’s fine, I’ll drink enough for the both of us.” Hot Rod steps towards the door. “I spent the last hour and a half crying in Rung’s office and I’d like to forget that happened.” There’s a pause and Zephyr’s brow quirks. He breathes a nervous laugh. “And I’d also like to forget I told you that.” When the door opens he gestures towards the corridor. 

Zephyr looks between him and the door. “Now?” 

“Yes now.”

She licks her lips and succumbs. “Alright alright, just don’t make it weird.” 

Hot Rod beams as she walks by. She passes him her data pad which he quickly tossed onto his desk before jogging to catch up to her quick strides. He exhales once their paces match. “You’re fast for such a small bot.”

“I don’t like to meander.” Her lips turn up and his spark threatens to choke him out. “And I’m not that small.” She holds a hand to the top of her helm where her short crest reaches its peak. Her hand levels out then moves to just above the point of Hot Rod’s chin. “See.”

He chuckles and moves her hand away. “Yeah, I see that you’re short.”

She gives him a firm but playful jab in the side with her elbow before they both fall silent on their walk to the ship’s unnamed bar. It sits in the same hall as Bluestreak’s movie theater which means movie nights often include fun themed drinks and end with bots either passed out in their seats or wobbling down the halls to their suites. It’s also why Zephyr never attends a movie because at some point someone is going to walk into the medibay with energon poisoning. Last movie it was Cliffjumper, the one before that it was Elita-1 and Chromia. 

Hot Rod opens the door to the bar for Zephyr, allowing her to step inside first before following close behind. Just before nightfall most seats are already filled with mingling bots and tonight is no exception. With the music blaring, house lights low to allow better view of the more colorful strobes dotting each corner. Hot Rod instructs Zephyr to wait while he trots up to the bar where he manages to quietly threaten a couple of bots into giving up their seats. He waves her over and she joins him, climbing into the tall barstool beside him and resting her elbows on the polished bar top. “What did you say to them?” She shouts over the music. 

“Oh, I told them if they didn’t move I’d enroll them in one of Ultra Magnus’ grammar refresher courses.” Hot Rod chuckles and waves the stumpy bartender, Swerve, over. 

Zephyr can’t help but laugh. “It can’t be that bad.”

He gives Swerve their drink order without even asking the femme and taps the bar. “Oh but it can and it is. It’s a five day course and one of those days is spent entirely on punctuation and the importance of proper semicolon use.”

“Sounds stimulating.” 

Swerve slides the drinks down to Hot Rod who catches them with ease before handing Zephyr hers. She eyeballs it with apprehension. “It’s diluted.” Hot Rod says, gently wrapping her slight fingers around the glass. “A couple low-grade drinks won’t hurt.”

“If you say so.” She says, taking a sip of the pink and purple concoction. She smacks her lips. “Not bad.”

“Nope.” Hot Rod lifts his own glass to his lips before finishing it in one swig and dropping the glass rim-down onto the bar. “Keep 'em coming, pal!” He calls to Swerve who gives him an approving nod and thumbs up. 

Zephyr is barely a third of the way through her third glass by the time Hot Rod has finished his eighth. She lost count of his individual shots after ten and somehow he remains upright, though his optics are hooded and heavy. He watches her with a drunken, dreamy smile; his face resting in the palm of his hand while he leans against the counter. 

“You weren’t kidding when you said you’d drink enough for the two of us.” She says with a small laugh. 

“I’m a mech of my word.” He muses, unable to peel his eyes off her. The dancing blue and pink lights around them beautifully accentuate the subtle shimmer of her tri-coat white paint, but his focus is on her face. Dark and round, a sweet little nose, piercing eyes, and perfectly kissable lips. He can see her glancing at him every few moments and not once does he shy away or flinch. Gotta love liquid courage. He breathes out slowly. “You’re so pretty.”

She gives him an incredulous sideways glance, clearly suppressing a smile. “And you’re drunk.”

“And I’m also pretty.” Hot Rod winks. “I bet we’d make very pretty sparklings.”

“You don’t strike me as the type to want to parent.” Zephyr remains cool, but she’s sober and far more in control of her mouth and thoughts. 

“I do not .” He says, scooting his chair closer. “But I’d make a hundred sparklings if it meant I got to fu—“ he stops, shaking his head to find less abrasive words, “sleep with you.” His optics search her expression but it never changes. She’s not annoyed but she’s not all that impressed either. At least she isn’t punching him. He swallows and recoils a bit in his seat. “Sorry, drinks uhh— make me a little… personal .”

Zephyr offers up a coy yet seductive half-smile. Her finger traces the rim of her glass. “Why do you think I’m not drinking so much?” 

An unexpected fire lights in Hot Rod’s core at the implication those words carry. He moves even closer, laying an arm across the back of her chair while he lifts her glass up towards her mouth. “You could always just consider it a very personal thank you for reviving my office.”

“I told you, I’m not interested in anything right now.” Zephyr pushes back calmly, taking a sip. 

“It doesn’t have to be anything.” Hot Rod presses, scooting himself ever closer to the point their helms are inches from touching. “It could just be fun.”

Zephyr leans with him just enough to avoid their mouths touching, still smiling. “I don’t do casual interfacing.”

“Why not?” Hot Rod purrs, his belly roiling with scalding arousal boosted by high-grade. He boldly drags a hand along her thigh, his palm tingling from the touch of her smooth armor. 

“Because I don’t want to catch feelings.” She says, sounding breathless. She doesn’t try to move his hand, his hand that skirts up her side, over her shoulder to hold the side of her neck while he thumbs her jawline. Her optics close and she sighs, not fighting as she feels him pull her head forward. “I shouldn’t have had that third drink…”

Right as their lips press together, Hot Rod stops, pulling away to take a deep breath. Suddenly the room is spinning and his throat feels tight. He holds himself up against the counter with an empty stare down towards his boots and the floor. 

Zephyr stands up, snapping to grab Swerve’s attention. “I need a bin or something.” She says just loud enough for him to hear. “ Now , Swerve!”

The smaller mech scrambles behind his bar while Hot Rod fights to swallow the liquid burning the back of his throat. He coughs and the femme beside him tenses. His stomach flips and he claps his hand over his mouth as he coughs again, thick pink liquid now dripping between his fingers. 

“ Shit shit .” Zephyr hops partway over the bar, grabbing a full bucket of soap and water, dumping it on the floor. 

Swerve throws his arms out. “What the he—“

He’s cut off by Hot Rod loudly retching into that bucket with Zephyr still holding it. She carefully takes his hands so he can grip the rim, allowing her to rub his back between his wings and the base of his neck while he fills the bucket with his partly-processed drinks and whatever crap he ate earlier. She looks over at a mortified Swerve and gives him a sympathetic smile. “I think you can close his tab.”

“No no,” Hot Rod lifts his head, pointing an angry finger at Swerve typing on a console. “Don’t you fucking close it.”

“Yes, close it, he’s done.” Zephyr commands with a glare to the mech in her arms. “Don’t be stupid.” She then reaches for a clean towel on the other side of the bar and wipes Hot Rod’s hand of his mess. 

Swerve does as the femme orders and reads out his total after adding it up. “It’s four-thousand-two-hundred and some change.”

“Dude…” Hot Rod wipes at his mouth with Zephyr’s towel, sitting back up in his chair, though keeping his bucket close as if it’s a source of comfort. “I can’t pay that.”

“It’s not cheap getting this stuff now, Rod.” Swerve says with a shrug. 

The First Lieutenant groans, rubbing his head. Zephyr reaches into a card-holder on her belt and pulls out her charge card. She slides it to Swerve. “Here.” 

“Wait— no, don’t do that.” Hot Rod tries to grab her card before Swerve can snatch it but his compromised balance nearly topples him over. “Zeph—“

“Shut up, I’m taking you to the medibay.” She takes her card back from Swerve and grabs Hot Rod’s arm, throwing it over her shoulder so he can lean against her while they walk. “I need to make sure you don’t need your circulatory system flushed.”

He sighs, and hobbles alongside her wearing a frustrated pout until a moment of clarity strikes as they step into the corridor. The corners of his mouth twitch up at the thought. 

We almost kissed. 

Chapter Text

║┠ THE LOST LIGHT ┨║

Breakfast and lunch aboard The Lost Light were once the noisiest part of the day, but now those hours the mess hall stands empty with buffet trays of food untouched. Perceptor’s radiation pucks proved to be more successful than even he imagined and not a single bot spends their days indoors anymore. Save for one. 

While Pharma and Ratchet work off a rotating shift schedule with regular days off, Zephyr has found herself holed up within the cold walls of the medibay, not even stepping far enough out to grab a hot meal. Instead she scavenges the ever-thinning cantina stock for something somewhat nutritious and palatable, but with everyone else skipping the mess hall for meals in order to stay outside its stores dwindle by the day. Today’s lunch is a bag of shaving crisps and bubbly. She doesn’t even like crisps, but it’s something to keep her going until dinner when Ratchet usually brings her a tray from the mess hall.  

After rounding on the growing stack of admitted bots, Zephyr sits at her desk to munch on her pathetic lunch while finishing her notations. She scrolls through each data pad, scribbling her notes and making amendments where needed before moving on to the next. The lights at her desk are low as are the main lights of the medibay. Most of the bots are in forced stasis to allow their bodies to recover faster. In one room is a mech whom Ratchet had to rebuild his entire arm after it became wedged in a stoney crag, further down the corridor are a couple of siblings with an extra stubborn case of cosmic rust being treated with an aggressive antibiotic and nanobot regimen. All cases Zephyr can handle without a babysitter or senior medic breathing down her neck. It took some convincing and a few finagled behavior reports from Ratchet for Ultra Magnus to lift her probation, but eventually he concluded she is now fit to exist in solitude once again. Thank Primus. 

With a final swig of her drink, she tosses the can into a bin beneath her desk and fiddles with the unopened bag of crisps. The foil crinkles loudly between her fingers and she winces at the awful sound before pulling out a crisp. “Gross.” She eyeballs the snack in her hand and its metallic coating before popping it in her mouth with a frown. Bitter. Very bitter. She makes another unpleasant face and reads the bag. Coolant Flavor. Ew. 

With a sigh she tosses her lunch into the bin with her empty drink and resolves to chewing the side of her pinkie digit while finishing the last of her charts. Luckily she’s used to skipping meals. It’s not unusual to spend half a day or longer in the operating room without a moment to step out. There’s no pain in her gut and her energy is still high enough to keep her optics open without strain. Only does she look up when the door to the medibay slicks open to allow Drift in. “Hey.” She says quietly before returning to her work.

“Hey yourself.” He grabs a rolling chair and sits himself beside her, leaning up against her desk, watching her. “You’re hiding again.”

She gives him a sideways glance and sighs. “I’m not hiding— I’m working.”

“You’re working so you can hide.” Drift clarifies with a half smirk. He scoots closer to her and speaks softly. “So why are you hiding? I tried to ask Rung but he’s bound to that patient confidentiality thing and he’s the only one I can imagine you’d fully open up to.”

“Even if he wasn't, he's not a gossip.” Zephyr points out. “And I don’t tell him everything.”

Drift hums and says nothing for a few moments, content to sit and watch the femme focus on her work. Though she’s clearly distracted by him being there as her sharp optics keep darting in his direction. He shifts his own gaze to a further wall hosting a holographic display of patient vitals. Their sparks are steady but out of sync. “This planet is very beautiful.” He says. “It’s haunting how peaceful it feels considering every living being it once housed had to die in order for it to reach this point.”

Zephyr’s brow pinches. “Okay?”

He chuckles. “All I’m saying is it’s possible to live even after death.”

She swallows and returns her attention to her charts. Drift watches her with gentle optics, deciding when to press the issue of her isolation. There really is no good time to confront her. He exhales through his nose. “I know you’re avoiding Hot Rod, but I haven’t quite figured out why yet.”

“And you never will.”

“I wouldn’t go as far as to say never .” Drift teases. He crosses his arms over his chest, twisting back and forth on the stool. “I have my suspicions.”

She drops her stylus to the desk with a huff, finally meeting Drift’s stare with cold frustration. “What would those be, exactly ?”

“I think you’re afraid of developing feelings for him, assuming you haven’t already. You two had a rocky start but seemed to get along well up until the last few weeks.”

“We still get along.” Zephyr insists. “I’ve just been busy, like I said.”

“That’s not what Hot Rod says.”

She freezes, her shoulders tensing but she quickly blinks the stiffness away. “What does he say?”

Drift grins. “He says you’re avoiding him.”

“Yeah, well… he’s an idiot.” Zephyr scowls and returns to rewrite the same notation she’s messed up thrice already. “He wants to be more than friends and I’m dealing with that as best I can.”

“By avoiding him.”

“ Drift ,” the femme snarls, now glaring at the older mech, “please just drop it , okay?”

His bemusement fades and he wipes at his mouth with his fingers. The two say nothing for a few tense minutes. Zephyr continues her notations while Drift analyzes her frantic aura. She's conflicted, angry yet sullen. Her colors ripple from one to another in a rainbow of trauma, grief, love, and hate. He then makes a decision and moves to stand, pushing his seat back where he found it. He gives her shoulder a light, reassuring squeeze. “You don’t need to act tough for me, but I understand you wish to be alone.” He moves towards the door, feeling her eyes on him. He peeks at her over his shoulder. “I know listening is Rung’s thing but I’m here if you need it. I’m not much of a gossip either.”

She nods and he leaves. When she’s certain he’s outside earshot she breathes a sigh of relief, allowing a few rogue tears to fall, quickly wiping them away. Her throat remains taut as she works, any thought outside her work threatens to release the rest of her withheld tears, but she keeps them down. Down long enough for another to walk in on her staring daggers through an empty data pad screen. She looks up, moving to her feet only for him to grab her arm before she can flee. 

“So you have been avoiding me.” Hot Rod says, sounding more hurt than angry. She sits down again knowing she can no longer slip away. 

“I’ve been busy.” She presses. 

“So I’ve been told.” Hot Rod takes the seat Drift used and settles down, though a safe distance from the irked femme. “Look, we need to talk about what happened.”

“Nothing happened so there’s nothing to talk about.” Zephyr says, her head down in her charts again. “We were drunk, people do stupid, horny stuff when they’re drunk.”

Hot Rod rolls his eyes. “No, I was drunk, you were barely tipsy.”

“It doesn’t matter, Hot Rod.”

“But it does!” He hisses, keeping his voice a loud whisper. “It matters because you had more control of your behavior and you were still about to give in.”

“Why do you even care so much? Primus, just let it go.”

“Boy, do I wish I could let it go.” Hot Rod spits. “I wish I could just forget about it considering you’re such a fucking peach to deal with.”

Zephyr slams her stylus and data pad down and matches Hot Rod’s glare. “I’ve been trying to be your friend but you’re the one who keeps pushing for me to be more when I’m not ready to be anyone’s anything!”

“So why did you almost kiss me ?!”

“I was drunk , Hot Rod!”

“No you weren’t, Zephyr ! You weren’t drunk, not like I was. You were coherent enough to grab a bucket before I spewed all over the damn bar.” 

Zephyr clenches her fists. “A kiss doesn’t mean anything.”

Hot Rod stares at her, his fingers flexing at his sides. He shouldn’t, but he has a point to make. He yanks her out of her chair, grabs her neck, and pulls her in until their mouths firmly meet. It’s quick, but fulfilling. The two given a brief taste of each other on the tips of their tongues and the push of their lips before Zephyr shoves herself off and away from the mech. 

“What the hell ?” She wipes at her mouth, her breathing quickened by shock and a flurry of unwanted, mixed emotions. Her spark pounds at the back of her breastplate. Her body heats up as anger swells through her chest and limbs. She points to the door. “Get out.”

Hot Rod crosses his arms and stands firm. “No.”

“ Get out .” Zephyr goes to shove him but he catches her wrists, pressing her arms to her chest. “Let go of me!”

“I’m not letting go until I know you’re going to stop avoiding me.” 

“Ugh, you’re such an ass.” She pulls hard against his grip but he holds her fast, barely moving. “If you think I’m going to go anywhere near you after this you’re kidding yourself.”

He keeps quiet, unbothered by her persistent thrashing against his hold. They remain that way for several minutes until she finally gives in, dropping her head to glare at the ground between their peds. “I really don’t like you right now.” She says. 

“I can live with that.” Hot Rod lets her go and steps back. “I know you’re not ready for anything serious and I’m sorry for pushing you,” he shrugs, glancing at her workstation, “I just really like you and it’s difficult for me to ignore at times. I’m not used to being the one chasing someone.”

Zephyr straightens up. “And that right there is the problem.” She points at the mech, his brow quirking in puzzlement. She sighs and shakes her head. “You’re so busy trying to chase me down you can’t even see how far you’re running ahead of me.”

He scowls. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I need you to slow down . Stop trying so hard.” She rubs her arms and leans against her desk. “There’s no point.”

“And what the hell does that mean?” 

Zephyr looks at him unimpressed. She steps forward and grabs him at the shoulders, holding his narrowed optics. “It means you’re an idiot.”

His expression falls into something flat and dejected. “I’m an idiot?”

“Yes.” Zephyr lets go of him. “You’re an idiot because you’re not paying attention. You’re so focused on trying to impress me, trying to stay on my good side that you miss the fact you don’t need to .” Hot Rod persists in his confusion. She takes a breath to steady the anger in her voice. “Hot Rod, how often am I in your office writing your reports?”

He blinks like it’s a trick question. “Often, I guess.”

“Okay, and do I ever complain?” He shakes his head so she continues. “And just a few weeks ago I busted my aft cleaning and organizing your office which I hope you’ve kept up with because I meant what I said when I said I’d hurt you if you didn’t.”

There’s a brief moment where it seems the young First Lieutenant is beginning to understand, but he again shakes his head. “I— I don’t follow.”

Zephyr drops her arms and resolves to grabbing his face, pulling him close and speaking softly. “Why would I do that if I didn’t somewhat like you? I’m a medic in training, my time is not my own, yet what time I did have I’ve spent taking care of you. Do you understand now?” She lowers her hands, sliding them down his arms to lock her fingers with his. “You don’t need to chase me, Hot Rod, just walk with me.”

As her words settle into silence between them, Hot Rod’s optics remain wide, his mouth hung partially open while he processes. She waits patiently for him to say something but he has nothing he can say to encompass the overwhelm of emotion rattling his chest. He grabs her jaw, pulling her into another kiss. This one slower, calmer and Zephyr doesn’t tense or shove away. She rests her hands against his shoulders, turning her head to invite his breath, his tongue to mix with hers. Now that she’s expecting it, she savors the sweetness of his mouth, the cooling bursts of air from the vents at the sides of his head. He moves gently, his hands hold her neck, tilting her jaw up with his thumbs. 

After a moment he moves his touch from her face, sneaking down to her thighs and lifting her up onto her desk. She pulls away while he continues to pepper her face and neck with light kisses. “Easy, Rod.” She whispers with a giggle. “I just told you to take it slow.”

“I know.” He says, keeping their foreheads together while teasing her lips with his own. He pulls her by the hips, pressing himself firmly between her legs. “And I can totally do that,” his mouth moves to her jaw, then her neck, around her collar, “I’ll be so slow you can’t stand it.”

“Hot Rod—“ Zephyr sighs, shutting her optics and laying her head back. “You better stop.”

“Or what?” He says. “Because if the consequences are my spike in your valve I think I’ll accept it.”

She can’t help but laugh as her body lights up with arousal. “Pretty hot talk for such a sweet bot.”

“Just stop fighting and let me have this before I lose my mind.”

Zephyr opens her eyes long enough to glance around the quiet medibay, checking the vitals of her patients on the monitor. There’s still a bit of time before Ratchet and Pharma are likely to return. She grinds her teeth before locking eyes with Hot Rod. Those bright blue optics now brightened by carnal need. A need Cybertronians once lived happily without. A need Zephyr has been readily ignoring since Offset’s death. It has been easy to ignore— until now. Until this gorgeous idiot decided to creep his way in like a virus on her spark. She props herself up on the desktop and smiles. “Don’t expect this to become a regular thing.” She says. 

Hot Rod breathes along her neck, slipping his hand to the hot spot between her legs. “Let’s see how you feel about that after I’m done with you.” Two of his fingers slide along her soft valve, teasing her outer node before pushing inside. Zephyr drops her head with a breathless moan, her body electrified by the steady curling of his hand. He has her dripping into his palm when he pulls away, using that same wet hand to push her down to her back on the desk by her neck. Her bottom lip juts out and he snorts. “Damn, what’s that adorable face for?”

Her eyes dart to where their hips meet then back up. A mischievous grin stretches across his faceplate, lifting his cheeks. “Oh,” he says, he reaches down between his legs to adjust himself, “did you want to see?”

Zephyr bites her lip and nods. “Yes.”

Hot Rod leans over her, touching his forehead to hers while bending her waist up. “You’ve got a real naughty side,” he quickly plants a hungry wet kiss on her lips, “I love it.”

“Don’t use that four-letter-word with me.” She touches his face. A wave of grief clenches at her throat. 

“Too soon?”

“Yeah.”

“Fine, I don’t hate it.” Hot Rod kisses her again before he grabs her chin to angle it down where she can see between her legs. “And I definitely don’t hate this.” 

Zephyr’s mouth feels dry, her spark thundering while she watches his spike slide down into her valve. He does it so methodically, making sure she feels every last bit of him fill her until their bodies meet again. She gasps, digging her fingers into the desk as he thrusts so slow it makes the room spin. “Oh God , fuck— Hot Rod—“ 

He grins, keeping that impossibly wanton pace while breathing into her neck. “I told you I’d take it slow.”

Zephyr’s fingers dig into his hips, she growls through gritted teeth. “ Faster .”

“Oh, I’m sorry, now you want me to take things fast?” He chuckles, kissing along her neck and jaw. “I thought you weren’t ready for fast.”

Her valve is on fire by this point, aching for his strength to push her through the desk, begging for release. She drops her head down with an exhausted, breathy laugh. “Oh my God , stop being funny and just fuck me .”

He feigns a sigh as if the request is such an inconvenience. “Alright, fine , I guess we’ll do it your way.” He props her legs up on his shoulders and drops his fists onto the table. “Oh,” he slaps a hand over her mouth, “can’t have that giving us away.” 

Before she can even glare at him, he sends her optics rolling back, pounding himself faster and harder than even she expected. She reaches to hold his hand firmly over her mouth while she cries her pleasure into it, muffling the sound so just the two of them can hear. 

Hot Rod holds her eyes with his own, riding the high of watching her squirm, hearing her quiet, throaty moans, feeling her intimately wrapped around him like wet silk. Then that wall of intense pleasure hits and he chews the inside of his cheek while his chest and throat rumble with his own moans. Zephyr is able to lift his hand just enough to breathe out: “Let me hear your voice.”

The mech eases his pace only slightly, he wraps her legs around his waist so he can fit his head in the crook of her neck and happily sighs and moans just loud enough for her. He feels himself nearing the edge of overload, his spike sends tingling waves to his core with each stroke. He releases Zephyr’s mouth so he can lay his arms around the top of her head. “ Primus— Zephyr,” he whispers into her neck between sloppy kisses, “I’m gonna— ugh, fuck— Zephyr. ”

Hearing him singing her name kicks her body into overdrive, she starts to roll her hips to the rhythm of his thrusts just to watch as the sensation sends him into overload. His fingers dig ruts into the desk, guttural groans rattle past his clenched teeth as he fights to quicken his pace through his orgasm. His peak ends, but his sex doesn’t. He latches his hands onto her hips and drills her until she has to cover her mouth again to hide the awfully ugly but delicious sounds her overload tears from her throat. Hot Rod keeps thrusting until she comes down and he pulls out to drop into her chair with a tired yet satisfied sigh. “God damn , how the hell am I supposed to get anything done when I could be doing this ?”

Zephyr takes a breath, sitting up slowly while her hips and valve scream in delight. Cool liquid drips down her thighs once she moves to stand. “Crap.” She pats Hot Rod’s shoulder and points to a supply cart behind him when he looks up. “Can you grab a towel?”

“I certainly can.” He quickly snags one then jerks away when Zephyr tries to reach for it. “ Ah-ah , let me.” She rolls her optics and backs off while Hot Rod carefully wipes down her thighs and groin. When she’s all cleaned off he wraps his arms around her, pulling her close and kissing her belly just above her belt. He playfully flicks her now closed interface panel and leans back to clean himself. “I can’t wait to get my mouth on that.”

Her brow raises in spite of the aroused shudder shaking her body. “I meant it when I said this isn’t going to be a thing.”

“I know.” Hot Rod lays the towel over his shoulder while drinking in her beautiful body. “Just gives me something to look forward to whenever you have those odd days you’re in a mostly good mood.”

“Why do you make me out to be such a grump?”

He stands, brushing her cheek with his knuckles. “Because you are a grump.” She smacks at his arm and he laughs. “Enough with the hitting ! Why do you have to hit me?”

“Because you anger me.” She says, sticking her tongue out. “And you’re annoying.”

“Watch it, I might have to put that smart mouth to use.”

“You couldn’t handle what this smart mouth can do.” She keeps her arms crossed, leaning against her desk while eyeballing the mech. “I’ll suck your soul out.”

That statement sends Hot Rod forward, he stands over her with shadowy, hungry optics. He grabs her jaw, drawing his thumb around her puffy lips. “Care to put your money where your mouth is?”

Her spark flutters at his touch. She pulls him in and their mouths lock. They melt into each other again, their hands wandering their bodies, soaking in their warmth, tantalizing each other until Hot Rod can barely contain himself. He hikes one of her legs up past his waist and slides back into her swollen warmth. She bites his neck, her sighs fogging the armor at his collar and chest. “What happened to using my mouth?”

Hot Rod holds her at the nape of her neck, growling into her cheek as he thrusts. “I really just need to fuck you right now.”

She barely sighs ‘okay’ while focusing on his stiff spike slicking in and out. Her moans die in her throat while her fingers dig into his back. The femme’s body demanding she lay back, but the angle he’s taking is even more electric than the last. Her inner nodes alight with pleasure, burning her core, weakening her legs. 

Then the door hisses open.

Zephyr shoves Hot Rod off, locking up her panel and dropping into her seat just as Ratchet and Pharma step inside, the pair of medics focused on their discussion before Ratchet looks up to see Hot Rod leaned awkwardly against her desk. The young mech’s face shines with condensation and Ratchet’s optics are drawn to the towel thrown over his shoulder. He frowns, darting glances between the pair, noting Zephyr’s flushed cheeks. “Everything good?”

“Oh yeah, amazing.” Hot Rod says, giving the old medic a thumbs up after wiping the shine of saliva off his mouth. From her seated angle, Zephyr can see the Autobot officer struggling to level his breathing. 

Pharma looks at Ratchet in suspicion, but there’s nothing they can readily prove so his colleague shrugs it off. “I think you’ve been stuck in this place a little too long.” Ratchet says. “Go outside, breathe some fresh air.”

“Okay.” She nods, standing up quickly to scurry into the hallway. 

Hot Rod moves to follow her, keeping himself calm until Ratchet snags his arm to hold him back. “So help me, Hot Rod, if I find out you are using that bot—“

“What are you, her father, old bot ? I’m not using her so chill out.” Hot Rod commands, matching Ratchet’s glare before jerking his arm free and following Zephyr’s stretched shadow down the corridor. 

Chapter Text

║┠ ZEPHYR ┨║

There’s only one seat left at their table and the young femme reluctantly plants her aft in it. She sets her tray down and opens her drink, breathing in its warm earthy scent before taking a sip. Too bad it doesn’t taste as good as it smells, but she powers through because she knows it’ll give her energy. Ratchet has been working her harder than usual, to the point she wanted to escape to the mess hall this evening if only to get away from him for a few clicks. 

“So what’d we think of this week’s movie?” Cliffjumper asks. His optics bounce between the bots at their table. 

“I thought it was nice.” Chromia says. Windblade beside her quietly nods in agreement. 

“I didn’t hate it .” Cliffjumper says. He swallows his bite of energon cake. “It was just a bit mushy for me. Lovey-dovey isn’t really my thing.”

Windblade snorts. “Yeah, we’re all well aware.”

“Don’t start with me, femme.” Cliff warns with a wagging finger. “I know things about you people would pay me good money to learn.”

Her lovely face scrunches in a scowl and she returns to picking at what few bites remain on her tray. Chromia passes her friend an empathetic glance until she spots Cliffjumper’s spoon pointing at something. 

“What the hell is that?” He says. 

Hot Rod looks up, his cheek full of cake. “What’s what?”

Cliffjumper points more firmly at Hot Rod’s hand holding the cake. The hand attached to the arm he happens to have draped over Zephyr’s shoulders. “What’s that ?”

The First Lieutenant gives his friend an incredulous look and holds up the half eaten dessert. “It’s a cake— I actually think this one is some type of synthetic chocolate but I could be wrong. It’s good though.” He takes another bite. 

Zephyr keeps her eyes down in a poor attempt to avoid the impending conversation, but she knew the second that bot put his arm on her there would be questions. She isn’t about to make him move it, however, it isn’t worth the argument. 

“Okay, smartass,” Cliffjumper persists, as he does, and points again to Hot Rod’s hand, “what’s up with that?”

”I dunno what you’re talking about, Cliff.” Hot Rod grins but Zephyr can only take so much of their childish banter. 

“He’s talking about your arm on me.” She says, sounding bored. 

Hot Rod sighs. “Yeah, I know but I was hoping he’d drop it if I played dumb.”

“This is Cliffjumper we’re talking about, remember?” Bluestreak adds from his corner across from Drift. 

“Yeah yeah, shut up.” Cliff waves a hand in Bluestreak’s face before narrowing his optics at Hot Rod and Zephyr. “So is this a thing now?”

“Sort of.” Says Hot Rod. 

But Zephyr says ‘no.’

Cliff shakes his head. “Okay, I’m getting mixed signals here. Zeph, please explain because I know dipshit here won’t give me a straight answer.”

Hot Rod raises a middle finger to the contentious mech until Zephyr shoves his hand down. She huffs. “I’m not in a relationship, but he wants it to be something so I’m dealing with that as best as I can.”

“What do you mean by that?” Chromia asks. 

“It means she’s too traumatized to commit. Don’t ask me why because she will not tell me.” Hot Rod drones, taking a sip of Zephyr’s thick, dark drink. He makes an unpleasant face and sets the cup down before squeezing her closer against him. “But that’s not gonna stop me from smothering the hell out of her until she does finally suck it up and love me back.” 

All Zephyr can do is roll her eyes and kick her cooling systems up before her cheeks pink and give her away. Of course, Hot Rod decides that’s the perfect time to pepper her cheek with fleeting kisses. “Stop that.” Zephyr hisses, holding her hand up to shield her face from his mouth, but all he does is grab her wrist to pull her even closer against him. A small smile twitches her lips as flutters fill her belly but she manages to pull away and brush herself off. “Rod, seriously , you’re so embarrassing.”

All he does is smile. It’s so cute and sweet. He’s so cute and sweet— it’s awful. She wipes her face and goes back to eating her dinner while ignoring the snickers at the table. 

“Don’t let Arcee see you acting all cutesy like that.” Chromia whispers to Hot Rod. “She’ll get jealous.”

He blows off the comment with a sniff. “We broke up years ago. She needs to get over it.”

“It’s not always easy getting over someone you once loved.” Zephyr murmurs. 

“Yeah, so just be a little sensitive about it.” Windblade says with a shrug. 

“I’m sensitive.” Hot Rod sneers. His arm snakes around Zephyr’s waist as he speaks. “I’m so sensitive, and I understand why she may be upset, but I’m not going to neglect my feelings to protect hers.”

“Damn, that’s deep.” Cliffjumper says. “You’re spending too much time with glasses over there.” His spoon now points to Rung sitting at a further table between Pharma and Perceptor. 

“Eh, it’s not that big a deal.” 

Zephyr chews on her spoon after licking it clean, distracted by the lovely pressure of Hot Rod’s fingers possessively squeezing her hip. She wants to hate it, hate how blatantly in love with her he suddenly is, but she can’t, even if she tries. That’s the worst part about it. 

An unexpected frown pinches her face once the topic of the conversation processes. “Wait— what do you mean don’t let Arcee see him being ‘cutesy’ with me?”

Chromia leans forward to look past Windblade and Hot Rod. She’s such a beautiful femme with armor a delicate blue which glimmers in the light as if it was forged from water. Zephyr doesn’t even want to acknowledge Windblade’s exotic beauty. How could he pass up either of them? “Not to make you feel weird or anything, but Roddy never really acted like that with her.” Chromia says in a hushed tone. “It was part of the reason they didn’t last.”

“Part?” Zephyr looks up to Hot Rod while he gives Chromia a cold glare. “What happened with you two?”

He sighs. “I’ll tell you when you tell me.” 

She frowns again. “I think I went through a little more than just a nasty breakup.”

Hot Rod squeezes Zephyr again, bending down to kiss her on the top of her helm. “I don’t doubt that considering your permanently cranky mood.”

The femme waves him off, the top of her head still tingling from where his lips touched. He’s acting like a committed partner. That crippling fear flips her stomach and she grabs her tray and leaves the table. Tears burn the corners of her optics as she briskly exits the mess hall, tuning out the confused calls of the bots at her table. He’s going to follow her. He won’t let her leave suddenly without checking on her. He’s too kind to let her walk off without knowing she’s okay. 

Zephyr rounds a corner, muffling her sobs with a hand cupped over her mouth. She leans up against the wall as the room starts to spin. The deafening boom of falling bombs and crashing buildings fill her audio receptors. She can smell the smoke, see the blood staining the street. Her knees buckle, sending her to the floor with her arms wrapped around her waist while she fights to catch her breath. 

“ Primus, please— please don’t take him from me! Please !”

“I love— you… Zeph…”

Zephyr’s breath catches in her throat. She chokes on her tears and her own frantic sparkbeat. “Oh God, make it stop! Make it stop, please ! Please , I can’t breathe .”

Then he’s there. She can hear his worried voice but his words don’t register. His shadow swallows her, the only thing she sees of him other than his boots and knee on the floor. Then his hands come into view, lifting her head for someone else to place a breathing mask over her nose and mouth. A cool burst of calming gas quiets her tortured memories, chilling the tears still flowing down her cheeks. She takes one deep breath, then another. Someone has their hand on her chest. She groggily rolls her head to see Ratchet knelt beside her. He’s locked in, focused on her spark, his old war-torn face wrinkled and stern. He says something to Hot Rod, she still can’t hear them clearly, but then Hot Rod grabs her chin, turning her head to look at him. He waves Ratchet’s pen light between her optics then turns to say something to the medic. She lets out a small laugh. He knows to check her optical response. What a smart bot. 

She sways on her knees, the gas making her sleepier by the second, but finally she can hear them.

“Don’t move her too quickly.” Ratchet instructs. “Her spark is under a lot of strain right now.”

She then spots Pharma jogging up to join the pair as they carefully lift the femme to her feet. “Is it an arrhythmia?” He asks Ratchet. 

“I think so.” Ratchet says. “I need to get her on a monitor to know for sure. It could have been just a panic attack or possibly something worse.” He moves to help Zephyr walk to the medibay but stops when Hot Rod scoops her up to carry her on his own. 

“Are panic attacks normal for her?” Pharma inquires as the medics follow closely behind Hot Rod and their new patient. 

“No.”

Zephyr lays her head against Hot Rod’s chest, watching him with heavy eyes. He doesn’t look down at her, his focus clear by his quick yet calm pace and forced flat expression. She struggles to pull the mask down so she can speak more clearly. “Rod…” she takes a painful breath once she knows he’s listening, “Rod, tell Ratchet my chest— my chest feels like it’s going to tear apart, please.”

He frowns but calls over his shoulder. “Hey! She said her chest hurts.”

“No—“ she gasps as the pain intensifies with each breath. “Hot Rod, my chest— it’s tearing—“ her body falls limp, her optics rolling back. 

“Zeph— Zephyr?” Hot Rod feels at her neck for her pulse. Nothing. “Fuck fuck fuck— fuck .” He drops her to the floor to open her chestplates, starting compressions on her fading spark while Ratchet and Pharma scramble to move in and take over. 

║┠ HOT ROD ┨║

He can’t hear them. He watches their flailing hands and angry faces as they argue over the conference table. He hasn’t been able to hear anything for a week. He doesn’t want to hear them. Everything, everyone merely producers of noise, masses of metal meant to take up space and get in his way. Poor vessels for distraction from the constant suffocating tightness around his spark. 

But Perceptor insists on grabbing his attention with an irritating snap of his fingers. “Hot Rod,” his hisses to his withdrawn First Lieutenant, “Hot Rod, we need you to focus for a second.”

The young mech’s dull optics snap up to glare at the scientist standing across from him. Perceptor matches his cold gaze with no hesitation. “ What? ” Hot Rod snaps. 

“We need you to stop pouting for five minutes and help us come up with a solution,” Prowl jabs a firm finger into the long conference table, “I still think we need to bring this to Ultra Magnus’ attention.”

“And what good would that do?” Perceptor counters. “Ultra Magnus will undoubtedly make the call for us to leave this planet and we simply can’t afford to take that risk. Increased chances of detection by the Decepticons aside, we simply do not have the stores or fuel to wander aimlessly through space hoping to find a better sanctuary. Right now no outside planet is allowing Cybertronian refugees. We have nowhere to go.”

“Surely Ultra Magnus understands those facts. He’s a reasonable bot; I’m willing to bet he’d be open to a solution that doesn’t require running.” 

“He won’t.” Hot Rod says finally. All eyes in the room shift to him spinning his data pad with a stylus on top of the table. He takes their continued silence as the bots waiting for him to clarify so he sighs, rubbing between his eyes. “Optimus ordered us to not stop running. Those exact words, almost. Ultra Magnus is reasonable but he’s also literal as hell so what else would he do besides exactly what Prime told him to do? If this planet is dying the only course of action I see him taking is to get the hell out.”

Perceptor and Prowl exchange a glance. Hot Rod is right. If Optimus Prime told them to run then that’s what they’re going to do. Prowl grabs the back of his chair and leans over it while he mulls over where to go from there. Hot Rod has gone back to spinning his data pad. 

“Then I guess we need to act without him knowing.”

This draws Hot Rod’s attention back upward. He looks to Prowl with surprise. “Don’t tell me Chief Stick-Up-His-Aft is suggesting going rogue.”

Prowl sneers. “What other choice do we have? At this point we have better odds sticking it out here than we do in space.”

“Yes, but we don’t even know how to address this issue. How to even go about ‘sticking it out.’” Perceptor reminds the pair. “Every hour this planet’s gravitational field increases at a rate that’ll have us all imploded within a month. This isn’t something that can be corrected overnight during a booster-fueled bender.”

“So what would you suggest?” Prowl asks, crossing his arms. He’s wearing that prying, hardass glare he always has. The same look which caused his premature wrinkles. How he can be Bluestreak’s twin is beyond Hot Rod’s range of understanding. Bluestreak is actually fun to be around. 

Perceptor takes pause, rubbing his chin while that brilliant processor searches for a solution. He paces the room’s vast open space, stopping for a moment to stare out across the grassy plateau through a floor-to-ceiling window. There’s a group of bots rolling around in the diffused, cool sunlight. They’re chasing each other, swapping quickly between modes, completely unaware that the planet beneath their feet is trying to flatten them all. What a stupid time to be alive. So Hot Rod thinks out loud: 

“If only gravity had a reverse switch.”

In the window’s reflection, both Prowl and Hot Rod see Perceptor’s brow wrinkle. He’s still for a moment before turning to face them. He has that look, not excited, but hopeful. “Maybe we can build one.”

“A switch? For gravity.” Prowl gives the scientist an incredulous look. “That’s not possible.”

“But it could be, theoretically.” Perceptor activates the table’s projector and begins scribbling mathematical nonsense on his data pad for them to see enlarged. “Our ship has a rudimentary tractor beam meant to pull in small frigates when they’ve run out of fuel. If we take the super-magnetic core of that beam and amplify it with enough concentrated electricity we could potentially shock the planet’s core and settle its swelling magnetic field.”

Hot Rod faces the former Police Chief with a smug grin. “Maybe stick to arresting bots for parking too close to the curb and leave the science stuff to the scientist .” He finishes his crude statement with a playful gesture to the projection of Perceptor’s insane scribbles. 

Prowl directs his irritation to the young mech openly mocking him. “Don’t you start with me. Optimus may have expunged your record but that doesn’t erase the fact it existed in the first place. I have full permission to detain you if you get out of line.”

Hot Rod shoves up from his seat, knocking it over with the fast movement. “I’d love to see you try, asshole.” 

Prowl lays a hand on his sidearm and drums the grip with his fingers. To avoid further escalation, Perceptor puts himself before Hot Rod, pushing back on the First Lieutenant’s chest and speaking low. “We have far bigger issues to tend to than your personal pissing match with Prowl, sir. I know you’re upset about what happened to Zephyr but you need to get it together otherwise we all might die.”

Hot Rod un-clenches his fists. “Fine.” He turns to walk out of the room. “Whatever you decide to do I’ll sign off on, just figure it out.”

He hears Perceptor’s polite ‘yes, sir’ before the door slicks shut behind him. 

The last week saw Hot Rod’s office an even worse mess than before. When he finally flicks on the light to confront the damage he winces. Sure, all that grease and grime Zephyr scrubbed is gone, but now all the furniture she straightened is flipped, new holes sit where old ones were repaired, and a cluster of daggers stick out of one wall pinning down a tattered image of Megatron. He needs to clean it. Maybe it’ll make him feel better— or maybe it’ll make him feel worse. 

He starts with the scattered and shattered data pads all along his floor. Picking through them one-by-one he tosses the damaged ones and stack the rest on his desk. Once they’re all sorted he sits down to finish alphabetizing.

At the bottom of the stack over an hour later he reaches the final data pad: Zephyr’s personnel file. His teeth grind painfully as he opens it. He skims what he already knows. Her name, her date of forge, the summary of her excessive medical training. He searches for something he missed, something he didn’t learn, but then he finds it and his spark falls to his stomach. 

Conjux: Offset of Helex (Deceased) 

Deceased

The data pad lowers into his lap and he stares blankly at his locked door. “I really am an idiot.” He mumbles to himself. All of it suddenly makes sense and he feels all the worse for having pushed her too hard. 

Before he closes her file, something else catches his eye in the miscellaneous notes. He reads it once, twice, three times over, unable to process what is right in front of him. This time the tablet falls to the floor before he leaps up from his chair and runs to the medibay.