Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Synthetic Heart

“It is the duty of the people to hold those with power accountable.
When government begins to serve the few, the many shall be freedom’s shield.”

- Megatron of Tarn

Cybercycle 36504, evening. One cycle since the assault on Iacon. 

“Any updates?”

“Unfortunately not. His brain is emitting faint signals, but his body isn't ready to receive them. He’ll need to stay in C.R. for a while before we see any updates.”

“Thank you, Velocity. I’d like to be alone, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course. I’ll just be down the hall if you need me.”

She briefly puts her hand on my shoulder before exiting, forcing a weak smile. “He’ll pull through, Prime. He’s a fighter.” All I can muster is a nod as hollow as her reassurance.

He would hate this room. The lights burn a sterile white, creating a room without the presence of darkness. His pod sits dead center, surrounded by various monitors and cables ranging in length. His body is encased in a slightly auburn liquid, and the gaping wound in his chest has only just begun to close. His optics stare blankly towards the door, and his mouth hangs slightly open. “You know, D,” I start, “Your ‘Protectobots’ came to visit you yesterday. All of them, even Blades. And you thought he was afraid of you.” 

My optics move to my feet. 

“I miss you. Cybertron misses you.” I meet his absent gaze. “All of the lights across Iacon glow violet in your honor.”

My optics meet the floor again, as though they were being pulled down by a magnet. 

“Erimus is missing. I feel her presence in the distance, so I doubt she is hurt, but I know that she is hurting. With the two of you gone, I feel empty, as though my spark beats for no one anymore.” 

I press my palm to where his rests limp. His veins weakly pulse with energon, instead glowing a brilliant magenta, radiating an acidic indigo.

“If I know you, D, I know you will be angry when you awaken. Your prolonged docility will make you feel weak, ineffective, as though time is being wasted. You’d ask why I continue to sit by your side as you drift between realms. Cybertron’s pulse does not stop as mine slows , you’d say. 

“But mine does, D. Mine does. And despite your words, you’d be even angrier if you awoke and I was not there. So I will remain by your side for as long as Cybertron permits, to be here the moment your optics allow me to glance into your soul once more.

“I will be here.”

****

I find myself jolting up as a voice comes from behind me.

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

“I asked how you can forgive him, Prime.” 

“Cliffjumper, I-”

“I know he changed and I’ve seen it. He became a first responder for Primus’s sake, the most noble job there is. But how…” Cliffjumper pauses, staring down at his hands. “How do we forget what he did before that?”

“Cliffjumper,” I answer, putting my hand on his shoulder. “I promise you, I have forgotten nothing of what he did.”

“Then how can you-”

“I have done just as much. Take a look at this, Cliffjumper,” I say, pulling my personal datapad out. The datapad is a list of names, dates, and locations.

“What is this, Prime?”

“Twelve thousand cybercycles ago, in the lower districts of Kaon, I took my first life. I remember squeezing the trigger, the determination in his optics. He was not afraid to die, but I was afraid to kill. He lunged towards me, seeing my hesitation, but his abrupt movement… I shot him between the optics. His name was-”

“Longarm,” he finishes. “His name was Longarm.”

“Correct. I… I don’t want to forget him. I refuse to forget any of the deaths I cause, to allow myself to grow complacent or desensitized to the wanton violence.”

“But Prime, this must be thousands of pages long!”

“Yes, it must be. I remember every single one. The energon on my hands, the looks of fear, hatred, disgust, bravery. They may have taken our brothers, but we took just as many of theirs.”

“Prime, I,” Cliffjumper pauses, handing me back the datapad. “I don’t know what to say. This isn’t you.”

“No, Cliffjumper, it is. Megatronus fought for what he believed in, true freedom and equality for Cybertronians. He believed the system needed to be destroyed to be rebuilt, and that was where we differed. Along the way, he was swayed, blinded by the endless fighting. But the bot who is with us now, the bot floating in that tank, fights for a better tomorrow. I believe in him.”

“I,” Cliffjumper stutters, staring into the lifeless pupils of Megatronus. “Thank you, Optimus.”

“What did you come here for, Cliffjumper?”

“To be honest? I planned to shoot him.”

Chapter Text

Burning Empire

"Peace and tyranny exist as a direct contradiction to one another. 

The rule of a tyrant is a war against the people.” 

- Megatron of Tarn

“Vortex, Vortex!”

“Primus, you don’t have to yell. I’m paying attention."

“Really?” My optics narrow, though he doesn’t notice. He’s not looking at the screen,  and even if he was, he’s never been the type to notice. “What did I just say then?”

“Uh, haha, you said that... that-” he pauses, scratching the back of his head. “Actually, no, I wasn’t listening and I can’t think of an excuse.”

“I said that Onslaught is going to torch the building in two minutes. Once Swindle gives the signal, get in before anyone sees you. Got it?”

“Yeah, yeah. I got it.”

“Repeat it to me.” He hates when I say that, probably because it usually works.

“Wait for Swindle to get him out of the room and slip in when nobody notices. I got it.” He drops his faceplate to grin at me, as though I should be proud of him for remembering simple instructions.

“Your circuits are so fried, Vortex.”

“You love me.” Same grin.

“Do I?”

“Hey, you asked me to do this for you.” He’s got a point. Like it or not, Vortex is my Amica Endura, and I need him for this. “Look at me, Vortex.”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. I couldn’t do this without you.” He salutes me, his smile still scrap-eating as ever. As he does, a distant boom echoes through the speakers of my datapad. “Vortex. It’s time.”

“Let’s rock!” He makes finger guns at me and shoots one more smirk at me before bringing his faceplate back up. I faintly hear quick footsteps start and stop down the hallway. 

“Optimus, Optimus!” Swindle’s shrill voice fill the hall and passes through the datapad. Even thousands of miles away, I can imagine the skullcrunching tears welling up on his optics. Only a fool would fall for something so obvious.

“Yes, Swindle. How can I help you?”

“A building just blew up a couple klicks out! We have to go help them!”

“ Psst, Vortex. Flip the camera. I want to see this. ” I see Prime cover his faceplate with his hand. 

“Excellent thinking, Swindle. Lead the way,” Prime responds, his voice steadfast and resolute, as though this explosion is now his top priority. He turns back towards the door one time before leaving, gesturing something I can’t make out with his hands, and drives away with Swindle.

“Go time, flier.”

“I know!” Vortex (I assume) glances around the hall before rounding the corner and takes off for the room. He accidentally flips the camera back, so I can see his head swiveling like a turret. 

“Augh!”

He drops me. Somehow, his vigilant visor failed to notice something before him.

“Vortex, right? You hear the explosion?” I’d recognise that voice anywhere: Velocity. Nobody actually cares that much about helping people, but she almost fools me into thinking she really does. Almost.

“Yeah, uh, that’s actually why I’m in such a rush. You know, helicopters are good for helping rescue, uh, and stuff.” Primus, Vortex couldn’t fool a protoform with this performance. His acting skills are somehow worse than Thundercracker’s.

“Oh, that’s very true. You’re such a good soul.”

“Yeah, uh, thanks. I gotta go.”

“Oh, of course. Good luck helping out, Vortex.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Velocity passes him on his left, and he picks me back up. I roll my optics at him but say nothing. We don’t have time to waste with stupid quips.

Vortex runs down the rest of the hall and moves to pull the door open. He tries pulling the door open, and despite his face being covered with a visor and faceplate, I can perfectly picture it.

“Hyughhhhhhh. Arhghhhhhhhh!”

“Try the red button to your right.” He jerks his head toward my direction, and I can feel the shame in his optics. He pushes it and covers his face.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“And I don’t want to think about it. Now, switch me to projection mode.” He places the datapad I’m “in” on the floor in the center of the room and hits a few buttons on the screen. I erupt from the screen, transparent and holographic. A small camera drone rises to match my optics so I can see like I’m actually there. I turn towards Vortex.

“Please, leave us. I’ll call you back when I’m ready.”

“Blast Off said Optimus only just got to Onslaught’s location, so you should have a bit of time.” He lowers his head upon seeing the button again, but reluctantly presses it anyway and steps out.

It’s just the two of us: me, and his lifeless corpse. I suppose he is not dead yet, but you wouldn’t know from looking at him. His chest is still ripped open, and it’s leaking a sickly stream of energon into the rusty liquid he is suspended in. His optics are entirely devoid of life; they’re black holes piercing through my spark.

“Father… you’ve looked better. Only marginally, though.” For all of my spark’s existence, he has worn that filthy red badge. At least now I don’t have to see it when I look at the pathetic excuse for a Decepticon suspended in front of me. “This room suits the slim mask you present now: bright, healing, and shameful.

“How could you? How could you choose weakness? You are embarrassing, Father.” I step closer towards the glass.

“But do not worry. I will bring it back. I will pry the Matrix from Galvatron’s lifeless hands and bring it to you. I will fix you, Father, and you’ll finally see the strength you abandoned.” I press my hand to his pod, and despite phasing through it, I feel closer to him. 

“I will fix you, Father. And I will restore what you once were. I will-”

Vortex tumbles into the room, knocking over a medical cart almost cartoonishly. “We gotta go. Optimus is on his way back.”

I turn towards Father one last time and show him my mask. “Peace through tyranny.”

Chapter Text

Aerobics

“Strength is not material or quantifiable, but instead proven through one’s actions.” 

- Megatron of Tarn

I can do this.

No pressure, right? Just have to present the grieving leader of Cybertron with a report I was handpicked to create. No pressure.

So much pressure! I mean, what if he vetoes one of my picks? What if he vetoes all of my picks? What if-

“Windy, cut it out.” Chromia snaps in front of my face to interrupt my brooding.

“Wh-cut what out?” I sheepishly respond, retreating my arms under the table.

“Windy, it’s all over your face! You’re worried about your report for Optimus, yeah?”

“Mia, ‘Worried’ is an understatement. Mortified would be more accurate.” My head, without intention, lowers to stare at our table, just in time to see the shadow of our cybarista bringing over our drinks.

“One float oilatte, no enney?” 

“That’s for her, yeah,” Chromia answers before I even get the chance to.

“Then this chilled triple-shot with extra enney must be for you. Enjoy!” The yellow minibot (Hubnap, was it?) turns away and leaves the two of us in silence. Chromia taps her digits on the table, creating a slight ringing sound. She picks up her drink and takes a sip, making it look Terran-sized compared to her.

Even when not standing next to me, Chromia is massive. She makes bots like Optimus and Megatronus look like a minibot standing next to her. The wheels on her shoulders feel larger than my entire chest (I’ve noticed they spin when she’s excited), and her head crest could probably be described as horns. Her coat is a mix of powder and royal blues, yet somehow she still manages to make most people afraid. It was actually my idea to change her paint to a more inviting color. For a long time, she wore a fiery red with black, looking like a Wraith from the heart of Solstar. She told me she wanted to be more approachable and less scary while still feeling like herself, so I suggested a paint swap. Of course, her colors just make me look like a Terran butterfly.

Despite her appearance and demeanor, however, Chromia is the kindest bot on Cybertron. The kind to stop and smell the roses back on Terra. The kind to read poetry to me when I was slabridden with the Cybonic Plague. The kind to tell me the truth when I can’t tell it to myself. I wanted to stay with her on Terra after the war ended, just the two of us, but bureaucracy had other plans.

“Windy, he asked you to do this for him, right? That means he trusts your judgment. Read me the list you’ve put together,” she lightly waves her hand.  “I’m sure it’s fine.” 

I reach down, pull my datapad out, and open my notes app. The Future of Banking , no, Towards Peace , no, ah, here we are.

“Oookay, so first off, Hot Rod. He and the next candidate are a package deal, although only this one mentioned it.”

“I’ve heard of him. Muscle car, right?” Chromia asks, rolling her optics and taking another sip of her drink.

“Yeah, and born recently too. Only about 300 Cybercycles old.”

“He’s practically still a protoform. Why him, then?”

“Well, he nearly aced the fitness exam, came third overall in the speed exam, and performed decently well in the strategy exam.”

“I sense a but coming, Windy.”

“Wellllll…” I put a digit on my temple. “He’s super cocky, and might have been a bit too excited during the interview. He said something about hating the quiet.”

“Typical newborn. He thinks this is some sort of adventure.”

“Still, I think he has real potential. And if we take the next one, I think he could keep him in line.”

“Who would that be?”

“Drift, formerly Deadlock, a white sports car. He described himself as, quote, ‘Hot Rod’s leash, usually.’ He’s pretty mellow, very in touch with himself and Spectralism, but not in that annoying of a way.”

“Hah, sounds like we wouldn’t get along then. I hate that religious slag.”

“You’d be surprised. He didn’t do as well on the fitness exam, but far and away was the best on the speed exam, and he was pretty good on the strategy one too. Honestly, what draws me to him is his communication skills. He’s an excellent negotiator and mediator.”

“You seem pretty sold on him. Next one?”

Chromia and I spent the next couple of hours discussing trimming my list down to around fifteen main picks and fifteen backups. 

“List is looking pretty good, Windy. You should be proud of yourself.” She gives me a heartfelt smile, and I can feel my spark warming up and pulsing harder.

“Thanks, Mia. I couldn’t have done it wit-”

“You forgot one person, though.”

My mind starts racing. Who could I have forgotten? We went over the entire list top to bottom, and I’m sure nobody else was at the interviews. Who could it be? A minibot so small I overlooked him at the door? A protoform to birth on the ship? A-

“Windblade!” Chromia snaps in my face again. “Cybertron to Windblade!”

“Sorry, sorry. Who did I forget?”

“Who did you forget? Me, of course! You didn’t think I would let you be Optimus’s copilot on a dangerous space mission without me, did you?”

Chapter Text

Gazer

“There is no shame in being afraid to stand up, only from failing to do so.” 

- Megatron of Tarn

Cybercycle 36504, evening. four cycles since the assault on Iacon. 

“T minus 30, check one, two. How we looking, Drift?”

“Rear engines prepped and ready for launch.” Drift pushes forward a joystick as he stares intently at his dashboard.

“Excellent. Blaster?”

“Front engines ready to rock.” Blaster mimes a solo on an air guitar. 

Windblade rolls her optics at Blaster’s lingering Terran jargon and dances, but chooses to ignore it.

“Final check for ground control. How do we sound?”

“Signal is clear, we read you. Ground control stands ready for liftoff.”

“See you soon, Perceptor.” Windblade responds, saluting with two digits. “Five, four, three, two. one, liftoff.” She pushes the lever at her terminal and sets the engines ablaze, shaking the ship a bit as we launch out of Iacon Interplanetary. I watch as the city gets farther and farther from us. I won’t miss this one bit. Adventure calls my name!

“Pretty cool, right?” Drift’s icy cool voice startles me a bit, but I try not to let him notice me jump.

“Drift, what did I tell you about that silent walking?” I say, shaking my hands at him. “Nobody likes that.”

“I cannot help that I am in touch with every part of my body.” Drift shrugs. “It would do you some good to learn such control. You would stop bumping into everything.”

The exhausts on my elbows spit small flames reflexively. “One more word and I make it so you can’t feel any part of your body.”

“You are all talk, Hot Rod. Come on, let us get to our rooms and unpack. Windblade said we have a team meeting in about an hour.” Drift and I walk open the door out of the ship’s cockpit and drive to our rooms.

“Team meeting, team schmeeting,” I scoff, flashing my headlights. “I should be the leader here, not that old knockoff butterfly.”

“Cut it out, amica. Windblade is my friend.” Ah, slag. When Drift hits me with that tone, he means it.

“Sorry, sorry. I just think I would do a fragging amazing job leading this expedition!”

“First, this is a mission, not an expedition. Second, you would certainly do a job at leading it,” he responds, lightly bumping me on my left.

“Oh, shut up.” On my left, I notice a door covered in gold lines and maroon decals. “Hey, what’s this?”

“I wonder whose room this is,” Drift slides into a transformation and stops right in front of me. “This door design is quite beautiful.”

“Beautiful!? I sneer. “It’s totally co-opting my style!”

“You are red and yellow.”

“It’s principle!”

“We shall find out soon enough who resides here. Come.”

Drift turns and transforms to drive away, and while he’s looking away, I quietly spit a glob of oil at the door. “Nobody takes my look,” I mutter.

We pass by a lot of other doors, though I could only figure out a few of them. The floral nature-y one is probably Windbreaker’s, the one with all the music symbol things is Blaster’s, I think, but I have no idea who has the one covered in ducks. At the very end of the hall, we see doors marked with our names.

“They gave us the rooms farthest from the front? What gives!?” I complain, kicking my door lightly.

“Think of this as a sign to enjoy the journey.” I give him a dead stare. “Plus, it looks like it is directly next to the cafeteria.”

“Ooh, hell yeah! Late night snacking is back!” I pump my fist into the air.

“Hot Rod, where did late night snacking go?”

“Nevermind. Let’s do my room first.” Astrotrain volunteered to take my bag to my room. She was already taking Drift’s anyway since he was part of the launch, so it was no problem for her. Drift and I unpack the seven boxes I brought, which was frankly me packing quite lightly, and decorate my room. We put up six posters, three shelves for trophies, my flatscreen, my Wii U, and my beanbag.

“It looks pretty good, my friend.” Drift smiles, crossing his arms. “It is very you.”

“Isn’t she gorgeous? Now, I’m hungry. I’m getting a snack.”

“You do not plan to help me as I have helped you?”

“Aw c’monnnnnn- nuh ! I just worked so hard!”

“Hot Rod.” Drift postures and gives me a serious look.

“Ugh, fine. Let’s go to your room.”
Drift and I unpack his one box and significantly more boring room. I will say it is impressive how much he fit into this one box. This is at least two Hot Rod boxes. We finish just before Windlame’s meeting is set to start.

“This is marvelous. Thank you.”

“Think we could just stay here and skip the meeting?”

Drift shakes his head disappointingly. “You already know the answer to that.”

“Worth a try. C’mon, let’s go.”

Drift and I transform and drive all the way back down the stupidly long hallway between us and the head of the ship (I will kill whoever decided to put me at the end). As we roll in, I count six others. I think I heard Windstain say there were fourteen of us total, so we aren’t last for once.

“Thank you both for coming. We’re just waiting on a few more to join us, and then we will begin with introductions.”

Looking around, besides Bendblade and Chromia, I see: Arcee, everyone knows her, Slipstream, a small flamboyant bot with thin wings holding hands with a big green bot with dump truck kibble, Blaster, humming as usual, and Astrotrain waving at us. I lightly wave back, and whisper, “Weirdo,” to  Drift.

“She carried all of your boxes to your room, Hot Rod. Be nice,” he whispers back.

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry.”

We all stand awkwardly as we wait for everyone else to come. Well, no, I do, but everyone else is talking. I pull out my minipad and scroll through Chipper, but, as usual, there’s nothing interesting there, so I just spin my pad in my hand until everyone is here.

“Alright Grimlock, you make fourteen, so let’s get started,” Windblade projects. “Once again I want to thank you all so much for volunteering to join this mission and congratulate you all on doing so well on the tests. Um, I know that not everyone here is familiar with each other, so I thought that we would do some quick introductions. Let’s say our names, our alts, and one thing we like. I’ll go first: I’m Windblade, I turn into a jet, and I really love nature. Let’s go to my left.”

Primus help me. I think I might die of boredom. I go to scoff into my hand, but Drift covers my mouth and gives me a look.

“I’m Astrotrain! I turn into two things, a train and a spaceship, and I just love to learn about other people.” What a load of slag.

“I’m Chromia, I turn into a truck, and I like ducks. Oops, I didn’t mean for that to rhyme.” You definitely rehearsed that.

“I’m Arcee, I turn into a pretty small bike, and I like to read. Lip actually just got me into this great book and I-”

“Later, enney. I’m Slipstream, and I turn into a fighter jet. I used to be a seeker, but, y’know, not a need for those anymore. I like to write stories.” Couple of lovewings, huh.

“I’m Blitzwing, I guess. I’m, like, a tank and a jet. I guess I like science and stuff.” He didn’t raise his head that entire time.

“My name’s Long Haul. I turn into, uh, a dump truck? It has a big bed for dumping. I like sports, like lobbing and basketrek.” He speaks so slagging slowly.

“Call me Kickback. I turn into a little bug, but don’t underestimate me. I’m dangerous.”

“Your hobby, Kick,” the green one (I already forgot his name) reminds him.

“Oh, right. I like dancing.” Not surprising for someone who looks like him.

“My name is Drift. I turn into a rather sleek car, and I quite enjoy art and painting.” I’m both completely surprised and not surprised at all that he chose ‘art’ as his hobby.

My turn. “I’m Hot Rod. I turn into a super cool muscle car, and I use it to be the best at racing. I like racing, if that wasn’t obvious.”

“I’m called Blaster, chooms. I turn into a speakerbox and a partyvan, man. Music is my thing, but I love anything you can put your audio receptors to.” Who are you, Jazz?

“My name is Airachnid. I turn into a spider and a helicopter, and I’m a big fan of fashion. Oh, and the brain.” Wow, get a load of her. She’s certainly a sight for sore optics. Maybe I should talk to her later.

“I’m Knock Out. I’m a super low sports car, and you’ll never see me coming. I’m a connoisseur of beauty, so hit me up if you ever need any tips on looking better.” Hey, this is totally the bot who stole my style!

“Me last? Me Grimlock. Me Grimlock like to read too, oh, and dance, oh and me like music too. Me Grimlock have many hobbies. Oh, and Grimlock turns into a big dinosaur! Me Grimlock the strongest here!” We seriously took this giant hunk of metal? What a motley crew we have.

“Alright, now that we’ve finished with introductions, let’s get to business.” Windlame (I’m out of nicknames) looks so serious when she crosses her arms. “Our last reading of Galvatron’s ship says he docked just out at Zi XVII, so that’s where we’re headed. We should be there in about a day or two, so get some rest. I’ll announce over the intercom when we’re almost there.”

Finally, some action. Galvatron, whoever he is, won’t know what hit him. I almost hope he puts up a fight, because this adventure would be so lame if it ended too quickly.

Chapter Text

Stormbringer

“There are many who think power must be taken, but they are wrong. 

Power is a construct created to divide communities.” 

- Megatron of Tarn

Cybercycle 36504.

We are just now above Iacon from orbit, and the pilot signals that he desires my attention.

“Boss, we’re at the DZ.”

“Excellent,” I respond, hand to chin. “Stay in orbit after we drop and await my signal.

“You got it boss.” He salutes me and then snaps his digits repeatedly. Cyclonus is an interesting bot; I have noticed that he has many… oddities. But those are not pertinent now. I walk back into the hull of my ship, the Harbinger, and address my men.

“Alright, Destron warriors, today we strike. Today we take back what Cybertron wastes and use it to restore order to this pathetic galaxy.” I clench my fist. “Do not fear, but instead instill fear. We are stronger than them, faster, more dangerous. The prize is ours for the taking.”

The ship roars with cheers.

“Now then, Gigatron, Deathsaurus: you two will follow directly behind me. Scourge, Nemesis, Straxus: you three will cover us. Scorponok, Sideways, Shockblast, Battletrap: you will wait on the ship to protect us when we are picked up, and you will stand by in case we need reinforcements. It is unlikely, but we must be prepared. Now then,” I slide the hatch in the floor open. 

“Rend, slaughter, conquer.”

I drop out of the hatch and dive towards the heart of Iacon. I look back to make sure the soldiers followed my directions, and I see two sets of wings attached to two monstrous warriors. They are certainly better listeners than my previous militia. We fly like missiles and crash directly into Iacon’s legislature. Two rather pathetic blue bots swarm me, but they will be no trouble. I fire my fusion cannon directly into the head of the left one, and it rains a volley of molten metal. I grab the other one with my free hand and pin him with my foot, and I use the pressure to rip him in two.

“Bring me the Primes!” I roar, hoisting the roughly bisected guard over my head.

“If you desire our attention, you have it.” A disgustingly bright leader with blue ears and a red, white, and silver Autobot stand at the doorway to the room of benches I landed in.

“Ah, Optimus, Megatronus. I’m glad I could warrant your attention.”

“You’ll go no further, fiend,” Megatronus snarls, his digit aimed directly at me. “It’s two on one.”

“Is it now?” I beckon my hands back, and my enforcers crash through the ceiling behind me, roaring as they rise. “This battle is already decided.”

“Megatronus,” Optimus says, turning towards his partner. “You handle the two cronies. This tyrant is mine.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Optimus,” Megatronus responds, almost seeming to enjoy the opportunity. His optics glow like a black hole and seem to emit some sort of radiation, and he charges at my minions. The patriotic Prime brandishes two golden axes, one from each wrist, and takes a defensive stance, awaiting my move. I unsheath the obsidian blade I had forged just for this fight from my back and point it at my opponent.

“Two axes, really? And so small! What do you hope to accomplish with those?”

“Time to find out.”

I charge at him, my sword nearly dragging the ground, and leap into the air to slash at him. He parries my strike and pushes me to his left, and he launches his foot into my chest. I grab it and use my elbow to drive it into the ground. I take a shot directly at his face, but he uses the side of his axe to push my cannon away and avoid the blast. He slashes at my chest but I backstep, and I use the distance to compose myself.

“You’ve survived longer than I expected, Prime,” I taunt.

“I could say the same for you.”

I take another shot, this time directly at his chest, and he dodges right. Perfect. He lunges at me, but I bind his attacking arm with my blade and fire directly at his other. His arm explodes and falls to the ground, and he sputters.

“You decided to make the fight even?”

“My, aren’t you cocky,” I jeer. “Let’s see if that lasts.”
He transforms to ram me with his cab, but I jump over him and transform myself into my cannon form. I’m perfectly positioned to annihilate his bed. I fire, but he transforms and evades at the last second, and launches an aerial attack on me. I thrust my sword towards him as he dives, and skewer him through the abdomen.

“You are pathetic, Prime.” Suspended by my blade, I rip open his chest, but I find it empty. His head looks down towards me, and his optics appear hollow. I turn in the direction of Megatronus fighting my soldiers. 

“Ah, so that is why he is called Prime.”

I throw Optimus to the ground on his back and drive my sword further into him and pin him to the ground. I crush his remaining axe with my heel, and make back for the newer Prime. 

He seems to be evenly matched with Gigatron and Deathsaurus, using black energy constructs to repel their attacks.

“I made a vow of nonviolence over three hundred cybercycles ago, but I am happy to break it for the likes of you,” Megatronus declares, wiping energon from his face. I aim directly for his chest and fire, sending a pulsing ocher blast of energy directly through him. He falls to his knees with a scream, and his constructs of calamity fade away.

“Megatronus! D!” Optimus wails, his shrieks echoing across the planet.

“Quiet, Prime,” I answer, shooting in his direction. “Now…”

I approach Megatronus and grab his face.

“I will be taking this.” I reach into his chest and rip the Matrix from it, and his mouth leaks energon. His optics briefly flash indigo before he slumps over.

“Good work boys. Let’s go. Cyclonus?” I call into my radio.

“Yes, boss?” 

“We’re done here.”

Chapter Text

New Noise

“While there is outward peace, one must also strive for inward peace as well. 

Self love, love of life, and the love of solitude or companionship.”

- Megatron of Tarn

“Mags, did you pack the brush I use for my legs?” I shout into the other room, digging through my boxes.

“Enney, why would I pack your things?” she shouts back.

“I thought I asked you-”
“Kidding, Lip. Got it right here,” she says, smirking smugly and tossing me my brush. “I knew you’d forget to check the cup by the mirror.”

“But what about my-”

“Grabbed your leg paint too,” she interjects, tossing me my paint palette. “You know most people use the same brush to touch up their entire body, right?”

“Love you too, Mags.” She takes a few steps and kisses me on the top of the head.

“I actually made you something for our room. I think you’ll like it,” she says nervously. Arcee has fake and real tells for her emotions; when she’s faking being nervous, she looks down and twiddles her thumbs. When she’s actually nervous, she looks left and bites her digit.

Right now, she’s looking left and biting her digit.

“Ooh, I’m excited!” I squeal. “Let me see it!”

She slowly pulls out a small, rectangular square. It’s wrapped in a purple and pink paper, and it has a bow tied to it. Attached to the bow, a small slip reads Dear Beloved . I try to delicately open the package but end up ripping it anyway. She lightly shrugs at me to signal she doesn’t care, so I forego delicateness and rip the paper off. Inside is a framed picture of us standing and smiling outside the Academy for Aspiring Seekers.

“My first day teaching… it feels like so long ago.” I can feel my face warm up, and a few sparks twinkle below my optics. “Thank you, Arcee. This is an amazing gift.”

“I know you loved that job, Lip, and I really appreciate you leaving it to come with me on this…” She gestures her arms in the air and shakes her head. “Whatever it is, I’m really glad you came with me.”

“Of course, Mags. I’m ha-”

A creak echoes from outside the door. Arcee and I both whip our heads towards the sound, and she walks over to check it. I see her face transition from apprehensive to shocked, and she looks back at me.”

“Lip, I swear I just saw a shadow dart around the corner up there.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Alright,” I saw, standing up and transforming. “Let’s go.”

Arcee and I jet down the hall, looking for shows hiding the corners of our optics.

“There it is again!” she exclaims, flashing her beams towards the cafeteria. Gotta admit, this does get the energon pumping. It’s been a while since the two of us chased someone together because we were being spied on. I think this would be the fourth time?

We round the corner and she drifts straight into transformation. I attempt to do something similar, but end up falling on my face. She snickers, lifting me up from the ground with a smirk.

“See anything, Mags?”

“Nothing.” She raises her hands and lifts all of the chairs and tables off of the ground. Primus, her magnetism never gets old. She throws open cabinets, opens all of the surrounding doors, thankfully empty, but finds nothing. She sets everything back down and sits down at a nearby table, pulling a chair out for me in the process.

“I swear I saw something!” she shouts, frustrated at her lack of findings.

“I believe you. If it’s here, it’ll turn up again later. Just needs time.”

“Yeah, I guess,” she sighs. Just then, thundering footsteps fill the room, and our heads once again whip towards the sound. A huge blue fembot with slowly spinning wheels opens the door towards the cockpit and steps in.

“Hey Arcee, Slipstream.”

“Hey, Chromia,” Arcee responds, and I give a little wave. Chromia pulls out a small box of black powder and a clear container.

“Want some? I was going to brew a pot.”

“Oh sure, sounds good,” I answer. Arcee shakes her head.

“Say.” Arcee taps the table. “Have you seen anything odd here?”

“Not besides Hot Rod,” Chromia answers, chuckling to herself. “Did something happen?”

“Well, the two of us were in our room when we heard the floor screech from outside. When I went outside to check the noise, I saw a shadow shift around the corner.” Arcee moves for my hand, and I offer it to her. “We saw it moving towards here and followed it, but it was just us when we arrived. I feel like I’m going crazy.”

“You’re not going crazy, Arcee. Tell you the truth, Windblade and I thought we heard something shifting after our meeting with everyone earlier, but we couldn’t find anyone.”

“Then… do you think?” Arcee asks, looking at me to answer.

“Yeah,” I tremble. “I think there’s somebody hiding on the ship.”

Chapter Text

Flagpole Sitta

“The mundanity of life is a gift; its absence is the genesis of joy.”

- Megatron of Tarn

It’s roughly 1000 hours, and I am just arriving for my shift at The Working Week.

Yes, it’s a cafe. Yes, I find it… slightly beneath my station, but a bot’s gotta eat, you know? Besides, I got a lot going on for me; I just need all the proverbial pieces to fall into place. 

Converting from the alt-mode I obtained on Earth and still kinda like (once having been described as “a sensible Japanese hatchback”, whatever that means) and listening to a song I was exposed to by a couple local Earthlings or whatever they call themselves, I stand at the precipice of my current (and hopefully, soon-to-be- former ) place of employment.

“Hey, Hubby! Got a real GLEAM to ya this morning!” shouts a boisterous, blue-tinted voice from behind the counter.

The voice belongs to my coworker and long-time friend, Side Burn. Charitably, I’d describe him as… gregarious, but if I had to describe him to a layman I’d call him boisterous, bubble-headed, but friendly and (mostly) harmless. He’s the reason I got this job, which he also insists he’ll be leaving once his C-Tube channel, whereupon he gives advice on dating, fashion, and Engex, takes off. Sure you will, buddy.

“Morning, Burney. We been busy today?”

“Ah, you know how the morning shifts are. Get a couple high-powered desk-job types coming in for a breem or two to pound a few Compuccinos and then they’re right off to… yelling at their employees, or whatever rich ‘bots do.”

Ugh , don’t remind me. For as much as I hate this job, I guess I need to be grateful that our boss Beachcomber is a uranium-smoking old hippy-type. 

Alright, apron on, cash register rebooted (second time today, I’m told), customer service face on. You can do this, Hubcap. Only a few mega-cycles to go today, and then… the next thousand stellar cycles of your life.

The door beeps its usual sickening jingle. The smell of oil-infused grounds is already burning my olfactory sensors. Gonna be a long solar cycle.

“Can you man the counter, Hubby? I’m doing inventory!” Side Burn shouts this from somewhere behind me, as though he and I both aren’t aware that he’s actually just hiding amongst a stack of boxes with his feet up, surreptitiously texting any number of (typically bright red) ‘bots that he’s attempting to sway into his orbit. 

“Sure thing, Burney. You just keep… shift-managing.” I say, hoping to indicate how hard I’m rolling my optics. 

As soon as my optics un-roll, I find myself greeting with an equally welcome and unwelcome sight: my old pals Swerve and Tailgate, strolling right up to the counter without a care in the dang world. 

Okay, Hubcap. They don’t know you work here. Play it cool. You’re good at that.

“Hubcap! Welly well well, as I live and intake! What the heck are you doing here?” blurted Tailgate.

“The apron? The grinning facial expression? The aroma of breakfast wafting through the air? By Primus, if I didn’t know better, I would assume this man is trying to sell us beverages!” confirmed Swerve in his typical Yussian honk.

I lean across the counter to hit my best “old-timey-barkeep” pose, with matching facial expression. “That’s right fellas, but keep it quiet for me, would you? I actually just got back to town after helping Optimus and Blaster themselves assemble a few… communication arrays. Perhaps I’ve said too much already.”

This sentence is accompanied with an involuntary arc of my brow, one that I use to make myself feel perhaps less weird about lying to friends of mine by trying to pretend we’re all in on some joke.

It didn’t work, because I forgot how earnest Tailgate is. “Wow! Really?! That’s so cool!” he nearly yells in response, before Swerve makes some crack about how he doesn’t care unless it makes the internet reception better in his neighborhood. 

Alright, alright. So… that’s not exactly true, but it isn’t exactly a lie , either. In all reality, I DID work on some important communication arrays… clear across the galaxy, in low orbit between Earth and its moon (which I believe the locals imaginatively call “the Moon”), several stellar-cycles ago. I’ve actually just been holed up in my apartment, living off my pension, waiting for… something better to happen, I guess. 

Not that this matters to my two awaiting customers, who continue their small talk while I brew Swerve’s Red Optic and Tailgate’s Enerspresso. It goes well enough until one of them brings up a name. 

“Oh man, you know who I just remembered? Hubcap, what was the name of that Decepticon gal you were always hanging out with? Black Shadow.”

Here we go . “No, Swerve, her name was Shadow Striker. And we were just friends ,” I say in a tone of voice that I hope indicates to him that we’ve had this exact same conversation before. 

That part is true. We were .

Seemingly satisfied with my answer, the two of them head back to their table to work on their webcomic together. Before I get a chance to yell back to Side Burn to see if his thirsty aft is done texting weightlifters, I’m interrupted by another customer , who are uniformly the worst part of this job.

“My word! What an unexpected delight it is to see you here, Hubcap!” lilts a deep, refined baritone from the doorway. It belongs to my old theater instructor, Highbrow. 

“Good morrow and well met, old friend!” I reply with a voice that aims for the rafters just the way he taught me to. (I’ve frequently been told I have a voice for padcasting, so I like to think I have a bit of a leg up in this department.) Highbrow approaches the counter with a smile on his face and a well-worn satchel hanging across his upper body, no doubt full of well-worn Data-Cons of the “classics”, whatever form that takes these days.

“Hubcap of Tesarus! Pray I find you well this day?”

“You do indeed, Professor Highbrow.” He laughs and demurely places his hands over his spark-protector. Old guys like him love when you call them Professor. It’s how I graduated. “What brings you here? I thought you were still off directing the classics on Caminus.” 

“Oh, I was just there long enough to help them establish their own community theater program. What of you, dear boy? Still treading the boards, I trust?”

“ Heh. Well, as a matter of fact, I was actually just helping my old friend Crosscut work on his next script! Doesn’t have a title yet, but it’s a heartbreaking story about an intergalactic salesman facing his final days. I’m set to play his more successful colleague that begins to notice something’s amiss.”

Dear reader… only one part of that is true, and it is indeed that I consider myself friends with Crosscut, although we’ve not seen each other in person for quite some time. I don’t have the heart to tell Highbrow that the last theater I did was a murder mystery dinner in one of Iacon’s wealthier suburbs. I auditioned to play the detective, and was instead cast as the rich jerk whom everyone suspects of committing the murder at first. Better than the corpse, I guess.

His Rodion Fog finally brewed (which I frankly hate making, as it has completely different ingredients than the Iacon Fog most of our guests order), he turns to find a table before something seems to cross his processor. “Oh! Whatever became of that young lass you used to fancy? Shadow something? I remember her coming to a few of your performances.”

What are the odds . “Shadow Striker? Oh, we were just friends from back in school, but we’ve, heh , kinda fallen out of touch with each other.” 

Highbrow nods his head as if to say “shame” (is there still a smaller guy living in his head? Feels rude to ask someone that) and retreats to his window seat. 

I seize the moment. “SIDE BURN! Can you get out here? We got a line going!”

To my complete lack of surprise, he emerges from the back with a facial expression that indicates he’s got somewhere else to be. “Sorry, Bud-cap! Beachcomber just called, he needs me to run and pick up some… uh, lava screamer and stuff! Back in twenty!”

Sure. And I’m a hard-hitting local journalist for the biggest TV station in Iacon. I don’t even have the energy to say “goodbye” to him at this point.” 

“Hubcap? Is that you, dude?” crackles a direct, nasally voice from behind me, brimming with life.

I turn to see the slender, orange-and-blue frame of Skram, my one time comedy partner during my improv class days. Normally I’d love to see him, but I already know how this conversation is going to go. 

Brave faces, everyone. “Skram! Hey, man! I just saw your last special, I absolutely loved it! The story about all your underage friends yelling at Prowl when you got busted drinking Engex underage -” 

He waves it off in a sense of false humility. “I’m sure I’ve bored you with that one in person before, but it absolutely killed over at the Forum. What about you, man? You still taking classes over at Go-Bot Comedy?”

“Heh, so I haven’t really had time for classes since I’ve had… so many offers lately, but you might be delighted to know I appeared in a couple USO shows for Saber himself back on Earth before you got deployed there.” Good save, Hubcap. “Would you believe I got the man himself to laugh at my Senator Ratbat impression?” 

Skram seems suitably impressed by this, but in a way that makes it seem like he’s not surprised to hear me being successful, which was the goal. 

Did I actually perform skits to amuse the troops? Yes. So I’m not lying to Skram, not completely . But by “skits” I mean it was myself, Side Burn, and this new recruit named Op-Amp filming videos for C-Tube to amuse ourselves. I learned how to do this from Skram, Freeway, and Searchlight, back when we were briefly a comedy troupe known as Daddy’s Bots. (The “Senator Ratbat impression” was not a lie - our most successful video involved me, playing Senator Ratbat, trying to avoid an increasingly complicated series of situations where someone was about to barf on me, based on a real-life incident where a staffer once threw up on Senator Ratbat. Surely you remember this happening.)

Having successfully poured his Plutonium Stout the correct way (the kind Energex weirdos prefer, where you keep all the foam on the head for whatever reason), I pass Skram’s drink over to him. He’s making a face like he has one last thought for me before he goes to take his seat. Great. He’s somehow going to know Shadow Striker, too. EVERYONE knows Shadow Striker and EVERYONE knows I had a thing for her and now I have to tell EVERYONE that we never went out.

“Hey, Hubcap, I just remembered something.”

Here we go.

“Weren’t you talking about refinishing yourself in red sometime? I think you’d look good with it.”

Oh. Oh wow. Even I forgot I was talking about doing that. Skram is a better friend than I gave him credit for, even if he’s famous now or whatever. But that’s cool. I’m glad for him. Honest.

Finally sighting an opening, I shout to the recently-returned Side Burn.

“BURNEY! I’M TAKING OUT THE TRASH! WATCH THE REGISTER! OR DON’T!” 

I grab the nearest half-empty trash bag and head outside towards the waste container. I didn’t actually have to take the trash out, I just needed some damn air. Almost makes me wish I was a cy-gar enjoyer so I could be outside more often. 

I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be bitter, it just hasn’t been my favorite shift. Look, I’m glad I’ve seen everyone who’s come in to see me, and I don’t mind talking to them, but… this just isn’t the place I wanted to have this conversation. 

Maybe if I had to have these conversations, I would’ve rather had them on my terms. Like I’m guesting on a padcast, or I’m being interviewed after a successful performance onstage somewhere, or I’m back reading the nightly news on-air like I used to, or… something .

Look, a lot of people had it worse than me when it came to the war, right? I got a pretty cushy posting, I was surrounded by bots I like, and I never really saw any combat or anything to speak of. Heck, the three of us even got to meet a couple humans we liked! I managed to spend the entire war never getting wrapped up in anything creepy like the Wreckers or whatever was going on in Darkmount, and I know I’m lucky for it. 

But this just isn’t what I expected my life after the fact to be, you know? I had so much I wanted to do, and I put it on hold for so long for things that totally weren’t my fault , and now here I am, doomscrolling my datapad by a large metal crate with Trashmaster’s face painted on the side, telling bots I’ve known for centuries that I’m up to all of these things that I’m just not , because I can’t face how things turned out for me. I want very badly for all of these things to be true, but it’s kinda hard when you need to spend most of your time brewing coffee in a city that was mostly decimated by the other half of your species over several millennia. 

Alright, that’s my once-per-shift existential crisis, better get back inside before I’m missed. 

“Hubby! Can you run this to table 7?” Side Burn frantically gestures towards a small tray with one float oilatte (looks like no enney, thank Primus) and a chilled triple shot (extra enney, which makes me nervous). 

I crane my head towards Table 7 and vaguely recognize the occupants. A thin red lady with wings and a disarmingly human-like face, and her… bulky blue friend. I don’t remember either of their names but I know they don’t remember mine either.

“Alright, but you know my shift is over after this, right? Lancer should be here any second now.”

“Come on, just take this over there for me! Pwweeeease? We’re friends, right?” He knows I laugh every time he does that stupid voice, and it’s all the convincing I need to cover for him yet again. 

Dropping the pair of beverages off confirmed that neither of them remember my name. I’m slightly offended, given how long they’re in here, but I know those two both get up to big important government work anyway, and that’s not the sort of thing I want to get all wrapped up into anymore. 

I bid Side Burn my goodbyes, even though I can tell he’s slightly miffed I’m leaving before Lancer gets here. Not my fault she’s late, and I’m a firm believer in work-life balance.

This way I can do something with my life someday, right? Someday. 

I guess I just need to figure out what it is, first.

****

Lancer turns to Side Burn as they tear down at the end of their shift (with her doing most of the work, as always).

“Hey, Side Burn? That lady who just left was asking about Hubcap, do you know her? She sorta looked like you, funny enough.”

Side Burn chuckles warmly. “I didn’t even know Hubcap knew enough fembots for one to come find him at work! Did she leave a name?”

“Shadow… stalker? Shadowstalker? I think that’s what I wrote on her cup at least. It was kinda hard to hear because your Earth music was too loud as always.”

“Hmm, nope. Never heard of her. I’m sure it means something to Hubby.”

Outside the Working Week, an athletically-built purple & teal mech tosses the small glass of Nuclear Core-tado in her hand, of which she had little intention on finishing given how late it is in the day, into the trash before converting into a sleek-yet-powerful looking muscle car. She drives off into another beautiful Iaconian evening, back to whatever her life holds for her.

Chapter Text

Midnight Hunger

“Pride is neither a sin nor a blessing; it is merely the root of vanity and growth.”

- Megatron of Tarn

“ For it is not a lack of love that ruined their relationship, but a lack of effort. No, that sounds wrong. Perhaps love’s absence was never in question, but- no, that is too Quakesperean. It is said that… ” 

“What do you think he’s doing?” I ask as I turn towards my pearl partner.

“It would appear he is writing something on his datapad,” he responds, pad in hand, arms and legs crossed. His bright blue optics glow below his red brow and white crest.  

“Wow, what a queer,” I snivel, scrunching my face. Drift tilts his head, his optics softening to a dim yellow.

“Hot Rod, what is a queer?" Drift asks, putting the pad in his hand down. His innocent puzzled expression almost makes me pity his ignorance. Wait, why should his stupidity make me feel bad?

“Just some Earth slang, Draft. Don’t worry about it.” I give him a ‘light’ tap on the shoulder and gesture across the room. “Hey, look. His conjunx is coming.”

“Why did you say it like-” I race to cover his mouth. I won’t let him interrupt the grand performance about to unfold.

“Good moooorning, Blitzwing! Whatcha working on?” Astrotrain strides into the room, practically skipping towards her less than enthusiastic other half. “Ooh, the next draft of The Clash at Thunder’s Peak ? I loved the last one.”

“Go away, Astrotrain,” Blitzwing scowls, his visor tightening and glowing a blood red. “Leave me alone.”

“Oh come on, Jellybean! Lighten up!” She slides down on the bench next to Blitzwing and bumps him with her behind. “Now, where are we right now?”

Blitzwing puts his head in his hands and sighs, pulling his digits down his face. He reluctantly passes her his datapad, which is jet black and decorated with fluffy pink fur. Astrotrain’s optics flash a bright neon pink as she scrolls her digit down the screen. Her mouth cycles between grinning, gasping, and agape as she grasps Blitzwing’s literature.

“Hot Rod, I-” Drift interrupts, tugging at my arm. I shake him off.

“Not now, monk,” I retort. Astrotrain hands the gaudy datapad back to Blitzwing, her digits shaking with excitement. She sputters as she attempts to speak, and I catch a few drops of lubricant flying out of her mouth.

“Jellybean, that was amazing! Incredible! That’s the best thing I’ve ever read! This is your magnum opus! I’ve never se-” I lose her as her words speed up and start to slur. Blitzwing buries his face in his hands to hide his visor’s increasingly rapid shift to rose.

“Th-thanks.” His voice chokes, the words barely escaping his chest. I can faintly make out his visor blinking as sparks of salmon leak through the gaps in his digits.

“Hot Rod, I really must insist-” Drift interrupts again, tugging harder than before.

“Shh shh, zen mode. I’m trying to watch,” I push back, lightly slapping his arm down. Blitzwing stares up at Astrotrain, his visor almost seeming rounder and softer than usual.

“Jellybean, I really think you need to work on getting this published somewhere, or at least an editor. I have friends in the business. I’m sure Thundercracker would know someone. Let me call him!” Astrotrain is practically radiating positive energy, her aura spreading out in a sphere around her. Good thing we’re all the way across the room, or she might infect me.

“Hot Rod!” Drift shouts into my audio receptors, pulling hard enough to rip off my arm. I whip towards him.

“Primus, what!? What do you want? What could possibly be so important as to interrupt the magic unfolding in front of us!?” My optics darken as fire spits from my shoulders. This had better be important. 

“My cell pad is missing!” His face seems genuinely strained, and his optics are frantically darting around our table.

“Seriously, Drift? You had it earlier!” I ball my digits into a fist and knock on my forehead, looking down. “I just got you that!”

“I know, Hot Rod. I am so very sorry, but would you please help me look for it?” His optics are pulsing and glowing a soft amber, and he looks defeated. I tilt my neck back and stare at the lights of the cafeteria ceiling. I look back at him and shake my head.

“Prima, Drift, fine. Just stop making that face already. I can’t stand it.” His optics solidify to an electric blue as he smiles from receptor to receptor. He jumps up from his bench and pulls me with him, his digits interlocking with mine.

“Oh, thank you, Hot Rod! Thank you so much!” He’s practically jumping with joy, the wheels on his biceps spinning at over ten thousand RPM. “Now, do you have any ideas?”

I pause to think, putting a digit to my chin. Wait a minute. Lightbulb.

“Drift, remember what we used on Skayko XVI to track the Miyor-Rat that stole my blaster?” I can see the gears turning in his cortex as he cycles back to that day. What an ordeal it was. His face settles into a smirk as he puts my plan together.

“Hot Rod, you’re a genius!”

“Well, thank you, but let me find it in my room before you celebrate. C’mon.” I beckon him with my hand as I drop backwards into my vehicle mode. He follows, and we ride together back to my room. I feel like I catch a shadow dancing as I drift, hah, around a corner. Must’ve been my imagination.

When we arrive at my room, I somersault out of my vehicle mode as Drift slides out of his. I rummage through my drawers looking for my device, slingshotting around my room. Drift stands and watches me, his head slightly tilted as he struggles to keep up with me.

“Not here, not here, not here, ooh I’ve been looking for this. Nope, nope, nope, ah-ha!” I pump my fist into the air as I pull out the box I was looking for, opening it quickly.

“My, I had forgotten how… off putting that device is.” Drift shudders as he looks down at the pulsing object in my hands.
“Relax, bud. It’s not like it’s alive or anything, right?” I shrug at him. He stares solemnly back at me, his optics narrow.

“R-right?” I ask.

“Banish the thought from your mind. I suspect you do not seek the answer to that question.” He sees directly through me, as though he can see my spark beating.

“Ooooookay, well,” I gulp, trying hard to think about anything but this thing’s alive-ness. “Uh, anyway, if we bring this back to the last place you had your pad, it should follow the path it moved in after. Let’s, uh, go do that.”

“Right,” he nods as he transforms. I pop the slimy thing into my chest cockpit, careful not to get myself too dirty. I transform, and we drive back to the cafeteria.

When we arrive,  I pop the beating device from my windscreen and catch it as I transform. Drift transforms as I set it down on the table, and we both stare at it pulses on the table. Suddenly, it starts to glow a sickly green, and it begins to drip bile onto the table. It pulses harder and shakes the table before it launches off down the hall.

“Slag, follow it!” I exclaim as I leap into transformation. Drift follows as the blob jets down the hall, leaving a trail of a thick, slimy liquid behind it. Again the shadows dance from the corners of my optics, but I don’t have time to pay it any attention. The substance slides around a corner and stops dead a few doors down. It rotates on its side (do blobs have sides?) and seems to shift its focus towards the door in front of it.

As we approach, I’m finally able to get a good look at where it’s stopped.

“Oh frag, Drift, it’s this room!” I look over at him as he transforms, and he seems to be thinking what I am. Before us stands a door decorated with golden patterns and maroon designs. Upon closer inspection, the patterns seem to actually be of servos, motors, and other Cybertronian organs.

“This is… creepy, don’t you think?” I ask Drift.

“I distinctly remember you appearing quite jealous of this door,” Drift smugly replies.

“First, I was not jealous, Second, even if I was, which I’m not , this is-”

I’m interrupted by the device at my feet sputtering and squirming. Its green seems to be radiating a more acidic color, and the puddle around it is bubbling. It spits a few globs slime ‘behind’ it and charges at the door. It charges into the door, making a loud BANG and sliming the bottom of the door. It backs up, preparing to ram it again. As it charges forward, the door slides open, and the blob crashes into the pointed grey tip of a red foot.

“What’s this?” a sultry voice asks. Posturing before the two of us is a slender grey and maroon bot with gold highlights and wheels on his shoulders.

“Knock Out, right?” I ask. “I think you have something of ours.”

The blob dashes through Knock Out’s legs and jumps onto the table in the center of his room. Drift points to it and runs in, pushing past the rather puzzled beauty boy.

“Hey, what the frag are you doing? You can’t come in here!” He grabs Drift on the wrist and pulls him, but my racer compatriot stands firm.

“We should be asking you that!” I fire back. “Why do you have Drift’s pad?”

“What are you talking about?” he scoffs, rolling his optics. “Why on Cybertron would I have Drift’s pad?”

“Then how would you explain this?” Drift counters, holding up the blob, clenching Drift’s pad with its slime.
“You mean my pad?” Knock Out answers, as though the question was ridiculous.

“Uh, no,” I sneer. “That thing follows a smell, and it just followed the smell of my buddy here’s pad back to your room.”

“Wait a second. Let me check something.” Knock Out walks to the stand next to his recharge slab and looks through the mountain of junk strewn atop it. He finally stops, and slowly turns around, holding something in his hand. His face seems flushed, and his optics glow a pale red. He holds up the object in his hand to show a pad identical to the one being slowly consumed by the blob. I grab the green slime machine and shove it back into the box I took it out from, prying the pad from its green grippers. 

“Primus be, is that?” Drift looks intently at the pad in Knock Out’s hand.

Knock Out wipes his face with his palm. “Earlier, I was walking through the cafeteria earlier to grab a couple cups of black lava-”

“Oh yeah, can’t start the day without it,” I interrupt.

“Right, but as I’m walking back to my room, I see what I assume is my phone on a table. I thought I must’ve left it on the table, so I grabbed it and brought it back with me. Guess it was yours though, huh? You got good taste, light stuff.” He raises his optics at Drift.

“Well, actually,” I correct. Can’t have this injustice going unnoted. “ I bought him that pad for his last forging day.”

“I guess I stand corrected,” Knock Out shrugs.

“Aren’t you going to tell me that I have good taste?”

“I thought that was obvious,” he answers, giving me a smug look. I can feel myself heating up a bit, and I look away.

“Well, there was ultimately no harm. It was nice to meet you, Knock Out.” Drift bows before taking the pad from my hand. Knock Out gives us a wave.

“See you around, Red and White.”

As we leave, though, the door across the hall slides open, and metallic steps echo as they draw closer. A rather seductive purple and black bot walking with six pointed legs attached to her core sashays towards us. It’s Airachnid, looking even more tempting than at the meeting. I feel fire spit from my shoulders, and I bite my lip as I look her up and down. After doing the same to me, she opens her mouth, and with an alluring voice says:

“Hello, hot stuff.”

Chapter Text

Nutshell

“It is impossible for a society to be just if its people are not true to themselves.”

- Megatron of Tarn

“Primus, oh my god,” Hot Rod moans. “You feel so fucking good.” His optics roll back as they shine a passionate red. His pistons twitch as my digits push further into him, gliding between the gaps in his circuits. I reach the G motor, an organ just below his abdomen, and tug on it. Hard enough on it to hurt but not enough to damage. His mouth sputters as his entire body convulses, lubricant flying out of his mouth.

“Jesus, Airachnid. How…” Hot Rod struggles to get any words out between heavy panting. “How are you so good at this?”

“Experience, child,” I purr. I guide his hand down my chest and stop at my pelvis. “Now, put your hand right here and claw.”

“Yes ma’am!”

****

Hot Rod and I sit up on my recharge slab, our shoulders touching. I transform a part of my windshield and use it to get a good look at my paint. I take a set of brushes out a nearby stand and dip one in a cup of black paint.

“What are you doing?” he asks, giving me a perplexed look.

“Touching up my paint, dear. You took a lot off.”

If he pulls any more off, he might see who you are under it.

Quiet. I run my hand down his arm and give him a wink.

“I have to say, Airachnid, you are the most beautiful bot I’ve ever seen.” I catch him blushing, and he turns away to hide it.

“Thanks, doll. I try.” More than you could ever know.

He’s just saying that.

Shut up. I take one of the claws on my spider legs and stab it into my side, careful to avoid him noticing. The incision makes a quiet shiiink , which he seems to not notice. Either that, or he just doesn’t care.

“Soooo…” he starts, not meeting my gaze. “When, uh, can I see you again?”

“What?”

“I want to see you again,” he admits bashfully. “I had a lot of fun today.”

Now I’m the one looking away. “Yeah, uh, me too. I’ll let you know.”

“Cool,” he nods, slowly rocking back and forth. “Well I should get going.”

“Yeah.”

“See you around?” 

“Sure.” He shoots me some finger guns and leaves me alone in my room. The magnets in the door pull it closed, and silence fills the space.

He hated that.

He said he wants to come again.

So that he can see how pathetic you are. He knows.

No he doesn’t.

How can you be sure?

I can’t be sure.

You know I’m right.

Fuck, shut up! I stand up and cover my audio receptors with my hands. Get out of my head already! I grab my audiopods from my nightstand and put them on, blaring music into my receptors. I crank it louder, louder, so loud that the sounds are probably leaking out.

Good. For me, this is as quiet as it gets.

****

I jolt awake as the intercom roars to life with static and crackling.

“Hello, is this thing on?” Windblade’s timid voice echoes through the ship as she calls to us. “Uh, hi team. We’re about thirty minutes out from Zi XVII, so let’s all meet in the hangar, okay? Windblade out.” Click.

You sure you’re ready to go? You look terrible.

I fold out my windscreen again and take a look. I don’t see any scratches, and I’m still looking as curvy as ever. I’m fine.

Whatever you say, you delusional freak.

I try to push the thoughts from my head as I plug in my audiopods and make for the hangar, pounding on Knock Out’s door to wake him up as I pass it. I transform and fly towards the hangar, careful to avoid bumping into anything. As I reach the hangar and transform, I realize I’m the last to arrive, even being beaten by someone as slow as Grimlock. Did I really spend so much time in the mirror?

“Good, everyone’s here,” Windblade says, surveying the room. “The part of Zi XVII we’ve tracked Galvatron to is a populated area, so we’re going to split up as we search for him and his ship. We’re not entirely sure where he’s docked but…”

They’re all looking at you.

What? Everyone is looking at Windblade.

How do you know? Look, Hot Rod’s optics just darted towards you.

I notice Hot Rod glancing at me between paying attention to Windblade. 

See? He’s thinking about how disgusting you are.

…

He knows they’re fake. He’s thinking about how fake you are.

…

You’re not a real fembot, Airachnid. Or should I say Ta-

“-Airachnid?” Knock Out grabs me by the shoulder and turns me towards him.”

“Sorry, yes?” I shake my head, and my vision centers on his concerned face.

“It’s time to go. You and I are with Blaster in area six.”

“R-right. Let’s go.”

Freak.

Chapter Text

Chanel

“Vanity is often the mask of the meek.”

- Megatron of Tarn

It would be one thing if this mission was just boring. I could handle that.

It would be two things if I wasn’t stuck with someone I have nothing in common with. Airachnid is great, I love her to death, but she’s more distant than usual. Worst part is, Blaster is cute, but every single time I try to start a conversation, he seems bored. 

But I could handle that.

What I can’t handle is walking around this stupid city.

It’s hideous!

The buildings are all dim and dull, scrunched together like cydines in a can. The doors blend into their walls, almost indistinguishable from their surroundings. Doors should make a statement! These doors just tell me this place is soulless.

“Rims, honey. Don’t you think that was intentional on Galvatron’s part? If he’s anything as smart as he seems, picking the most bland place this side of the galaxy is genius.” Airachnid has always been good at reading my thoughts, even when she has her own on her mind.

“Doesn’t help that boombox over here has been anything but playing,” I whisper, rolling my optics. “Seriously, what is he doing?”

Just then, an obnoxious ringtone reverberates from Blaster’s chest. He hits a button on it to launch out his cell pad, catching it from in front of him. Damn, that was cool. Focus, Knock Out!

“Yo, SS, how’s it hanging?” His bombastic voice echoes through the desolate street.

“Pretty decent, Blaster. I just got out of work, and I thought I’d give you a ring to see how your ‘adventure’ is going.” SS (Shadow Striker?) has a confident voice, like she’s not afraid of anything Blaster could say. If I swung that way, she’d totally be my type.

“Pretty boring, to be honest. They have us searching this ghost town that supposedly Galvatron was spotted in, but I’m not picking anything up.”

“That’s a shame. It’s hard to imagine you not having a good time.”

“Well, you don’t need to imagine it.” Blaster mimes a gun with his digits and shoots himself. “But what’s up with you, girl? You just started that new job, right?”

“Yeah, I’m working at the library next to the seeker academy. Lots of, unsurprisingly, seekers, but also strangely a bunch of minibots? Not sure what’s up with that.” It sounds like she’s almost excited about that last part.

“You always have been a bigger reader than me. Maybe that’s why you’re so-”

A colossal BOOM shakes the asphalt and concrete around us as a massive fire erupts in the distance. Airachnid catches me with a couple of her extra legs before I hit the ground, but Blaster takes a nasty dive. I rush over to him and turn him over.

“He’s out cold,” I tell Airachnid. “We have to get back to the ship.”

“You’re right,” Airachnid confirms as she transforms. “Flip his cog and load him into my cockpit so I can fly him back.”

Sure, a simple flip of a t-cog on a triple changer. Here goes nothing. I hit a button on my forearm and eject my first aid kit, catching it with my other hand. I riffle through the box, taking out a thin scalar and a scalpel. 

“I’m going to have to open him up a bit, so don’t be alarmed if you see some energon leaking,” I reassure.

“With you, I’ve learned to be ready for anything,” she teases back. “Now get going. Work some ma-”

The building to our left splits in two as a muscular purple bot with a three-pronged crest and an orange arm-mounted cannon barrels through it. The area is invaded by a cloud of thick smog, and I can barely see the bot beneath my tools. A massive monster with a Decepticon symbol for a face and two huge cannons on its arm steps through the rubble, crushing something green and splattering liquid below its foot. Slag, is that… a Cybertronian?

“Galvatron!” it roars, looking around and scanning the area. “You won’t leave her with your spark intact!”

“Big talk for a bot wearing the symbol of a dead agenda.” Galvatron spits a glob of energon from his mouth, taunting the monster. “Tell me, child. Whose head am I bringing to my men today?”

“My name is Tarn, tyrant,” he growls. “But don’t pay it too much attention; you should focus on staying upright for more than a few seconds.”

“Knock Out!” Airachnid shouts from behind me. “I’m going to use my rotors to blow the smoke out of your face. You need to move fast!”

Pressure’s on, I guess. But I’ve always been good under pressure. I tear into Blaster’s chest as delicately as possible, though there is hardly the time for an excess of finesse. I slice off the top layer and toss it to the side. He can replace it. I carve a hole with my scalpel where a bot around his size’s t-cog would normally be located, but it’s empty.

“It’s not here!” I call out.

“What? Of course it’s there! He drove here with us!”

“I know that, but it’s not here!”

“It has to be! Think, Knock Out!” Airachnid pleas. If I can’t find his cog, the best case scenario is that we survive to mourn him. Think, Knock Out, think! Where would a bot that changes between a boombox and a van store their t-cog?

Wait a minute. He’s a boombox.

Of course! Mass shifting! His cog needs to be somewhere lower to accommodate his center of gravity changing! It’s in his abdomen! I race my blade down and rip it open, pushing apart organs and wires. There it is! I use my scalpel to rotate the cog slowly, and he starts to shrink. Perfect. I spin it faster, and he compresses in my hands to a boombox.

“Airachnid, catch!” I scream, tossing Blaster into the air. She redirects and swoops under him with her windshield open and grabs him as his momentum shifts. I dive forward and transform, firing my nitrus and making a loud SCREECH as I drive away. I hear rotors behind me, but I don’t look back to confirm Airachnid is following me.

“Team, this is Airachnid,” she cries into the radio. “We found Galvatron. I’m transmitting his coordinates now, but he was taken out earlier. He’s fighting someone with tread shoulders and a Decepticon mask. We’re on our way back to the ship.”

“Copy that, Airachnid,” Hot Rod calls back in. “I’m on my way.”

Chapter Text

Slashdance

“Power that is taken, not earned, is the catalyst of an atrocity.”

- Megatron of Tarn

Focus. Allow no distractions to infiltrate your view. Galvatron is your sole target. The crimson medic and the black spider fade from view as my vision narrows to exclusively Galvatron, his optics ignited with fires brighter than the Inferno.

“I’ll give you this, child: you’ve lasted far longer than expected,” Galvatron taunts, spitting a black liquid from his mouth. “You were taught well.”

“I was taught by myself,” I scoff, wiping the energon from my mask. “My strength is mine alone.”

“Well, aren’t you tough!” Galvatron chortles. He wags one digit at me, beckoning me towards him. “Then come on, child. Let us dance.”

“Stop calling me that!” I scream, lunging towards him. I launch off of my back foot, driving a spiked knee into his abdomen and piercing the red cross on his chest. He doesn’t even seem to flinch. He drives his elbow down into my knee, severing it from my pointed kneecap. As I stumble back, dragging my claws on the ground to stabilize myself, Galvatron plants himself and fires at me with his fusion cannon, which I narrowly avoid by rolling to the right. In the time it takes him to recover from his blast, I push myself backwards to create distance, firing both of my fusion cannons at him. He turns to his side and weaves through my blasts, smirking at me.

“Alright, child. Playtime is over.” He raises both of his arms and summons a fleet of soldiers from the buildings behind him. One, two, three… ten monstrous Cybertronians emerge, breaking through walls and shattering windows.

“I enjoyed our tussle, young one,” he says, giving me an almost genuine smile. “I truly did. But duty calls, and I can waste no more time on you today. Goodbye, Tarn.”

Galvatron plants his feet once more, taking aim directly at my chest as his army flies towards me.

Just then, an engine roars from behind me, and a red sports car with an obnoxious yellow spoiler flies over my head and transforms in front of me.

“Room for one more, Horns?” The energetic bot shrugs and shakes his head. “You didn’t think you could start the party without me, did you?”

“Hot Rod!” I involuntarily exclaim, my voice slipping.

“I know you? Slag, sorry, must’ve forgotten.” He does a dramatic facepalm.

“Never mind that now, Hot Rod. What is your plan? While I appreciate the assist, the two of us can only-”

“Shh, shh,” he interrupts, putting a digit to his lips. “The cavalry’s right behind you.”

A mob of vehicles drive and fly in, led by a butterfly-shaped red jet. They all transform into their robot modes, with the leader brandishing a long purple sword and putting it a few meters from Galvatron’s chin.

“Galvatron, you’re under arrest in accordance with the fifth article of the Tyrest Accords,” Windblade declares. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say is liable to be held and prosecuted as evidence.”

Galvatron chuckles before erupting into a deep, echoey laugh. “Arrest me ?” he scoffs, waving his hand. “You couldn’t arrest me even if I was alone.”

“Wanna test that theory?” Chromia threatens, punching her fists together. “I’d love to give you a taste of me.”

Galvatron presses a digit to his audio receptor as he receives a call, rolling his optics and pressing buttons on his gauntlet. “Sorry, Windblade, but I don’t have time for this. I’m on a strict timetable here. You understand.”

“And how exactly do you plan to stop us?” Drift asks, drawing a large sword from his back.

“Simple, white one. Like… this.” He throws his hands up as missiles rain from the sky and blanket the area in a thick smog. 

“Get down!” Windblade yells, tackling Chromia to the ground. I can hear the roar of an engine above us, and the flapping of wings as his troops fly into his ship. As the smoke clears, two brutes remain, standing menacingly with their wings spread wide. One swings around a mace on a golden chain, and the other juts out razor-sharp claws.

“I am Gigatron, and he is Deathsaurus,” the clawed one announces. “Prepare for termination.”

“Hot Rod, Drift, Long Haul, Kickback, Slipstream, and Arcee: You take the one with the mace,” Windblade orders. “Chromia, Grimlock, Blitzwing, Astrotrain, and you, fusion cannons: You’re with me on the one with claws.”

Grimlock transforms into his Tyrannosaurus alt mode and charges towards Gigatron, knocking him into the air and catching his left leg between his teeth. Blitzwing barrages him with rockets as Astrotrain barrels into him with the front of her train. Chromia races at him from behind, leaping out of her alt mode and pinning down Gigatron’s right leg with her entire body. Windblade flies towards him and skewers his hand to the ground and turns towards me.

“Now!” she shouts, and I line up my fusion cannons and fire, hitting him straight in the chest and knocking him down. She stands atop him, removing her sword from his hand and driving it through his chest.

“Slag, Decepticon,” Chromia chuckles, lightly punching me on the shoulder. “You really held your own.”

“Chromia, please carry Gigatron back to the ship.”

“You got it, boss,” Chromia confirms, saluting Windblade and tossing Gigatron into the air as she transforms and catches him in the bed of her truck.

“Drift, you almost finished?” Windblade yells.

“Just… about!” he answers, slashing Deathsaurus through the chest.

“Great,” she nods. “Long Haul, you take Deathsaurus back to the ship. Now, you…”

Windblade turns towards me and sheathes her sword.

“Who are you? You were a real help today in finding Galvatron and helping us defeat these two,” she says, gesturing back.

“I’m…” I pause. “I’m Tarn. I… Galvatron cannot be allowed to have the Matrix. I need to bring it back to Cybertron.”

“I see,” Windblade nods. “Well, we could really use someone like you on our team. You’re strong, tough, and determined enough to see this through. I just have one question.”

“Yes?” I ask, crossing my arms.

“Wanna make something of it?”

Chapter Text

Daddy I Love Him

“Diversity is the motor that powers a thriving community.”

- Megatron of Tarn

On Cybertron, we have a saying: art imitates life.

For me, life imitates art.

Imagine, if you will, that it’s cybercycle 8671. Before the war, but after Megatron (Megatronus? He was still Megatron then) started his writing. The Decepticon movement was little more than one bot who believed in something enough to yell about it. At the time, I wasn’t much more than a pickpocket, sometimes elevating myself to full-blown thief. I’ve always been a smooth-talker, slick, maybe a little slimy. I remember I was reading a book called To Conjunx a Thief . If it’s not obvious, it was about a thief falling for his mark. I thought that was ridiculous. Marks are just a job, I thought. How could anyone be stupid enough to fall for their mark?

And then I met Long Haul.

“Long Haul, my love, what do you think about having a movie night this evening? Just the two of us.” I run my digits along my antenna and bite my lip. He usually loves it when I do that, but he doesn’t seem to notice this time.

“Sorry babe, but Grimlock and Blitzwing were going to come over. We were going to watch the Cyions-Zommies game. It’s going to be great!” Dumpy’s visor glows a bright orange, bordering on yellow, as he paints a big 16 on his chestplate. “Kick, could you help get my back?”

I sigh overly dramatically and walk over to his back, taking his brush kit and drawing an even bigger 16 on his back. “So… you’ve been spending a lot of time with Grimlock.”

“Yeah, thanks again for introducing us, Kick. It’s really nice having friends on the ship.” He pauses, and then stutters, “B-besides you, of course.”

“I know, enney.”

I shouldn’t be mad. I really shouldn’t. Dumpy struggles to make friends, and I’m happy he isn’t feeling so isolated here. Aside from the Constructicons, he didn’t have any friends on Cybertron. I have a lot of friends, so most of the time people come over they just make awkward small talk.

But still, I don’t know. Maybe I’m selfish or unreasonable, but I want him all to myself. I’ve tried to get into basketrek to talk to him, and I’ve picked up pieces of it here and there, but it just hasn’t clicked for me. I’ve never been able to get into sports (believe me, Bombshell has tried to get me into pickleball numerous times and failed), yet I still get jealous when anyone talks to him about them.

The worst part is, it’s not like he ever leaves me out to dry either. I love Astrotrain, bless her spark, and she makes the boys’ sports nights way more enjoyable. Even so, I still dread these nights. I always ask him if he wants to do something else, pretending I don’t know what day it is, but I do. I’m always hoping that he’ll one day choose me over basketrek, but he never will. He gives me ninety-nine percent of his life, but I’m so selfish that I want one-hundred.

“And then me Grimlock tell Dinobot that Grimlock Dinobot, not Dinobot! Dinobot Maximal! Why Dinobot named Dinobot if Dinobot not Dinobot!? Dinobot is dino and bot, but not Dinobot!” Grimlock shouts as he stomps into Dumpy and I’s room, the handle of a bowl of pophorns between his teeth.

“Wow, Grimlock, you’re right! I can’t believe I never realised that Dinobot was a dino bot that isn’t a Dinobot! The more you know!” Astrotrain skips in behind Grimlock, practically dragging Blitzwing by the hand behind her. I’ll never understand why Blitzwing pretends to hate game night; he always ends the night hiding a wide smile beneath his datapad.

“Hey guys, uh, and Astrotrain,” Long Haul stumbles. “I, well, I didn’t make it, but I poured some microchips into a bowl and got some botcho chee-z too. Oh, and the cooler is PACKED with Microlob Ultra.”

“Ugh, light Engex? Me Grimlock hate light Engex!” Grimlock pouts.

“Grimlock,” Astrotrain starts. “The last time you had Engex with more than 4% EBV, you almost burned down the entire cafeteria. This is for our safety.”

“Safety is overrated,” Blitzwing mumbles, frantically typing in his datapad.

“Safety is not overrated, Jellybean.” Astrotrain shakes her head.

The rest of the night is a blur. I didn’t have to drink, nor did I take any other substances, but the details are all foggy. I know Astrotrain and I touched up each other’s paint, one quick glance in the mirror confirms it, but I can’t actually remember any of it. Four full hours missing from my memory banks. It feels like this happens every time Grimlock comes over.

“Kick? You in there?” Long Haul snaps me back to reality by waving in my face.

“Huh?” I shake my head, and my vision focuses back to Dumpy’s visor, which is currently glowing an inquisitive teal.

“You just seem really out of it.” He grabs my hand. “Everything okay?”

“Y-yeah…” I lie. “Guess I just need a recharge, huh? Long night.”

“You know you can tell me anything, right Kick?”

“Yeah, I do.” I try to nod my head as firmly and convincingly as possible, but I think I just look like a bobblehead.

“Well, if you feel like talking, I’m here.” I can almost see the concerned expression behind his mouthplate. “C’mon, let me carry you to the slab.”

I lightly smile up at him. “With pleasure.”

Long Haul scoops me up into his arms and carries me to our recharge slab, setting me down and crawling in beside me. He wraps his arms around me, and I can feel his tires lightly bounce as they touch me. It almost makes me forget about Grimlock.

Almost.

Chapter Text

Shape Da Future

“Progress is not linear; it takes both steps forward and back.”

- Megatron of Tarn

It is roughly 1400 hours, and I am nearly done with my shift at the Iacon Memorial Archives.

I’ve worked here for the last few solar cycles. I was told this is because it was the “best available fit for someone of (my) capabilities.” 

It’s not my dream job, because I don’t dream of having a job. But, as a former colleague of mine once said, “Any day above the titanium is a good day.” I find myself thinking about that pretty often.

I’m drinking my second black lava of the day, and avoiding work by talking IT with my coworker Mainframe. He’s nice. Seems kinda nervous, though.

Today he’s nervous about packet loss. He’s convinced that our positioning next to the Seeker Academy is causing some amount of signal loss in the library. I assume only he can perceive this happening, but it’s important to him, so meh. Nice to talk to someone about something. Besides, I kinda like his accent.

Not that I like accents.

Attempting to reassure him, I recall some of my SigInt training. “That’s a good point, but that sort of speed loss can only happen when our Cy-Fi frequency is broadcasting at the exact same frequency as the Seeker radar. Which is almost never used on civilian frequencies, especially not after the treaty - “

A low, pleasant voice rumbles from behind me. “I’m just glad you two are here to figure this out for me.”

The voice belongs to my boss, Scavenger. Not him, the other one. Still a green and purple construction vehicle, though. Tough break for an Autobot.

“Shadow, would you mind putting these away for me? I have some holds to pull up at the counter.” Better get back to work. Lava’s getting cold anyway.

I log onto the Cy-Fi myself (dunno what Mainframe was so worried about, my connection is great) and pull up my usual trance/shock pop daylist. The book filing goes exactly as eventfully as you’d expect: it’s a pretty typical pile of checkouts to replace - mostly romance novels, some “young adult”, and a book about Starscream, written by a guy who hates Starscream. (That’s a long list. Trust me, I’m a Decepticon.)

Turning the volume down during an ad - I only pay for C-Tube Premium; the rest I can deal with - I hear the electronic door chime sound.

I hear it sound a few more times after that. Weird. Maybe it’s students from the academy. It’s the wrong time of year for protoforms to be on a field trip. Either way, we’re gonna get busy, and I know Scavenger loves making small-talk with his fellow book lovers, so I’m gonna have to head over and -

– is that her? It couldn’t possibly be her. Why is she here?

Before my processor can finish that thought, I hear the loud crackle of a particle blaster arcing upward into the ceiling. I crouch into a low defensive position behind a nearby rack of Data-Cons before I’m fully conscious of what I’m doing. 

My hand goes to my head to activate my spectral-analysis viewfinder (once called my “bug-optic” by an old friend) like a muscle I haven’t used in forever.

It’s her. It’s Nightracer.

It’s always bad when someone’s ex-girlfriend visits them at work. It’s somehow worse when she’s armed and surrounded by goons. I gently turn up my receptors to try and hear what she’s saying.

“Nobody move! It’s not your personal possessions we’re after, we just need access to Special Collections. If nobody tries to be a hero, nobody gets hurt.” she barks calmly, in that matter-of-fact voice she uses when she needs to be “serious”. (Which is all the time. Short-bot syndrome.)

I see a red and yellow one run up on a few people at a nearby table, his rifle brandished. Straining, I hear him feverishly trying to intimidate them with a high-pitched cackle. Something about how “it’d be a real shame if you kept LOOKIN’ AT ME, because then they’ll only have your OPTICS to identify you with!”, real tough guy talk. The broad-shouldered silver-and-black one next to him tells him to “calm the frag down, Firecracker.” A small mechani-cat near him, black with blazing orange limbs and a prominent gun mounted to his back, growls in agreement. 

Red one is Firecracker. Heard he’s a real piece of work, hired when the Autobots got desperate on Garrus XVI.

Nightracer calmly gestures at a few points around the ceiling. Beside her, a tall bot with red, white, black, orange, and yellow markings (holy slag, save some colors for the rest of us) frantically taps on a visibly-modified datapad. The kind they used to hand out for electronic warfare. I hear the subtle buzzing of a few things deactivating in the large space around us, before Multi-Colors starts yelling for the head of security, in a voice that sounds used to getting what it wants.

Poor Skullgrin. He didn’t sign up for this. 

Right on cue, poor Skullgrin, hand on his blaster, barely has time to shout out his trademark “hey hey what the FRAG is - “ before Multi-Colors lays into him, presumably to find out about the security systems here. It doesn’t look like Multi-Colors gets the answer he wants, and an even bigger black-and-purple guy with giant claws knocks him upside the head and tosses him behind the counter like a sack of grated gears. 

Multi-Colors and Clawful briefly head in the direction of Skullgrin’s office. Okay. Multi-Colors handles security systems. Clawful probably just punches guys. Some friends, Nightracer. 

They return, and the whole motley crew leaves with Scavenger and Mainframe at gunpoint. Nobody knows I’m here. Nobody knows that both Scavenger and I have to be present to unlock Special Collections. Let’s do something about this.

Firing up my sonic dampener for the first time in I don’t know how long - it wasn’t my birth name, but you don’t get a name like Shadow Striker for nothing - I cloak myself and run over to Skullgrin, preemptively shushing him before he gets a chance to start yelling again. (Guy’s always yelling. Some bots can’t control the volume of their voice.)

I run down the situation with him the best I understand it, telling him to run back to his office to make some kind of distraction. I should probably take out Multi-Colors first so he quits hacking into stuff at my library, and I’m hoping Nightracer sends him back out to investigate. She hates working in teams, but she loves using people. Not that I know. 

Just in time for my dampener to have recharged, Multi-Colors shows right back up with Clawful in tow, like a pair of good lapdogs. I fire up the dampener and allow the light to refract around me before I start making any movements. Too fast and the illusion fails. Pretty sure I just heard Clawful call the other one Kick-Off. I liked “Multi-Colors” better.

I quickly pivot between a few bookcases before crouching low and approaching Kick-Off. I’m unarmed, because I’m at work, but I’m pretty sure Autobot pressure points haven’t changed too much since the war. Let’s test my theory. 

Kick-Off is right in the middle of telling Clawful (who I guess is named Double Punch? What’s he gonna punch? Guy doesn’t have any digits) to go check out Skullgrin’s office when my forearm finds its way around the aerator connecting his head to his torso. I squeeze just hard enough to make whatever cooling fan might be in there overheat and force his system to shut down. Just like I used to do. 

I cross the hard marble flooring of the library to find Double Punch and Skullgrin in one of the sloppiest hand-to-hand fights I’d ever seen. Ah, well, today isn’t a good day for finesse. I grab Skullgrin’s chair and brain Double Punch with it, before following up with a precise blow to his solar-panel plexus. (Maybe I have to talk to Scavenger about him letting me carry guns at work.) 

“Stay here, don’t deactivate the lockdown, and keep an optic on things. Oh, and sorry about the chair,” I tell Skullgrin. I wouldn’t want to stand up for a full shift either.

Placing my hand on the back of Kick-Off’s head, I try a trick someone once taught me to scan for open comms channels. I’m not nearly as good at it as he was, but it’s saved me before. Sure enough, I find myself listening in on Nightracer trying hard to keep her composure - something always very important to her, for some reason - as she tells Firecracker to go see what happened to the rest of her goon squad. He’s probably fast. He’ll probably be here any second. 

I was hoping that was the only thing I was going to deal with in the immediate future, before I heard the commotion outside. Peering from a nearby window, I see the last thing any self-respecting citizen wants to see: the cops. Some idiot with a bullhorn named Prowl - no, not that one, this one is a lot taller and more angular - is convinced there’s a hostage situation. 

“Oh, you want HOSTAGES, do ya?!” Firecracker yells to nobody in particular. Irritating voice. I don’t have enough time to make fun of him for it, though, as he’s grabbing some poor fembot by the forearm and dragging her towards the front door. Sick bastard seems like he’s enjoying himself a bit too much. 

Not gonna have enough time to let my diffuser recharge. I duck behind a shelf and let the cavernous echo of the high ceiling disguise my position. Makes small talk hard, but in this moment I’m grateful.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.” Real tough, Shadow. Surely he’ll think you’re Stalker.

He pivots around as planned. “WHO SAID THAT?!” he practically squeaks.

“Maybe it’s Primus. Maybe it’s your conscience. Maybe it’s this poor fembot’s family.” Lucky me, he’s looking the wrong way. I’m older than I used to be, but maybe my actuators can handle me crouch-walking all the way behind these racks. 

“If you’re Primus, you better get ready to help guide this dead glitch’s spark to the afterlife!” He’s doing a “tough guy” voice now. It’s even worse than his normal one. 

The upside to his yapping is that it allowed me to get back to the checkout counter and grab the heaviest Data-Con that Scavenger had in the holds section. I tilt myself around the edge of the counter, briefly measure the distance between us, and zero-in on him with my bug-optic. (Hey, it’s okay if I call it that.) Let’s get dramatic one last time. 

“That’s not how you should talk to a lady.”

As he turns to me, I let the Data-Con arc through the air before clanking him directly on top of his jagged blue head. Before he can grasp the irony of a man of his intellect getting attacked with reading material, I cross the gap between us and strike him twice in the aerator. He collapses to the floor in the way you usually only see in comedies. I make sure the fembot is okay and tell her to meet Skullgrin in his office before peering under the lower edge of a nearby window.

Sure enough, it’s Other Prowl and the Autotroopers, all of whom seem to be surprised about responding to this kind of call at a library. . Seems like a crowd has gathered behind him; there’s always onlookers when you don’t want them. Some cadets from the Seeker Academy, a few typical suburban carbot types, and a pair of Minibots, one white and blue -

– the other yellow, orange, and black –

Keep it together, Shadow. You’ve got stuff to do. He doesn’t even know you moved back to Iacon, that’s not him. 

I buzz Skullgrin. “Skully, it’s me - yes, I know you didn’t call the cops… yes, I know there’s a failsafe and you were too unconscious to put in your password… yes, I know there’s a lot of ‘bots still in here. Look, try to get in touch with Prowl out there - no, not that one - and tell him what’s going on. I need to know why in the Pit Nightracer is here.”

On that note, I switch channels to see if I can hear anything. Nightracer is, I believe the word would be, apoplectic. She’s yelling at Scavenger to see why the door isn’t open without actually listening to his answer, she’s yelling at Treadshot (must be the big silver one) about what’s going on without letting him reply, and I know she’d be yelling at me if she knew I was here. Let’s give her a chance. 

“You know, sweetie, I wish you would let me know before you come visit me at work.” A chain of profanities erupts. I’m glad she remembers my voice. “Let me come down there and talk to you before this gets any… sillier, eh?”

I don’t give her the chance to answer, and I’m already halfway across the library as I cut off communications. 

There’s two parts of Special Collections: the reading area right in front of it, and the part where the actual collection is kept. I find everyone milling around in the first area, unable to get to the second area. It’s basically how I expected it to go.

I let myself into the room, hands gently raised in front of me, suddenly aware that I didn’t have a plan for what to do when I got here. Should’ve brought some more Data-Cons to throw around. 

Sure enough, the whole goon squad turns around, blasters raised. I can tell Nightracer’s already mad; she’s pretty easy to annoy, and it happened enough during our relationship that I know what to look for. I decide it’s better not to give her a chance to start talking. “Listen, if you wanted to get back together, you could’ve texted me first. But if that isn’t why you’re here, I’m willing to hear you out. You owe me that much after ruining my life, again.”

“Don’t be dramatic”, she snaps in response. “I’m here on business, and my business just so happened to involve where you work.”

A sinking feeling in my CPU tells me where this is going. “Alright, but why a library? Why not a bank, or a business, even a corner Engex store if you’re desperate?” She’s done at least one of those before. I’m being a little spiteful bringing it up.

Treadshot punches me in the abdomen before anyone decides to answer. He’s pretty good at it. I drop to my knees clutching my midsection, unable to form words for a second. Through the blurring of my optics, I watch him make a gesture to the mechani-cat, who responds by circling me the way you used to see in nature documentaries. Lucky me, Treadshot is still nice enough to answer my question.

“Because you have the only surviving copy of Crux’s Constant.” 

Crux’s Constant. Haven’t heard that name in a while. Technically, the BOOK is called “Understanding Crux’s Constant” - Crux’s Constant is the name of the formula. (Common mistake. I like to bust that one out at parties.) Brainstorm wrote it about some unsolvable math formula discovered in an obscure text from hundreds of cyber-cycles ago, that could potentially solve the issue of perpetual motion & energy generation if unlocked. You can imagine why all the other copies got destroyed or locked away during the war.

A little Energon dribbles down my cheek as I cough. I leave it for effect. “You’re telling me you tried to take a library hostage for a math book? Can any of your little crew even do math, or -”

Treadshot hits me again, this time in the face. He’s enjoying it. I think they both are. His weird little mechani-cat continues to pace circles around me. I get the impression I’m at distinct risk of losing a hand if I move too fast.

I can somehow see the disgust on Treadshot’s face, despite him not having separated optics or a visible mouth. “We’re going to SELL IT, you stupid -”

“Enough” chimes in Nightracer. First time she ever stood up for me. “Shadow, now that you’re here, I’m going to have to ask you to help me with this door. I’m sure you know what happens if you don’t.” She cocks her gun directly at poor Scavenger as though I’m not smart enough to keep up.

“Don’t worry about me, Shadow. The last thing I want is any of these… hooligans running off with books they wouldn’t even understand!” cracks Scavenger. The guy just doesn’t know how to be a hostage. Love that about him.

“Wow, was this your entire plan? Steal the planet’s rarest book and then… what, exactly?” 

I’ve seen tough guys in movies do this. Maybe I can distract the two of them long enough for Scavenger to do something. The guy has more medals of valor than you could reasonably expect anyone to have, least of all a librarian. Strikes me as the man-of-action type, you know? Hopefully.

“You hire a bunch of goons, none of whom seem to be on the same wavelength at all, you storm into a very popular library in broad daylight, and your whole plan is to steal the world’s most important math book? Did you have a buyer in mind, or were you just going to list it on c-Bay and see how much you could get?”

Hell, were you even going to cut your hired hands in on the action, or were you just going to cut and run when things get serious like always?”

The gun is still pointed at Scavenger, but she could kill a Combiner just with the look in her optics.

“You know, Nighty…” She always hated that. “I think I finally figured out what your problem is.

You never kept people around long enough for them to want to help you.”

She steps towards me, looking like she wanted to say something - or at least as close as she can, given she has no mouth and one long visor-optic. Right on cue, Scavenger clobbers her on the shoulder with one of his gigantic tread-arms. Hoped that would work.

Scavenger came through, just like I figured a ‘bot with his reputation would. What I wasn’t expecting is for the door behind us to suddenly burst open, revealing Skullgrin, Other Prowl, and the Autotroopers. Friends will be friends, I guess.

I take the opportunity to toss the mechani-cat aside (never felt good doing that, but it was him or me) before crossing the floor towards Treadshot. He’s fast, real fast, but starting to get sloppy -  he’s got too many potential targets to worry about. Me? I’m only thinking about how I owe him at least two punches. He doesn’t seem happy to receive them. He’ll be less happy when the cuffs get slapped on. 

Seeing her so-called “friend” laid out, Nightracer is already halfway up to the ceiling, a magna-grapple launched from her forearm. 

I’m kinda hoping to not see her again, moreso than I already was. 

“Good luck, babe!”

I can’t think of anything better to shout after her while she leaves. A few of the Autotroopers are already headed out the door after her, but I don’t see it going well. 

Other Prowl - who turned out to be much nicer than the Prowl everyone’s heard of, though still a cop - dispatches a med unit and asks if I could head down to the station to give a statement. I’d rather do it now and get it over with, so I follow him towards the door.

Halfway down the steps of the Archives, I’m approached by a short black-and-silver Minibot, clutching a microphone for dear life, with a cameraperson right behind him. He introduces himself as Rook from Iacon News Network, and asks if I have any statements on what just happened. I can’t think of anything else to tell him.

“You know, I just think that any day above the titanium is a good day. No matter what happens.”

****

Across town, two Minibots sit in a Converse voice chat while they both idly level up in their favorite MMO. 

“Hey, did you ever make it to that library across town? The big new one?” asked Swerve in his broad, unsubtle Yussian accent.

“You know, I tried to, but the craziest thing happened!” replied his lifelong friend Tailgate over a fairly cheap-sounding headset. “We got there, but there were a bunch of cops outside! I dunno what happened, we got kinda bummed out and left.”

“Oh, did you and Wheelie head over there?”

“Nah, actually Hubcap asked if he could tag along. Guess he just wanted to see the place for himself.”

“Huh! Never figured Hubcap for a library kinda guy, but who knows? He’s always got something cooking.”

Chapter Text

I Am No Hero

“Oftentimes, those we see as larger than life are hiding an equally grandiose secret.”

- Megatron of Tarn

“So there we were, the monstrous Deathsaurus staring us down, his golden mace dragging as he stalked towards us. Drift brandished his sword as I ignited the fires upon my body, and we-”

“Let me stop you right there, Hot Rod,” Arcee rather rudely interrupts. “We’ve all heard this story at least five times, and it’s not even close to what actually happened.”

“What? Hot Rod exaggerating?” Chromia mocks in her deep, husky voice. “That would never happen!”

“Well, if you’re such a good storyteller, Arcee, why don’t you tell it!?” I pout, crossing my arms.

“Sweet Solus, with pleasure,” Arcee sighs. “Basically, Hot Rod provided cover fire while Drift cut his chain. I threw him up into the air-”

“You did what !?” Astrotrain interjects.

“Magnet powers.”

“Oh, of course,” she nods.

“Anyway, Slip knows that’s her cue to strike when I do that, so she flew straight at him and cut him with her wings. Long Haul and Kickback hit him with The Fastball Special TM , which-”

“Sorry to interrupt again, but what’s the fastball special?” Astrotrain asks.

“The Fastball Special TM is where a smaller bot gets thrown by a bigger bot like a basketrek ball,” I answer.

“Oh, okay, got it.” It looks like she’s taking notes.

“Anyway, Kickback got launched at Deathsaurus and slashed him up with his daggers. Then, I pulled him back to the ground, because magnets pull, not suck, and he slams down. Drift finished him off by-”

Arcee is yet again interrupted, this time by a siren and the screen in the cafeteria lighting up. Looks like there’s a distress signal coming from nearby. Chromia runs over to it and answers the incoming call.

“Hello? This is The Intrepid Night receiving your call.”

Oh, so that’s what the ship’s called.

“Oh thank Zerta herself - zzzrt - found us,” a voice crackles through the speakers. We were just starting to - zzzrt - on this moon when we were - zzzrt - by pirates! We’re locked in the - zzzrt - but we don’t - zzzrt -.” The transmission breaks up.

“Slag, we have to help them!” I exclaim.

“I agree, Hot Rod, but we’re on an important mission. We have to get clearance from Windblade to detour the ship,” Chromia replies, clearly frustrated by the bureaucracy but respecting the system nevertheless.

“We don’t have to! Astrotrain can carry the lot of us and we can be down there in no time! We can’t just leave them!”

“Hmm…” she pauses, pondering the suggestion. “Astrotrain, you’re okay with that?”

“Absolutely!” she answers, pumping her fist in the air.

“And everyone else?”

Drift and Arcee readily nod their heads, with Airachnid giving a reluctant shrug into a begrudging nod. Chromia nods in response and touches her audio receptor to call Windblade.

“Windy, hey. We received a distress signal from down below.” 

Pause. 

“No, I know we can’t redirect the entire ship, but Astrotrain said she can carry us.” 

Another pause. 

“Me, her, Drift, Airachnid, Arcee, and Hot Rod.” 

Yet another pause. 

“I don’t know, we’ll find a spacebridge and jump to somewhere on the path.” 

A final pause.

“Thanks, Windy. I’ll update you as it develops. Bye.” Chromia lowers her hand as she ends the call. “Drift, I need you to figure out where the signal came from as we fly down.”

“On it.”

“Arcee, Airachnid, start prepping med kids for the civilians.”

“Right!” they respond in unison.

“Hot Rod, go grab ammo and some explosive charges.”

“Hell yeah! Demo!”

“And Astrotrain?”

“Yes, boss?” Astrotrain’s face lights up like Iacon on Founder’s Day.

“Transform.”

****

This planet is so… wet. 

Well, moon. Whatever.

I think it’s called Zertonia or something. Drift tells me that it used to be pretty barren, but was restored to this state of being mostly populated by trees and vines. Drift thinks that Nature is beautiful, and organic life is precious , but that’s a load of scrap. These are just weeds, overgrown and obtrusive. And the rain too? Worst rescue mission ever. 

“The hills are aliveeeeee with the sound of muuuu-sic,” Drift’s voice echoes and bounces off the surrounding bark. We’re practically walking single file with how tightly knit the trees are, with Drift at the front.

“Drift, do you seriously have to sing? This is already boring enough as is,” I pester.

“I think it’s nice! He has a great voicebox,” Astrotrain responds, answering for him. “Do you hate everything fun?”

“N-no, of course not!” I sputter. “What a ridiculous notion!”

“Alright then,” Arcee goads, stepping over a large root that vaguely resembles Pipes. “What do you think is fun, Hot Rod?”

Well, I’m a big fan of, you know,” I wink, and give Airachnid a look. She averts my optics. She’s been pretty distant since we, well, had a nice night. I thought it was nice, anyway.

“Okay, so you listed one thing and it was shallow. Anything else?” Arcee taunts.

“Well, I-”

“Sorry to interrupt, team,” Chromia interjects, looking down at her datapad. “We should be nearing the signal. Says it’s right ahead of us, just under a klik.”

“Then why can’t we hear anything?” I ask. “You’d assume that space pirates would be like, loud or something.”

“Were you hoping for constant explosions and gunfire?” she retorts, sounding a bit annoyed. I know I’m not supposed to say yes to that, so I keep my mouth shut, but the answer is definitely yes.

“Team, I believe we’ve arrived,” Drift informs us, pointing towards a small log cabin. It’s probably only as tall as Chromia is. Not to say she isn’t tall, but more that a building as tall as a Cybertronian isn’t very tall at all.

“Then, shouldn’t there be some pirates?” Airachnid inquires, scanning the area. “I’m reading life forms, but there’s nobody here.”

“Guys, listen. Do you hear that?” Astrotrain asks. The lot of us all stop and tune in to the sounds of the forest, searching for something unusual. It sounds like… some sort of static-y hum?

“There!” Drift shouts, quickly unsheathing his sword and thrusting it behind him. A black, slick liquid squirts out as the blade pierces something. A lanky purple creature with green claws and spiky horns shrieks as it fades into view, skewered by Drift’s sword. It convulses back, its limbs contracting and flailing, until it slows to a halt and slumps over.

“They must be cloaked,” Drift asserts, removing the blade and wiping its juices from it. “Let us make for the cabin ahead. Hot Rod, your thermal visor would be quite beneficial.”

“Oh, duh!” I flip it down. My vision is suddenly filled with red bodies, the same shape as the dead one. There must be five of them, and they’re all brandishing claws and lunging for us. “Chromia, on your left!”

Chromia launches a fist in response to my command and punches through a pirate. “Hot Rod! You need to call them out for us!”

“Got it!” I exclaim. “Arcee, duck and shoot up! Airachnid, jump and stomp! Astrotrain, fire dead ahead! Drift-”

Drift acts before I can even tell him what to do, throwing his tanto between the eyes of the last pirate. He looks at me and smirks, the rain glistening as it runs down his face.

“Guess you don’t need any help,” I say, chuckling. “Looks like that’s all of them.”

“Hey, guess you can be helpful, hotshot!” Chromia yells, laughing heartily. “Come on, let’s check out the cabin.”

Airachnid, the smallest of us, is the first to enter, barely even needing to duck to enter the door. I follow behind her, again using my visor to scan for any heat sources. Aside from the fading heat of a fireplace, there’s nothing.

Wait. There is something! There’s a small spec of heat hiding behind a chair in the corner of the room. I take a knee and lift up the chair, finding a small creature behind it. It has long, black strands coming from its top, and big blue optics. It’s cowering, curled into a ball and covering its face with its hands.

“Hello there,” I say, smiling and waving. “I’m Hot Rod, and the scary spider lady is Airachnid. Don’t worry, she’s a big softie.”

Airachnid stabs me in the back with one of her legs when I say that, and I have to try very hard to stifle a yelp. “We’re here to help,” she tells the creature, extending her hand towards it. It looks up at us and blinks without saying anything, and it jesutres towards a switch on the wall. I nod towards Airachnid, and she flips it with one of her legs.

A couple lamps and an overhead light spring to life and blanket the room in a warm, yellow light. “Primus…” I blurt out involuntarily. The room is covered in a red liquid, blood I assume, and there are bodies strewn all across the floor. We must not have noticed because of the lack of light, but now… Airachnid quickly flips the lights back off, and gets down even lower for the creature.

“I’m so sorry,” she tells it, almost pleading with it. “We came to help you, but it looks like we were too late. Close your eyes. I will carry you to our ship.”

It nods, standing up and slowly shutting its eyelids. Airachnid scoops it up between her digits, setting it in her cockpit.

Ruuuuumble . The ground around us shakes, jostling around the furniture and knocking over a few pieces. Airachnid and I run out to meet the others and see them preparing for a fight.

“What was that?” I gasp.”

“No clue,” Astrotrain responds, pointing forwards. “The trees over there are shaking and crashing, though.”

“Chromia, we found this inside.” Airachnid gestures down towards her cockpit. “The rest were… this was the only one.”

“I-I see,” she responds, crossing her arms and looking pensive. “We needs to-”

Another tremor shakes us as the trees Astrotrain pointed at collapse. I hear mutters of Slag under everyone’s breath as a giant monster steps through the trees. It must be as tall as the ship, and probably almost as wide too. It’s covered in tentacles, its body leaking a clear liquid around it. Each of its tentacles is lined with suction cups and teeth, all connected to a circular torso covered in holes and tiny black eyeballs.

“Primus, what is that thing!?” Arcee shouts.

“No idea, but it’s coming right for us!” Astrotrain shouts back, grabbing Arcee and diving down to avoid the swipe of a tentacle. The creature lumbers towards us and the cabin, slamming down in our direction. Drift dashes towards it, hacking at it with his blade, but his strikes just bounce off. The monster slams him in the chest and sends him flying back.

“Drift!” I yell involuntarily, rushing over to him. His windshield is cracked, and he’s oozing a bit of energon. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”

“Please, Hot Rod,” he responds weakly, trying to shake me off. “I can still fight.”

“Buddy, you can’t. Another hit and he’ll take you out of commission for good.”

“But-”

“But nothing!” I shout, my voice firmer than intended. “Sit this one out, okay? We’ll find a way.”

“I-okay.” I lower him to the ground, passing him a kwik-fix kit. I turn back towards the monster, and I see the rest of the group fighting it. Astrotrain is firing at it from a distance with her rifle as Chromia and Arcee engage from up close. Airachnid is flying towards Drift, probably to leave the small one with him.

Suddenly, a voice booms from behind the creature. “Is it okay to join in, or am I too late for the party?”

The chest of the monster bursts as a bot with a (frankly, excessively large) orange blade slashes through it. The monster staggers, attempting to recover from its new orifice, as the bot stands proud. He’s probably taller than Chromia, big turquoise shoulders, a white chest, and maroon legs. There’s a big bird shaped crest on his chest with the Autobot symbol shining brightly in the center. The monster rips off one of its tentacles and shoves it into the hole he created, and it absorbs it into its chest.

“Slag, that thing doesn’t go down easy, does it? They never do.” The bot chuckles to himself and wipes his sword off. “Guess we just have to hit it again!”

He dashes towards the monster again, hacking and slashing at all of its tentacles. He gracefully ducks between its incoming strikes, jumping atop an appendage and running along it towards the monster’s torso. He leaps into the air and drives his sword down, impaling the monster and sending it crashing to the ground. He pulls out a huge blaster and systematically shoots all of the eyes on its torso, with each exploding and shooting out black liquid. After shooting the last one, he jumps down, sheathing his sword onto his back and wiping his face.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“Oh, me?” he answers, pointing at himself confusedly. “I’m Thunderclash!”

Chapter Text

Come As You Are

“As I sit below the stars to write this chapter, gazing up at the speckled night sky of Cybertron, I have but one question for you: Who are you, truly?” 

- Megatron of Tarn

A flame-colored bot with an angled spoiler for wings stands before me, his mouth agape and his optics wide.

“That… was… AMAZING!!!” he yells, bouncing up and down, the exhausts on his shoulders roaring with flames half his size.

“Haha, thanks!” I laugh, patting him on the shoulder. “With enough training and determination, you can be like me too.”

His optics sparkle at the idea before he turns around and runs over to a slumped over white bot with a windshield on his chest sitting next to a small, green humanoid. The fiery bot and the white one squeal together as they point over in my direction, and the verdant creature looks up in a mix of awe and confusion. I flash it a wide smile, and it retreats behind the white bot, occasionally peeking its head out to look at me.

I hear rather firm footsteps approaching from behind me, every thud accompanying a squinch from the mud. I turn around to see a blue fembot as big as I am, bearing broad shoulders defined by their wheels, a crest as sharp as horns, and knuckles adorned with the words love and peace , standing in front of me, arms crossed and armed with a scowl.

“So… you just came in and saved us, is that right?” Her frown drops and morphs into a wide grin, and she punches me on the arm lightly (it hurts anyway). “That’s great! We really needed the assist!”

“I’m always happy to answer the call,” I respond, making a quick salute. I catch a shuttle flying over to me and transforming as they land behind the big blue one, their wings folding around to form a skirt. Must be a fembot.

“Hey, hero!” the fembot exclaims, slinging a long rifle along her back. “What brings you ‘round these parts?”

“Well, I was flying overhead a little while back when I heard a distress signal,” I start to explain. “I assume it was the same one that brought your crew here?”

The two of them nod, signalling me to continue. “I thought so. I redirected after I heard it but was shot down during entry. Must’ve been those pirates, eh? I crashed down near a stronghold, assumedly where they set up their base, and was immediately attacked by a search party. They sent more and, well, long story short their base is pretty desolate now.”

I notice a couple more fembots, a pink one and a black one with spider legs, walking up to listen to the story. The black one runs her optics down my body and raises her brow before looking away. The more the merrier, right? “Anyway, as I was exploring their base, looking for some device to use to get a clue where the distress signal came from, I noticed a smashed wall with a trail of crushed trees leading deep into the forest.

“Now, at this point, there’s only one logical decision, right?” I ask, gesturing at the audience. The black one again catches my gaze, and the pink and blue ones seem to be paying attention. The grey and purple bot nods fervently, totally invested in my story.

“You followed it?”

“That’s right, I followed it. After taking The Star Saber out of the pirate leader, of course.” And after researching the monster in the base’s computers, of course, but they don’t need to know that. “Anyway, then I-”

“Sorry,” she interrupts, a quizzical look on her face. “What’s The Star Saber?”

“Oh, you mean this!?” I respond, drawing the translucent orange sword on my back. “This is The Star Saber, said to be forged by Solus Prime herself.”

“Woah, it even has a Matrix carved into it!” she notices, pointing at the hilt.

“Ah, good optic! Indeed it does. I’m so sorry my dear, but I haven’t even learned your name yet,” I remark, extending my hand.

“Astrotrain! I’m Astrotrain, like astro for space and train for train!” Her face erupts in excitement like a Spark Festival on Paradron.

“Ah, a brilliant name,” I reply, smiling and shaking her hands. “Well, Astrotrain, it is said that only one bot every ten thousand cycles has the ability to wield The Star Saber properly. I was just fortunate enough to be chosen by Primus as its wielder.”

“Wow, that’s so cool!” She draws herself closer to the blade, her optics coming mere centimeters from it. The radiance of the blade illuminates her face in a faint orange glow.

“Would you like to hold it?” I inquire, outstretching it towards her with both hands.

“Would I!” She kneels down and takes the blade from me, lowering an optic magnifier to examine it in greater detail.

“Anyway, as I was saying, after retrieving my blade from the fallen pirate leader, I followed the trail of destruction into the forest. I figured that whatever had escaped would be headed towards the signal, as I reasoned that it was actually employed by the pirates, not captured. Seems like I was right, huh?” I pause as a couple of them chuckle.

“So I followed it into the forest,” I continue. “There were a few pirates along the way that I had to take out, probably only fifty or so.”

“Only! He said only!” Astrotrain excitedly gasps. They don’t need to know that there were actually only about five pirates strewn along the path, each one in more pain than the last. All I did was put them out of their misery.

“Nothing is too strong for ol’ TC!” I shout, flexing my quads. “Eventually, I caught up with the beast, and you know the rest. You wouldn’t realise it just by looking, but its skin was a lot slimier than it looked. It felt like wading through sludge.”

Astrotrain shutters, her palms almost attached to her shoulders. The other three look equal parts disgusted and impressed, with the pink one glancing back at the monster to examine its flesh. I catch the black one again glancing at me from the corner of her optics.

“So…” the broad blue one starts. “You said you don’t have a ship, right?”

“Yeah,” I respond. “To be honest, I haven’t quite figured out where to go next. The pirate base was a total bust.”

“Why not come with us!” Astrotrain excitedly asks, transforming her feet into thrusters and gliding around.

“That okay, big blue?”

“Chromia. I’m Chromia.” Her gruff voice echoes off of the trees, the branches trembling at her words. Even the leaves fear Chromia. “But yes, I don’t see why not.”

“Woohoo!” Astrotrain jumps for joy, darting into the sky and transforming into a massive shuttle. “This is really tight. Do you guys mind getting in quickly?”

The pink one, Chromia, and the spider walk up a ramp Astrotrain extends from her rear. The black one turns her head before disappearing into the hull and puts a digit in her mouth, biting down and looking at me coyly. Wow. Not right now, TC.

I look around and see the white and red bots sitting down and I rush over to them. “I can carry him,” I say, pointing to the injured one.

“No need,” Red responds, cradling the other one in his arms. The small green creature clings to the pieces on Red’s back and climbs up it, wrapping its arms around his neck. He stands up, shaking a little bit as he carries his friend, but still manages to carry him to the ship. The creature on his back looks at me as they walk up the ramp, and I smile at it. I follow the group onto the ship as the bay door folds up and seals behind me.

****

Astrotain’s interior is surprisingly roomy. For such a flowery and energetic bot, her interior is quite militaristic. The lights are harsh, almost blinding, and the walls are lined with empty weapons racks and other military equipment.

“Wicked…” I mutter under my breath, running my digit along the top of a barren shelf. I continue to wander around, passing a variety of rooms: a mess hall, a training room, crew quarters... is this why they invited her to their crew? I suppose her bubbly personality is a plus, but it seems like she’s not as much of a slouch as you’d expect.

Knock knock. A closet buried in the back of a modest med-bay thumps from within. I creep towards it, attempting to mask my massive footsteps with gentle strides and slow movements. To an observer, I imagine I look ridiculous, but it seems to be working for me. As I approach the door, my hand hovering over the open button, it jets open, and a pair of black arms pulls me into the closet.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” the spider purrs, dragging her claws down my chest. She scratches her way down to my abdomen and below, curling her digits around the base of my pelvis. She digs in, gouging into my metal and lodging specs of paint under her nails. Primus, she’s good.

“I don’t even know your name,” I gasp.

“The name’s Airachnid, hero,” she responds, her other hand grabbing the back of my head. “But you can call me mistress.”

“Well, mistress .” I reach down and wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her up. “I can’t let you have all the fun, do you?” She encloses mine with her legs, driving the spikes on her spider legs into the surrounding walls and floor. I hope Astrotrain won't feel it. I shift her weight onto my left arm, freeing my other to open her abdomen and reach my digits in. Her arms wrap around my neck as she pulls herself towards me, sending me deeper into her. I search for her stabilizer, a spiked organ below the t-cog, and pull on it, causing her entire body to shake. She moans directly into my audio receptors, the words filling my cortex and swirling in my mind:

“Keep going. Harder.”

I guide my hand up to her cog and start to run my digits in between its notches. It’s a dangerous place to mess with, but there is no feeling quite like a cog pulled just right. 

Luckily, I’m an expert. 

I drag my digit along every rivet in her cog as her head falls back, her entire body slightly transforming back and forth. Her optics glow like fire as my fist tightens around the cog, and I count the grooves in it.

Wait. There’s a scar here. I feel closer and notice a welding point between the scores of the cog, as though it was modified. I count the ridges on her cog: one, two, three, and there’s ten. That’s a pretty standard amount for a fembot her size, so why…

Primus.

I accidentally release her from my left arm and she falls backwards, her wrapped legs catching her as she falls. She swings herself back up towards me and grabs my shoulders to secure herself.

“What was that?” she angrily asks.

“I-” I can’t believe it. Airachnid, she’s…

She’s like me.

She stares into my optics, examining the details of my face. She grabs it with a hand, tracing her digit along my jaw. She runs down my olfactory sensors and takes her hand down to my chest, knocking on it.

“May I?”

I nod and open my chest, prompting her to stick her hand in. I feel her clutch my cog, feeling the rivets and looking for a welding mark. Sure enough, she finds it, and her optics light up with a curiosity I haven’t yet seen from her.

“Your cog… it’s been welded to be larger.” She’s practically shaking with excitement. “You’re like me.” She pulls her hand out and brushes it along my chest, feeling for grooves in my armor. She finds a switch at my pectoris and glances up hesitantly, asking me for permission to proceed. I pause to weigh the question, but I nod nevertheless. I… I trust her. She flips the switch, releasing the pistons holding the armor bound to my arms and causing it to slide down. She catches both of them with her appendages and lowers them to the ground gently, ensuring that they aren't scratched. She drags her digit back along my chest as she searches for the way to release my chestplate, with her hand stopping where my armor thins below the crest. She rides her digit along an imaginary line up to my neck and pauses, locating the indent where the plates come together. She tilts her head to the side and looks up at me lovingly.

“Ready?” 

I nod, and she starts to undo the binding that attaches my chestplate to my inner torso. She works her way down my chest, my armor unfolding itself slipping off my shoulders, and stops at my waist. She takes my left arm and slips the metal vest down past my elbow and wrist, pulling my hand through the hole at the end. She does the same for my right arm, again catching my armor before it touches the ground.

Airachnid rubs my chest gently, pressing her audio receptor to it and closing her optics. I can feel her distributor pulsing as it pumps energon throughout her body. Her pulse is steady, strong, calming.

“That armor is tight to your body. It must hurt to leave on all the time,” she softly says, her optics still closed.

“Yeah, it does,” I reply. “I tell people I need a long time to recharge, but I don’t. I spend all of my time alone fixing the pistons and motors in my chest. I have to reinforce them a lot to stop them from breaking.”

“Why?”

“Why what?” I ask back.

“Why do you do that?” She’s practically whispering at this point.

“You know why.” I look away and stare at a broken lightbulb sitting on a shelf. “I… I can’t let them see me like this.”

“Who?”

“Everyone, I guess. I don’t want anyone to know how small I am.” My voice cracks at the last word.

“Then what am I?” she asks. I can feel her head shift a bit.

“What?”

“You said everyone.” She opens her optics and looks up at me, cupping my face with her hands. “I see how small you are. Why don’t you mind?”

“Well…” I pause, trying to settle on a coherent thought. “I usually only feel safe in my armor. When I have it on, I know how I look. I know how they see me.”

“And now?” Her optics glow a bright red as they stare directly into mine.

“I still feel like that. I feel… safe,” I admit. “Like I don’t have to put anything on.”

“I’m glad.” She smiles at me, not a coy smile like earlier, or a smug grin, but an honest, kind smile. We sit in silence, her caring expression the focal point of my vision.

“What about you?” I finally ask, a little embarrassed to interrupt the moment.

“What about me?” she responds, removing one of her hands from my visage. I grab it, interlocking my digits with hers as she looks away. 

“I know I haven’t known you for very long, but…” I hesitate, attempting to arrange my words into a sentence. “You don’t seem like someone who is this… comforting.”

“Ouch. You’re so cruel.” She fake recoils, pretending to be upset.

“Seriously, though. Why… why are you being so kind? What do you have to gain from… any of this?”

“Enney…” She shakes her head and kisses me on the chest. “I… I get around a lot. It helps me to, I don’t know, quiet my cortex.”

She pauses to look down at herself in shame before continuing. “It’s so loud. The voices, they’re so loud. I can barely keep them quiet even when my syntaxes are pumping me with euphorium.” She pauses again. The silence feels empty, like it’s screaming at me.

“But…?” I finally ask.

“I’m sick of it. It’s all bad. It’s all… fake. I haven’t felt truly good during coitus since, Solus, I can’t even remember. But with you, I…”

“Yes?”

“I feel real. The voices are quiet. I can hear myself think again?”

“What are you thinking?” I ask.

She finally looks back up at me, her optics wide and sincere.

“I feel happy.”

Chapter Text

Dream Fighter

“Why? I ask you why?

Why do you continue to sit by and allow yourselves to be treated as though you are inferior?” 

- Megatron of Tarn

My optics flicker open and I find myself lying on a purple slab. The walls (I presume) are a gunmetal shade of grey, lined with indigo details and decals. My surroundings are blurry, but I can faintly make out a metallic red silhouette in front of me next to a small green shape resembling a Terran.

“Hey,” Hot Rod murmurs, assumedly careful not to overwhelm my audio receptors. I can faintly make out him sitting in front of me, arms and legs both crossed. His face remains obscured behind the fog of my vision, but I can nevertheless tell he is concerned.

“Good… What is it? Evening?” I respond as I attempt to sit up. The sharp pain that erupts from my spine, however, prevents me from doing so.

“Hey, what the hell are you doing?” Hot Rod bolts out from his seat to directly above me, lightly placing his palms on my chest and pushing me down. As he does, his face comes into focus, and I notice his optics are stained a dull livid.

“I would like to, augh, stand up.” I again request my body to move, but it refuses.

“Are you insane?” Hot Rod screams in a hushed voice. “Drift, you will literally crumble if you move any more. Just wait until we can get you to Knock Out, okay?”

“What about… the creature?” I ask.

“She’s right here.” He points to his left. “You can’t see her?

“Oh… that is what that is. Apologies, but I am unable to discern anything aside from colour and general shape right now.”

“You can’t see?”

“I can, just…” I reach my hand out in front of my face. “Anything further than this is veiled in a chalky smoke.”

“Jesus, Drift.” I make out Hot Rod putting his hand on his face. “I’m sorry.”

“I, augh, I am the one who got injured. The blame rests on my shoulders.” The sensation in my hand fades as it slumps back at my side.

“That isn’t helpful and you know it. Stop blaming yourself.” He extends his hand forward and clutches my numb digits.

“Hot Rod…” The words are meek as they exit my mouth.

“Yes?” He sounds eager to aid me.

“Be my eyes. What does it look like?”

“What does what look like?”

“The, augh, creature.” I gesture my head in its direction.

“Well, first off, it’s a she, I think.” He almost sounds defensive. “But she’s cute, for an organic. I thought you two met.”

“My optics were already damaged when Airachnid brought her over,” I reveal, eliciting a sigh of understanding.

“Well, she’s green. Not a neon lime or an ugly vomit green though, closer to the leaf of an oak tree.”

“A what?”

“Never mind.” He shakes his head. “Just imagine a healthy plant. Long black hair; you know hair, right?”

“I know what hair is, yes,” I chuckle. What an absurd question.

“Well, hers is long in big thick chunks. I think they call them braids?”

“Her hair is tied to itself?” I ask. “Does that not hurt?”

Hot Rod turns to ‘her’ and repeats my question. I make out it shaking its head.

“She says no,” he repeats.

“I gathered. She can understand us?”

“Seems like it, yeah. She can’t speak or write, though.”

I pause, trying to comprehend the notion. “Then, how have you two been communicating?”

“Mostly through head movements and drawings,” he answers, taking out his datapad and holding it above my face. “She isn’t very talented, but it’s the thought that counts, right?”

I hear her scoff at Hot Rod’s comment, prompting a nonchalant shrug from him in response. 

The datapad depicts two scenes: one of a black figure with extra appendages and a red figure with a spoiler reaching out their hands, and the other shows a white figure sitting down with a cracked black chest. While they are rather crude, I find them somewhat endearing. 

“I like them,” I say, trying to direct my words at her.

“I do too,” Hot Rod responds softly. We sit in silence together, my hand in his, until a question pops into my mind.

“What is her name?” I inquire.

“What?” Hot Rod seems caught off guard.

“The creature. What is her name?”

“Name? Ah, well…” He rubs the back of his head. “I… may or may not have forgotten to ask that.”

“Would you please rectify that?”

He turns towards her and poses the question to her. She snatches something from his hands, presumably his datapad, and furiously scribbles with her finger. After 36.5 seconds, she lifts the pad and flips it towards Hot Rod.

“Hmph.”

“What is it?” I inquire. “What did she draw?”

“It’s a picture of her in a web, I think,” Hot Rod replies, standing up to show me her drawing. As he lowers it over my face, I see a black background outlining a white net, no, a web. There is a small green figure entangled in the webs, but it, sorry, she is smiling.

“Weird, right? What do you think that means?” Hot Rod sits back down.

“Perhaps she is saying she is the web?” I reason.

“Well?” he asks, turning once again towards her . She shakes her head.

“Spider?” She shakes her head again.

“Wire.” She shakes no.

“Thread?” Same answer.

“Silk?” I finally interject. She claps her hands and squeals.

“Your name is Silk, huh.” Hot Rod scoffs. “Weird name, but okay. How do you feel about Silkie?”

She jumps out of her seat and wraps herself around Hot Rod’s waist. Looking at them next to each other, she is probably about the size of his leg. He seems surprised at this, but reluctantly embraces her anyway. I can almost feel the servos in his cheeks flaring up bright red right about now.

“Hot Rod…” I weakly call out.

“Yes?” He walks over to me and sits by my side. Silkie climbs up the side and sits with him, leaning against me.

“Thank you for-” I squeak out as my optics fade to black and the world floats away. 

Chapter Text

No Remorse

“Do not cast away those who side with the oppressors; 

they themselves are often victims of propaganda.” 

- Megatron of Tarn

“Yeah, I’d say it’s going pretty well,” Chromia tells me, her head slightly tilted and her optics facing up. Her wheels are spinning fast enough to cut out through the hologram. “We’re on our way back to a nearby space bridge terminal.”

“I’ll touch down at Expressia Station, then,” I reply. “It’s not too far out of the way.”

“Thanks, Windy.” She smiles heartily, lighting my spark on fire. It’s a good thing these holocalls are all blue, or she’d see my cheek servos burning bright red. “I’m working on a full report, but we were only able to save one of the people from the distress call.”

“Sweet Solus, that’s terrible,” I sympathize. “What happened to them?”

“They came with us, haha!” Chromia bellows and puts her hands on her chest. “Cute little thing, for an organic. They’re with Hot Rod and Drift right now.”

“Hot Rod? With a kid?” I gasp. “What is this world coming to?”

“Dunno, but they’re getting along strangely well. I did hear him yell ‘ THANK YOU FOR WHAT??? ’ just before you called, but that’s just Hot Rod.”

“Yeah, just Hot Rod,” I affirm.

“Oh, before I forget,” Chromia starts, “Can you prep the medbay for Drift? He took a hard hit before we left.”

“Don’t worry, it’s already in use. I’ll let Knock Out know for you,” I answer. “Wait, why was that not the first thing you said?”

She scoffs. “Drift? Hurt? I’m not worried. That kid’s a fighter.”

I shrug. She’s got a point. “Anything else?”

“Oh, I have a surprise for you. You’re going to love it.”

I put my head in my hands. “Chromia, you know I hate surprises.”

“No you don’t,” she taunts, almost singing her words. “Bye, Windy!”

“Chromia!” I exclaim, but she hangs up before I can finish her name. I let out a dramatic sigh and wipe my face before standing up from my desk. Chromia. Always Chromia. Okay, where was I?

Right, medbay. I need to check on Knock Out and his patients in the medbay. I hit the button for my door with my waist and transform as I exit my room, the wings on my back extending and pivoting to be more aerodynamic. I jet down the hall, taking tight corners and flying faster than I’d normally go. 

As I approach, I see Tarn standing outside the medbay. At risk of crashing, I barrel towards him, diving as I transform. I release my arm from my chest as my thrusters rotate down into my feet, folding my wings in to be more compact. I slide under Tarn, just barely fitting through his legs, which causes him to recoil a bit. I fire my thrusters to counteract my forward momentum, metaphorically grinding to a halt mere inches from Knock Out’s face. He manages to stay perfectly still at this, staring directly into my optics. Any landing you can walk away from, right?

“Sorry, Knock Out,” I apologize, taking a few steps back. “Didn’t mean to get so, uh, close, you know?”

His annoyed expression and dead optics stay locked onto me as he brushes imaginary dust off his shoulder. “Well, boss, I take it this is something urgent?”

“Just Windblade, please,” I correct. “Not particularly, to be honest, though I do need you to prep another slab for Drift. Chromia says he’s injured.”

He looks away to hide his rolled optics. “And exactly why did this require your presence? You know I don’t like to be interrupted.”

“It did!” I protest. “Well, maybe that part didn’t, but I wanted to check on our patients. Besides, Tarn is right there!”

“And he stays quiet,” Knock Out replies, as if the question was beyond idiotic. “But fine, let me show you.”

Knock Out leads me to a back room where one incapacitated Deathsaurus lies. His demonic aura and expression are absent, instead replaced by peace. It’s almost creepy how unscary he looks. All four of his optics lie shut, not through force, but tranquility. His wings, spikey and sharp, are curled up and covering his sides, almost like a blanket. He looks like a protoform, innocent to the horrors that have befallen our species.

“So, did you learn anything?” I ask, examining the patient’s chest. I point to the insignia between his red armour plates.. “Looks like you did something here?”

“Yes I did,” he smugly replies. “After performing a scan, I noticed something affixed to his t-cog.”

“What was it?”

“It seemed like a remote lock, because I couldn’t turn his cog at all before it was removed. It was broadcasting an ubertransmission code reading MHK C-201 throughout the galaxy, strong enough that it could always be received and modulated by the right keyholder.” He must notice the raw confusion on my face, because he shakes his head and rolls his optics. “Okay, imagine you’re broadcasting a signal across the galaxy. You wouldn’t want it to be intercepted by anyone, right?”

I nod.

“Right, so MHK C-201 is a frequency specifically tuned to Deathsaurus’s spark,” he continues. “You’d need the encryption key coded in his spark to read it, and you would need a really special decryption terminal, uh, device, to receive it.”

“A lock and a key,”

“Kinda,” he halfheartedly affirms. “This frequency gave the sender control over a physical lock on his t-cog.”

“He couldn’t transform?” I ask.

“Not without permission, no.” He’s trying to hide it, but I can sense that he’s starting to pity Deathsaurus. “That same frequency was broadcasting to this too, actually.”

He reaches over to a nearby table and picks up a small, rectangular, green device branded with the same logo on his chest and raised silver lines.

“I’m pretty sure this is an identity modifier,” he explains, hitting a button on his computer nearby to pull up some medical readings. I’m no expert, but it looks like a Cybertronian cortex. He points to an object on the computer, seemingly attached to the core. This highlighted object has the same rectangular shape and lines, but those lines extend off the object and extend as wires into the cortex.

“See that?” he asks. I nod. “That’s this chip before I took it out. It was literally attaching itself to his cortex, particularly his androcampus and his frontal cervons.”

“Those are memory and personality regions, right?”

He flares his optics, seemingly caught off guard by my knowledge. “Someone paid attention in Cyberpsychology, huh? That’s exactly right. MHK C-201 was ‘talking,’ for lack of a better word, to this chip.”

“What does that do?” I ask, noticing a small indent on Deathsaurus’s forehead. Must be where Knock Out got in.

“To be honest, I’m not entirely sure. If I was to hazard a guess, I would say that it intensified whatever feelings the sender wanted. I imagine the wires would target different parts of his cortex to modify them in real time.”

I grimace instinctively. “That’s-that’s horrifying!” I exclaim.

“Yes, it is. I’ve already begun preparations to perform the same procedure to Gigatron. Now that I’ve done it before, I should be able to optimize the process and make it applicable in the field.”

“What can I do?”

“Honestly? Stay with him here. His cortex activity has been increasing towards normal conscious levels. I suspect he’s going to wake up soon.”

I nod, and Knock Out takes the opportunity to leave for his other patient. I sit down next to Deathsaurus, occasionally glancing up at the monitor behind his head to monitor his cortex activity.

“He doesn’t deserve to wake up,” a deep voice rumbles from behind me.

“Solus, Tarn, don’t sneak up on me like that!” I shout, jumping out of my seat. “I forgot you were even here.”

He ignores my comments and continues. “We should kill him now.”

“What? Didn’t you hear Knock Out? He was being mind controlled!” I counter.

“Knock Out said his feelings were amplified,” Tarn snarls. “If he didn’t want to fight for Galvatron, he wouldn’t have anything to amplify.”

“That’s-he couldn’t even transform!”

“So? He was probably too violent for Galvatron and needed a leash.”

“We can’t know that until he wakes up!” I refute. “How could you kill him before knowing if this is who he really is?”

“Easily.” The slits for optics Tarn sees through glow a deep crimson, his rage leaking out through the cracks.

“This is not up for discussion,” I declare, pointing directly at him. “We will wait until he wakes up before we pass judgment. I will not have you executing a patient in a medbay!”

Tarn steps back, astonished. The fire in his optics simmers down to a faint rust, and he slumps down against the wall. I shuffle past the slab and slide down next to him.

“Why?” I ask, looking into his optics. “Why does he have to die now?”

“He…” Tarn looks down, tapping his digit on the floor. “Galvatron, he hurt my… the Prime. He hurt Megatronus Prime.”

“Yeah, I know. It was a tragic day.”

“No, it was not,” he refutes, shaking his head. “It was a weak day. Cybertron has been a galactic superpower for millennia, but we fell in one hour.”

“It was a carefully crafted plan, Tarn. No one could have predicted or repelled that.”

“Cybertron could have,” he counters. “The Decepticons could have.”

“Decepticons? The Decepticons are just a political party, Tarn,” I tell him. “Nothing more than an ideology.”

“And that’s the problem. We were once the pinnacle of strength, but we are weak. Megatron abandoned us, and we crumbled like a decrepit castle. The empire of the Decepticons fell when Megatron went soft,”

“Megatronus isn’t soft, Tarn. He learned from a mistake and changed.”

“Typical Autobot. You’d rather talk than act,” Tarn scoffs, pushing his fist off the ground and standing up.

“Tarn, wait!” I call out, but he ignores me. He storms out of the room, transforming as he reaches the hallway. His legs wrap around and clutch his cannons as his treads fold around to create a brutal tank, and he drives away before I even have a chance to squeak out another word. I know he’s wrong, he has to be, but his words weigh heavily on my mind.

“Typical Autobot.”

Chapter Text

Blood Dance

“No Cybertronian is ontologically evil. Malice is learned, not predestined.” 

- Megatron of Tarn

Typical Autobot cowardice. Typical Autobot virtuism. ‘Freedom is the right of all sentient beings’ and other such weaknesses. Freedom is for those that take it, not peace-loving losers who cry when a shot rings out. He used to understand that, before he was brainwashed by Optimus Prime.

After reaching my room and transforming back to robot mode, I yank the door down instead of letting it close automatically. The motors fight against me, wailing with a metallic screech as the pistons grind against its iron skeleton. With one final shriek, I’m able to overpower the door, and it comes crashing down with a sharp eeee-thunk .

I remove my mask and stare into its hollow slits before hanging it on my wall, above my twin fusion cannons. I’m alone. I can be myself. I rub my face and stretch out, shaking a weight off my shoulders, before sitting down on my recharge slab, the treads on my back pressed against my wall. 

I reach over to my nightstand and open it, clicking a switch in the back to open the false bottom. My digits run along the new floor of the drawer until they strike a sharp, riveted object. I take it out and spin it on the tip of my finger, its golden sheen glistening in the light.  I reach in again and search further back, finding a smooth, angular object. I walk my digits onto the screen and slide it out, resting my private datapad in the palm of my hand. I unlock it and scroll back to the first entry, the reason I bought it in the first place. I find rereading the entry to be… calming. When my cortex overloads, I take myself back to that day.

Cybercycle 36454.

Dusk falls on Cybertron as Vortex and I hop from bar to bar. The Grease Pit, Blurr’s, Maccadam’s, Mirage’s Visage, we hit all of the big ones, but none of them feel right.

“Primus, this is hopeless,” Vortex pouts. “We’re never going to settle on a place!”

“Vortex, we’ve only gone to three bars so far,” I respond, rolling my optics. “You can’t expect us to find the perfect place immediately.”

“First, yes I can, and second, I’M SO THIRSTY!”

“You’ve already had three drinks!”

“And I can’t feel a thing!” Vortex dramatically shakes his arms and wipes his face. “I want to get well and truly slagged tonight.”

Cybertronians nowadays are generally put into two categories: born before the war ended and after. While Vortex was during the war, he was forged on Earth, only a cybercycle and a half before it ended. I, meanwhile, came into being not long after it ended. As a result, he’s only actually a few cycles older than me, but he’d tell you that our age difference is a lifetime of maturity and wisdom. If I was the older one, I would be inclined to agree.

“Well…” I tap my digit on my forehead, pretending to be deep in thought. “There’s a ‘Con joint on Mastema street. We could try there?”

“Ooh, Skydive’s Warp? Blast Off tells me the drinks are great!”

“Skywarp’s Dive, amica,” I correct. “So close.”

“Shut the frag up.” Vortex lightly punches me on the shoulder before transforming and dropping a chain ladder. I grab onto it with one hand and signal Vortex with a thumbs-up, and the two of us soar towards the south side of Iacon. He flies so recklessly that any rational bot would assume his processor is misaligned.

Guess that makes me irrational, then.

“Hang on, baby Prime!” Vortex shouts through a megaphone.

“Quiet, you!” I shout back, firing a weak blast at his cockpit. He veers to his right to dodge my shot, shaking me so aggressively that I’m nearly thrown on.

“Hah! Got ya-AHHHH!” A staggered second blast interrupts Vortex as he’s hit near his tail rotor.

“You were saying?” I taunt, climbing the ladder to pat him near  his doors. “Don’t worry, Rotors, you’ll definitely dodge the next one!”

“Grr, you!” Vortex winds his ladder back in and transforms into an arm, dropping and catching me between his giant mechanical digits. 

“Oh, that’s how you want to play this?” I sneer, pushing out from his clenching fist with my legs. I transform my shoulders into treads and grind them against his palm, spinning them so fast that they start to eat away at his paint.

“Augh, stop it!” he yells, releasing his grip on me and sending me plummeting to the streets below.

“Vortex!” my voice echoes as my face approaches the steel streets below. Vortex transforms into robot mode and dives towards me, firing the thrusters in his feet in a feeble attempt to catch up to me. I turn towards him and smirk.

“Wh-why are you smiling?” he asks, panic seeping out through his visor.

“You didn’t really think I wouldn’t be ready to be dropped, did you?”

“Wh-what?”

I shift my treads up my back and release them, straightening them out before locking them into rotors. I split my double fusion cannon and attach one barrel to each wing before combining my legs to create a tail and folding my feet into stabilizers. My transformation finishes as my head tucks back into my chest while it unfolds a cockpit just big enough for a casseticon. Finally a complete helicopter, I start my rotor and begin to break my fall. The ground inches closer and closer as my fall transitions to a swoop, and I catch myself mere meters from the pavement.

“When did you learn to do that!?” Vortex asks, hovering alongside me.

“From you, stupid. C’mon, we’re pretty close.”

Vortex and I fly above the street, feeling a breeze as landlocked bots race below us. “Looks like the Dragstrip and Breakdown are having another engine-measuring competition, huh Vortex?”

“Those two never learn, do they?” he responds, clicking his oral servo at them in disappointment.

“Nitrous junkies.” I scoff. “Hey, we’re here.”

Vortex and I transform as we approach the dive, with him ogling my transformation as my rotors reel back into treads. I just shrug. As we reach the door, Vortex jumps in front of me to dramatically hold the door open.

“After you, my dear,” he jeers, brandishing a mocking smile. I roll my optics at him and lightly push him out of the way. He fakes being hurt by my shove before releasing the door and following me to the bar.

Skywarp’s Dive is a relatively tame place, wearing its dim lighting and calm atmosphere like a badge of honor. Despite being constantly crowded, every conversation is kept at a reasonable level. Nobody dares to step out of line with a legend like Skywarp behind the counter. I spy a few familiar faces sprinkled in the sea of cons spread across the tables: the Triggercons, Lyzack, and… Smokescreen?

“Rare to see an Autobot here,” I whisper to Vortex.

“Well, it’s not illegal, right?” he whispers back. 

“Hey, welcome back,” greets Skywarp, tossing me a light wave. “Oh, Vortex! Haven’t seen you here before.”

“I’ve been meaning to pop by, actually,” Vortex responds as he follows me in sitting down. “Blast Off talks about this place all the time.”

“Haha, does he?” the former seeker laughs. “You just missed him, actually. He was here about an hour ago.”

“Oh nooo,” Vortex mocks, his sneer emerging as he places his faceplate on the bartop. “What a tragedy!”

“What, you don’t like him?” I ask, tilting my head at him. “You’re arm brothers!”

“Exactly! He’s my brother. I need to spend time away from him, y’know?”

You have no idea.

“So, how does a gallon of Engex each sound?” Skywarp proposes, placing two large glasses on the table.

“Just one, for him. I think I want a… in all the times I’ve come here, I’ve never asked: how’s your Brandtini?”

“Ah, well,” Skywarp finishes his pour of Vortex’s Engex and pulls out an angular glass. He spins it between his digits, the sparkles in his optics dancing on the glass. “We do it a little different. Call it a Decepti-Brandtini.”

“What makes it different?” Vortex asks as he reaches for his drink. Skywarp swats his hand away.

“Well, for starters, I draw the outline of a proper Deceptibrand in a liquified herb from a Titan called Meelant at the bottom of the glass. It’s a subtle sweet flavor.” Skywarp swipes Vortex’s gallon away, drizzles flakes on it, and sticks a small, skewered sphere on the edge of the glass. He passes it back to Vortex. “See? It wasn’t done yet.”

“Huh…” Vortex nods, staring down at the gallon of Engex. “Fanciest one of these I’ve ever had.”

“Anyway, like I was saying, after the Meelant, I pour two different strains in on opposite sides. It dissolves the Meelant and makes the whole thing swirl purple.”

“That’s pretty intricate, Skywarp,” I chuckle.

“Isn’t it? Finish with a garnish of a Rodi fruit and you’re done! Wanna try one?”

“I mean, slag, if that didn’t convince me, nothing would have. Get me one.”

“Ooh ooh, I want one too!” Vortex squeals, already having finished his drink. Wait, he already finished his drink?

“Vortex. how in Primus’s name did you already finish that!?” I gawk at him. “He just gave it to you!”

“Heh, guess I was, hic, thirsty.” Vortex wipes his mouth off, flinging drops of Engex towards me.

“Eww, gross!” I squeal. Vortex shrugs at me dramatically. 

Vortex and I drink the night away. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he drinks and I babysit, but the results are the same. If I was to hazard a guess, I’d say he more than tripled my Engex intake. We talk for hours, discussing his recent team frustrations, his dysfunctional friend Dead End, his conjunx that things just got serious with, and his strangely passionate opinions on planets without atmospheres. Helicopters can’t get any lift so we can’t just hover!

“Well, I’m going to go leak some lubricant,” Vortex announces, pumping his fist into the air. He stands up and stumbles before collapsing into my arms.

“Oookay bud, I think it’s time for you to hit the slab.” I pat him on the back and slip his faceplate into one of his forearm compartments. “I’m going to call her, okay?”

“Nau—naur! I cen, hic , get home m’self,” Vortex protests, trying to push off of me. He gets about halfway off before his pistons give out and he tumbles back to my chest. I just shake my head.

“Skywarp, can you watch him?” I ask, standing up and setting the drunk down on my stool. “I’m going to make a call and have a Cy-garette.”

“Yeah, absolutely.” Skywarp flashes me a “thumbs up.” I turn towards the door and wave at him over my shoulder. 

I'm met with the frigid air of a Cybertronian night as I push open the door with my foot. I open my forearm and pull out a pack of Boltley. I flick open the lid with my first digit and pull one out, lighting it with a flame from my second. I give it a puff before reaching for my pad and dialing “smoking smokeshow” (Vortex’s drunk handiwork).

“Hey, it’s me. Yeah, he’s blackout again. Skywarp’s Dive, yeah. Thanks. Love you.”

I burn through three deathsticks before she shows up.

“Hey, thanks for coming,” I say, embracing her. “He’s just through here.”

“After you,” she offers, gesturing at the door. I hold it open for her as she ducks through, her palatinate shoulderpads barely clearing the entrance. For a bot her size, she’s surprisingly graceful, stepping near silently towards a Vortex slumped over the bar. She gently taps him on the shoulder with a titanic digit.

“Vortex…” she gingerly whispers. “It’s time to wake up for me.”

“Mmm, enney?” Vortex mumbles. “Five more minutes.”

She rolls her optics before grabbing a turbine on his back with her golden gloves and lifting him into the air. He squirms in a brief panic at his newfound flight before craning his head to see his conjunx, and his alarm morphs into alleviation. 

“Oh, hey babe, when did you get here?” he asks through slurred words.

“Just now,” she responds, hoisting him over her shoulder. “Let’s go home.”

“Mmm, okay!” he jubilantly replies before immediately falling back asleep.

“Thank you so much, Strika,” I tell her. “I really appreciate it.”

“Hey, no need. We go way back, plus we share this scrapheap, don’t we?” Strika laughs and places a palm on my shoulder.

“Hah, guess you do. Let me walk you out.”

“Thanks for coming!” Skywarp calls out, flashing two digits at us. Strika and I wave back before the door shuts behind us.

“Hey, need me to hold him while you transform?” I ask.

“Nah, no need. Watch this.” She holds him up with her hands as her shoulders cover her head and her arms fold back, now cradling him behind her cab. Her wheels swing out as she bends down, and with one final click , Vortex is sitting in the bed of her muscular truck.

“Wow, that was impressive,” I confess, nodding my head.

“Wasn’t it?” she excitedly replies. “I learned it from an old friend. Anyway, need a ride? There’s space back there.”

“No thanks, I’ll find my own way back. Not very convenient for you anyway.”

“Ah, okay. We still on for our double date night in a few cycles?”

“Yeah, Carrera’s pretty excited. We wouldn’t have it any other way.” I give her a peck on the windshield.

“Cool. See you around!” Strika backs out and drives out before fading out of view and disappearing into the foggy Iacon night.

Go time.

I take my mask out and put it on, the purple slits focusing my vision. I jump up and transform to my helicopter form and fly a few kliks south. As long as she hasn’t decided to radically disrupt her daily schedule in the last cycle, she should have gotten home recently and just be starting to touch up her paint. As I approach closer, I drop onto the roof of a nearby building and transform back. Can’t have her hearing my rotors, can I? I dart across the roofs towards her, ducking into the shadows and following the natural curves of the buildings. I push myself forward further and faster with every stride, propelling myself off of signal boxes and ventilation systems.

When I’m just across from my target’s house, I crouch atop a statue of some winged monster and peer into her apartment, zooming in with my binoculars. There she is. She’s watching TV and snacking on some small, white spheres. I dash across the street and over to the window I unlocked last night, sliding it open with flat palms and arched digits. I pass through the window one leg at a time before closing it to prevent a draft. I haven’t heard her make any noises, so it seems like she hasn’t heard me. I hug the wall and sneak towards her, timing my footsteps to the sounds of the tv. I creep up behind her and slowly begin to lean over her, staying just out of her vision until my first words.

“Hello, Nightbird.” She tries to leap out of her seat, dropping her bowl of snacks, but I hold her down. “Going so soon? But I just got here!”

“Wh-who are you? Why are you here? What do you want with me?” she asks, her breaths heavy and her optics frantic.

“Shh shh, so many questions!” I whisper, chuckling. I hold her down with one hand as I hop over and sit down next to her, placing my digit on the center of her chest. “You can call me… Tarn. I’m here because of this.”

I tap her chest and begin to dig into it with my razor-sharp digits. “Isn’t there something missing here?”

“I-my insignia?” The fear in her voice is practically running down her.

“Oh, so you do remember it!” I laugh, patting her on the cheek.

“But-but the war is over! I don’t have to be a Decepticon anymore!” she pleads.

“True,” I concede. “You don’t have to be a Decepticon. But that’s not why I’m here, is it? I’m here because of what you did with it.”

“What I-” Her optics roll up as she tries to remember the crime she committed. “I-I destroyed it…”

“Correct!” I exclaim, now stroking her face. “Oh, you’ve very good. Yes, you destroyed your Decepticon insignia, and I just cannot allow acts like that to remain unpunished.”

“But I-”

“Quiet!” I shout, and her mouth snaps shut. I continue to claw at her chest, dragging down to create the sharp jaw of the Decepticon. Her metal whines as I work my way towards the optics of the brand, creating windows to her transformation cog.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” I ask, admiring my creation.

“Yes, very!” she whimpers, her optics white rings surrounded by shadow. “Please, I’ll join back. I’ll make another one, I’ll-”

“No, no, no,” I interrupt, putting my digits into the hollow optics of her restored allegiance. “I’m afraid that’s no longer an option.”

I crush the bridge connecting them and plunge my entire fist into her chest, constricting her cog between my digits. I twist it back and forth, causing her limbs to twitch through steps of transformation. The wheels of her legs flip up and down, and her arms compress in and out. 

I rip her cog from her chest and show it to her as she slumps back. Her optics, significantly faded now, weakly look up at me as she tries and fails to lift her arms. I set her cog down beside me and grip onto her lifeless chassis to stand up.

I shake my head and sigh before lifting her up by the shoulders, a trail of energon pooling as her feet drag along the floor. I take her over to one of her windows and grab the back of her head before slamming it against the glass. She sputters and coughs up a glob of energon, dirtying the glass with pink streaks. 

“Isn’t it a shame that only I get to see this part of you?” I whisper into her receptor.

I pull her back from the window and set her down, her knees buckling and leaving her slumped over. 

“Do re sol fa mi, do re la sol fa,” I begin to sing as I reach into her new torso cavity. “This is my favorite song, you know. The Empyrean Suite. I’m singing the seventh movement for you.” 

I run my digits around inside her chest, feeling for wires that won’t immediately kill her if damaged. I sever a handful from her left shoulder joint and pull them out.

“Re re re, do re re re.”

I tie the wires in my hand along her hand and let them fall as I move back to her chest. I remove the same wires from her other side and tie them to her other hand before once more searching her chest.

“Do sol mi, re do re mi fa. Ah, right. No cog anymore, so you won’t be needing these ,” I realise, yanking a large clump of electrical veins out. One by one, I secure these to her shoulders, saving a few for the later.

“Please,” she gasps. “Kill me.”

“I already have, enney.” I lift her by the neck and use my free hand to secure her wires to the rafters in her ceiling. Once her hands and shoulders are secured, I release her, energon dripping from her chest. 

“Oh, how could I forget!” I exclaim, grasping her head and tilting it back. I stick my digits in her mouth and tie my remaining wires into her vocal processor. When I release, her head sinks back, her optics (however much they still function) staring straight up.

“You could have been so greater,?” I tell her as I step out of the puddle below her. “So, so great. You were my hero, you know? I heard stories about the great Nightbird, the fearless fembot who could dance with even the great Optimus Prime.

“But you gave it all up, and for what? Peace? A new way?” I chuckle and wave my finger at her. “There is no other way. And there will be none like you among our ranks once we reach the apex of the world. I will ensure that.”

She attempts to squeak out a response, but her words are so faint that I can’t make them out. I watch as the light reflecting off the ceiling fades, flickering darker and softer until it glows just a dull indigo. As I look into her lingering light, I feel tears well up in mine, and I remove my mask before pressing a palm to her chest. My head falls as I stare down at my pink footprints. I drag myself back to where I left her cog and pick it up, dragging my digits through its grooves.

“Why…” I ask as I turn back to her, but the choir is empty. I look up at her once more, my vision clouded, and hold her cog up to her empty torso. I stifle a sob before falling backwards, laying on my treads with my face in my hands. “That felt so wrong…”

“Why do I want more?”

Chapter Text

Lithium

“The strongest one can be is vulnerable.” 

- Megatron of Tarn

My chassis grows tighter as we step through the bridge from Outer Zerta to Expressia. The trip is strangely quiet, the silence only broken by our steps and whispers from Thunderclash and Airachnid. They walk with their digits interlocked and their optics locked, their gazes piercing into each others’ sparks. 

I’m jealous.

The green child has its– her arms around Hot Rod’s head, with her hands grabbing his crest. He doesn’t seem to mind though, because he’s holding the feet she has draped down his shoulders. They’re standing behind Astrotrain and Arcee, with the former carrying Drift like a Terran bride. Hot Rod tried to carry him for the entire walk from the landing pad to the bridge, but he eventually relented after almost collapsing four times.

As my optics break through the cobalt portal, I lock onto a slender fembot with a sleek red and black frame, angular wings, a gold facial trim, and baby blue optics: Windblade.

“Hi, Mia,” she greets, tenderly smiling at me. The turbines on her wings are spinning, likely matched by the speed of theprobably a similar speed to the wheels on my shoulders.

“Hi, Windy,” I respond, stepping down from the bridge and towards her. “We miss anything fun?”

“A little, but I’m sure you have quite the story to tell me.” Windblade giggles and covers her mouth. Her expression drops as she turns to her left and gestures towards a thin, maroon bot. “Knock Out, go help Astrotrain with Drift.” 

Knock Out nods and pushes a floating stretcher towards Astrotrain, and she gingerly places Drift onto it. She turns to Hot Rod and hands him Drift’s sword and shortsword. He nods and sheathes them all on his hips before following her and Knock Out to the medbay.

“So…” Windblade starts, turning back to me. She gestures Airachnid and Thunderclash over and looks him up and down. “Going to introduce me to your friend?”

“Ah, yeah, this is Thunderclash,” I tell her, waving towards him. “He saved us from a monster on Zerta. Says he wants to come with us.”

“A pleasure to be of service, captain.” Thunderclash drops to one knee and extends his hand, looking up towards her. She glances over at me with a raised optic, and I shrug in response. She nods and takes his hand, and he pulls towards it and kisses the back. “I am yours to command.”

“Uh, thanks, Thunderclash.” Windblade steps back as he releases her hand and looks away, putting her hands behind her head. “We’re happy to have you. You, uh, don’t need to be so formal, though.”

“We all call her boss,” I whisper to him.

“Ah, understood,” Thunderclash responds, nodding. “Well, boss, I look forward to our time together.”

“Windblade is fine!” she exclaims, flailing her hands. “We’re all equals here.”

“Whatever you say, boss,” he answers, walking away with Airachnid. Windblade rubs her face with her hands.

“Why do they insist on calling me that?”

“They respect you, Windy. That’s a good thing.” I pat her on the shoulder and smile. “It’s hard to lead when nobody looks up to you.”

“Yeah, I guess. Hey Arcee!”

“Hey, boss!” Arcee’s face lights up as Windblade sighs and looks away.

“How’d it go?” she asks.

“We did the best we could. I wish we did more, but…”

“I understand,” Windblade finishes, putting a hand on her shoulder and pulling her into a hug. “You did great.”

“Thanks, boss. I’m going to go see Lip and decompress a bit before we have our debrief.” Arcee nods and salutes us before transforming and driving towards the barracks.

“So Windy…” I turn towards her.

“Yes?” she asks. Her optics glint like a diamond.

“Can I make you lunch?”

****

“So then what happened?” I ask, flipping a pancake up into the air.

“Tarn was super weird. He tried to kill Deathsaurus before I told him to cut it out. Then he slumped against the wall and ranted about the Decepticons.”

“Need me to take care of him?” I offer, moving batter around with a spatula.

“No, it’s okay. He’s entitled to his beliefs as long as he doesn’t threaten anyone.”

“But he did threaten someone, Windy.”

“He didn’t do anything.” She takes a sip of her Leaky Mary. “God, this is delicious.”

“I know what you like, Windy. Heavy on the tomatoes.”

“Hah, you do.” She takes another sip. “You know, for all of the trouble humans caused, learning how to infuse energon with their cooking principles was truly a gift from Solus herself.”

“Oh for sure. This is the evolution we needed.” I plate the first couple of pancakes and place it in front of her. “But anyway, Tarn?”

“I don’t know, Mia.” She pulls the plate towards her and grabs a bottle of syrup. “He’s just a kid.”

“So?” I ask, pouring more batter in the pan.

“So, he needs a gentle touch,” she says between bites. “He’s clearly hurting.”

“Hurting?” I flip two more pancakes in the air.

“Like he was seeking more than justice. It felt personal.”

“You think they’re related or something?” I ask, sliding my pancakes onto a plate.

“Feels like it, but I don’t know of any Prime kids besides the one.” Windblade wipes her mouth with a napkin. “That was divine.”

“Thanks,” I smile. I take a bite of my pancake. “You think he’s like a secret kid? Bastard child? Adopted?”

“I doubt they’re the type to keep secrets,” she chuckles, bringing her plate to the sink. “And if they adopted, they definitely wouldn’t hide it.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” I move onto my second pancake. “Wish I knew what the slag was going on with him.”

“Yeah, me too.” Windblade sets her plate down to dry and turns towards me. “Hey, when you finish with that, I want to show you something.”

“Oh?” I scarf down the rest of my pancake and rush to drop the dish in the sink.

“Aren’t you going to wash that?” she giggles.

“Later, Windy. Let’s go!” I bump my door open and transform. She runs after me and transforms while kicking off the ground. I drop back and follow her deep into the basement barracks.

“Windy, nobody stays down here. Where are you taking me?” I call out.

“Nobody used to. Trust me, Mia!” she calls back. Windblade flies for a bit longer before transforming at the end of the corridor and leaning against the wall. I follow suit and try to broaden my shoulders.

“So, what’s in here?” I ask, pointing to the door her chest is angled towards. She smiles as she types a code into a keypad before the door slides open. The giant winged Cybertronian from when we fought Galvatron on Zi XVII is sitting up on a recharge slab, turning the pages of a leather-bound book with black claws-for-digits.

“Woah, woah, Windy! Why do you have one of those, those-”

“He liked to call us Destrons , I believe,” the monster finishes. Death-something?

“Quiet, you!” I snap, pointing at him. He closes his book and sets it down. “Windblade, why is he here, and why is he reading a book!?”

“I’m practicing my fine motor skills and visual processing,” he responds poshly.

“He’s practicing his fine motor skills and visual processing, yeah,” she confirms.

“That wasn’t the important part!” I practically scream. “Windblade, he attacked us! Galvatron almost killed a Prime! And he was there! He attacked Iacon too! He-”

Windblade turns to me, setting her hands on my cheeks and closing her optics. She rests her elbows on my chest and counts down from five.

“Better?” she asks.

“Better,” I nod.

“While you were gone, I had Knock Out poke around in his and the other one’s brains,” she begins to explain before pulling something small and green from an arm compartment. “We found this chip in both of their cortexes.”

“What, like a control chip?” I ask.

“No, more like… pushed,” she responds. “Like pulling down some parts of his personality and amplifying others. We think it’s like a permanent state of unease and anger.”

“Solus…” I respond, looking away. “I’m sorry for yelling at you.”

“That’s not even the worst part,” he replies, his optics now glued to the blank back of the book sitting on his slab. “Primus… It wasn’t enough to steal my mind. It wasn’t enough to destroy my body and rebuild it to his desires.”

He puts his head in his hands and sniffles. I sit down on his left and gesture for Windblade to sit on his right.

“And then?” I ask.

“He lingers in my mind!” he wails, oil leaking from his optics. “I see his face in the shadows. I hear his voice in the silence. I feel my thoughts ensnared by his wires.”

“I’m so sorry,” I tell him, putting my hand on his. “I wish I didn’t understand how you felt, but I do.”

“How could you?” he doubts. “How could you possibly know what it’s like to be tormented every second of your existence?”

“Because I am,” I admit. “It’s not the exact same, I’ll admit, but do you mind if I tell you a story?”

The shaking of his wings slows down, and he raises his head to nod at me. The demonic posture he wore when we first met is gone, and his spine softens into a slouch.

“A long time ago, I was dating someone. Doesn’t matter who, but we dated for thousands of cycles. I thought she was the one. I still remember it like it just happened.”

He looks at me dead in the optics and clutches my hand.

“I remember slamming the door in her face. Hah, this was so long ago that automatic doors weren’t standard in residential areas. God, I’m old.” Windblade chuckles with me.

“The last words I ever said to her were, ‘I wish we never met.’ I can still see the light leaving her optics, her usually vibrant aquamarine fading into an empty c-cel-cela-”

“Celadon,” Windblade finishes.

“Yeah, celadon,” I confirm. “But ever since that day, she’s always been in my mind. It used to be so bad that if I ever saw yellow headlights, calf wheels, slag, the color turquoise, it all made me think of her.”

“Did it ever stop?” he pants.

“Yes and no. I don’t have these thoughts anymore, at least, not very often, but they never truly go away. I used to see her as I was laying on my slab, close to powering down. Her face would stare at me from the ceiling, and I would hear myself say those same words over and over.

“What would you do?”

“I’d call Windblade.” She smiles and looks away. “I found people that made me feel safe. Whenever I start to spiral, Windblade is there for me, and whenever she does, I’m there too. It’s terrifying to be alone.”

“So you’re saying I need friends?” he asks, chuckling.

“Something like that,” I say as my mouth curls up. “I haven’t dated anyone since Moonracer. I’m afraid to take any steps forward in case it happens again. In case my life explodes again.”

Windblade reaches behind his back and places her hand on my shoulder. I set my free palm atop it. He sits in silence, clutching and staring at my hand, before releasing it and looking up at me. His optics are still leaky, but he’s smiling.

“Thank you, uh,” he pauses, trying to remember a name I haven’t told him.

“Chromia,” I nod. “My name is Chromia. What’s yours?”

“I think…” He looks up and bites one of his claws before looking back at me. “I think I was called Metalhawk.”

Chapter Text

Under the Bridge

“To live for spite is to live for death.” 

- Megatron of Tarn

“At that very moment, Dorothy knew she was in love. A mad love, not bound by material or flesh, but born of passion and vigor. Even the faintest thought of Jasmine with anyone besides herself was enraging, enough to burn a fire in even the coldest of hearts. And Jasmine’s heart, well, had finally been lit ablaze. Jasmine looked at her as if-”

“Hey, Jellybean!” Astrotrain interrupts, crashing into my room and leaning against my bookcase. “You hungry?”

“A bit, I guess,” I sheepishly answer.

“Cool, cool! I’ll get my letting blade.” She smiles gently at me and tilts her head. Her optics shine a brilliant magenta, and the vents on the base of her helmet are flicking open and closed. She pushes off my shelf and salutes me before dashing across the hall and into her room. I hear the sound of items crashing into each other accented by the occasional yelp of pain or discovery. As the collisions finally cease and the hallway’s symphony draws to a close, Astrotrain darts back into my abode with a light pitter-patter and waves a dagger in front of me.

“Found it!” She gasps, displaying her achievement how a protoform shows their creator a drawing.

“Brilliant, Astrotrain,” I sarcastically congratulate. “One question, though: how did you already manage to bury it so deeply despite using it just yesterday?”

“Don’t yuck my yum, Jellybean,” she playfully chides. “Besides, it wasn’t buried that far down!”

“Would a thorough investigation of your quarters unearth the same fruits?” I counter.

Astrotrain nervously chuckles and scratches the back of her head. “Haha, anyway, um… Take it!”

Astrotrain shoves the dagger into my hand blade first, though she avoids the inevitable impaling of my wrist. Shame, really. She takes a step back and flashes her palms at me, her optics soft and round.

“You need to kneel, remember?” I remind her.

“Oh, right!” She knocks on the side of her head. “Silly Astee!”

Astrotrain drops to one knee, reaching for the edge of my slab to balance herself as she lowers the other. She tilts her head to the floor, and I grab an empty glass from my nightstand. I wrap my digits around the dagger’s base and bring it to her neck, holding my glass right below it.

“Ready?” I ask.

“Ready,” she confirms. The glow from her optics reflecting off the floor disappears, and I take a “deep breath” (Terran calming maneuver. For us Cybertronians, it’s akin to a CO2 release) to steady my hand. I press the blade into her metal and slowly drag down, energon dripping from the wound to my glass. She winces as the blade passes through the plates covering her voicebox, gripping my slab harder to steady herself. When I finish making my incision, I slowly pull the tip of the blade out, careful not to nick a circuit.

“The glass is about half empty,” I tell her. “I need you to stay still for a little longer.”

She weakly raises a hand and attempts to raise her thumb. I push her hand back down and hold it as the glass fills. As it nears the brim, I release her hand and take a patch from my nightstand, bringing it near the cut. I place the glass down and secure the patch with both hands, pressing down the edges to prevent leakage.

“You’re done,” I smile, picking up the glass and examining it. “Probably the best you’ve ever done, As-”

“C’monnnn, say it,” she pouts, pushing off the slab and standing up.

“No.”

“I just bled for you, Jellybean,” she begs, making her optics baby blue. “Please..?”

I shake my head dramatically and sigh, setting the glass down on my nightstand and looking directly at her. “You did very well, A-Astee.”

“Yay, thank you!” she exclaims, embracing me in a tight “hug” (Terran word). I allow her to for a moment, sitting still in her hold before pushing her off. She fake-aggressively crosses her arms and pouts at me before turning towards the door.

“C’mon, let’s go,” Astrotrain beckons. “I’m going to pass out if I don’t eat something.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m coming.” I pour my drink in an opaque lidded cup and follow her down the hall. She narrowly avoids bumping her head on the doorway as we enter the cafeteria. There are a handful of others partaking in a shared mealtime, those hungerers being Grimlock, Kickback, Long Haul, and Blaster.

“Hey, you two!” Blaster shouts, waving us over with his celeste digits. “Here for the grub? Come kick it with us!”

“Primus, must he always speak so… barbarically?” I mutter.

“Oh, be nice.” Astrotrain elbows my chassis. She slides down next to Kickback and pulls me with her. “So, what are y’all talking about?”

“I was just telling them about my short-lived career commenting over the Pyro-Rats,” Blaster explains, holding up a signed ball.

“And just why did you believe that was necessary to bring with you?” I ask, setting my drink, well, meal down. It’s a reasonable question, no?

“It means a lot to me!” Blaster responds. “Besides, it’s not that big!”

“It not that small either!” Grimlock laughs.

“Yeah, Blaster!” Long Haul chimes in. “It’s, like, bigger than you’re head!”

“Your*, my love,” Kickback corrects him.

“Oh, right.” Long Haul reaches for my drink. “Can I try this!?”

“No!” Astrotrain and I simultaneously yelp, both reaching for the cup.

“What? What wrong with drink?” Grimlock asks.

“It’s-”

“Medicine,” Astrotrain finishes. “Flaxatives. Trust me, you don’t want to drink those. I’ve made that mistake before.”

Really? Flaxatives? My visor narrows at her, but she just shrugs with an anxious smile. Long Haul slowly retracts his hand, with Kickback grabbing and squeezing it.

“You already had yours today.”

“Yeah, you’re right. And those don’t even look like they taste as good as mine!”

I’m surrounded by glitches.

“I’ll be right back,” Astrotrain tells me. “I’m going to grab a bite.”

The microsec that she stands up and turns her back to us, Blaster slips next to me and puts his hand on my shoulder. “So, how long you two been a thing?”

“What?”

“You and the steamer!” Blaster scoffs, lightly punching my shoulder. “I’m not stupid, Blitzwing.”

“W-what could you possibly be-”

“She just came out of your room grinning, and she even knows about your, um,” Blaster pauses, trying to use delicate words. “I’ll call them medical issues.”

“We’re just amicas, Blaster,” I educate him. “Nothing more.”

“I don’t know, Blitzie,” Blaster pushes back. “Seems like you want to be the tanker to her cab, you feel me?”

“I…  I haven’t an idea what you mean. Astrotrain and I-”

“What about me?” Astrotrain interjects, setting her head on my shoulder as she sits down. “What were you two talking about?”

“Oh, nothing. Just guy stuff.” Blaster winks at me and scoots back to Grimlock.

“Ough, that’s delicious,” Astrotrain remarks, shoveling down an amount of food even Grimlock would struggle to finish.

“Wow, you eat a lot!” Long Haul Asserts.

“Don’t I? I get really hungry after Blitzwing fe-, after Blitzwing and I hang out. He always makes me need to get my energy back up!” Blaster smirks at me. Arrogant news-jockey.

After finishing her excessive meal, Astrotrain stands up and looks at me, a digit tapping on her mouth. She looks at me in silence, waiting for me to notice.

“Yes? What is it?” I begrudgingly inquire.

“Well, since you asked, I was thinking we should go check on Drift.”

“What? Why?”

“Because he’s hurt!” she cries. “You weren’t there. He was hit hard.”

“So?” I scoff. “We were never friends. Hell, he almost took your head off, and that was before he switched sides!”

“Jelly, that was thousands of cybercycles ago.” Astrotrain sets her hands on my wingtips and begins to massage them. “You have to let it go. He’s just a Cybertronian who’s hurt. Nothing more.”

“Doesn’t mean we are required to pay him any visits. Our sympathies suffice.”

“Look,” Astrotrain huffs. “You don’t have to come with me, but I’m going.”

Astrotrain turns around and storms away, not even offering a glance back.

“Damn, you know nothing about fembots!” Blaster chortles. I mime a growl at him before jogging after Astrotrain and towards the medbay.

****

To call this proto-morgue simply ‘gloomy’ would be a gross understatement. Though the lights burn bright, the stench of rusting energon and rotting machinery cannot be mistaken: death walks through here, high heels clicking and cloak dragging. It’s almost silent, the only noise coming from the rhythmic beeping of the machines its patients are strung to. Its sole inhabitants are the doctor, gold trimming his maroon coat, the patient, optics black and wires exposed, and the mourning, yellow spoiler now sallow.

“So what do I do?”

“You wait, Hot Rod. I’m sorry, but what he needs now is rest.”

“Can I take him to his room?”

“Not yet. He needs to be hooked up for a couple more cycles, and then I can discharge him.”

“You’ll call me when you do?”

“Of course.”

“Okay. And if you don’t-”

“Save it. I will.” Knock Out rests his hand on Hot Rod’s. “He’ll make it.”

Hot Rod doesn’t respond, instead electing to brush him off and make for the door. He dodges Astrotrain and I’s concerned optics (well, hers are concerned. Mine are narrowed) as he squeezes past us. Astrotrain just looks back at him and sighs.

“Oh hello, you two,” greets the knocking doctor, his voice sultry as ever. “Sorry, didn’t see you come in.“

“We didn’t want to interrupt,” Astrotrain responds, walking towards him and handing him a Nurex bar. “Have you eaten?”

“I have not, actually,” Knock Out smiles, gently taking the snack from her hand. “Thank you. I hadn’t even noticed.”

I suppose there is no better way to summarize Astrotrain, is there? She notices. She is acutely aware of when to press and when to restrain herself, when to help and when to give space. She practically tends to me, my sole supply of sustenance when I hunger. I am no ordinary Cybertronian; I cannot simply ingest energon when I ache. The energon I require must be processed through the filters of the body, the natural refining of Cybertronian veins. Symbolically, I suppose the spark’s beat gives life to the fuel I need. Astrotrain has never hesitated to donate, to let for me. She has even offered to join the ranks of vampirism to alleviate my solidarity, my curse of loneliness, but I refused. I refuse to allow the one bot in my life who cares for me to be burdened by this horrid hex. Why was I chosen to be a bearer of bloodlust? I’ll never know. My only clue, the only piece I have always known, is that she wasn’t chosen. She will not be nailed to the cross I carry, not be tied to my fate. She’s far too important for that.

 “Something tells me you aren’t confident he’ll make a full recovery.” Astrotrain’s somber words snap me back to reality, focusing my vision on the Autobot.

“What?” I reflexively let out, not even conscious of the word until it leaves my audio processor.

“It’s not that I don’t think he will…” Knock Out trails off.

“It’s that you aren’t sure,” she finishes, reaching for his hand. “And that scares you.”

Knock Out pauses and looks down at his hands, his usual cocky expression instead remorseful and pensive. All he can squeak out is a meek “Yeah.”

“You mind if I sit?” Astrotrain asks. “I want to pray for him.”

“Sure, go ahead.” Knock Out nods. “I have some stuff to do for another patient.”

“Of course. The Thirteen are with you.” Astrotrain gestures an X and three lines with her digits towards him.

“Heh, thanks,” Knock Out chuckles before nodding at me. “Blitzwing.”

I make the same boarish gesture at him as he exits towards the back.

“That was pretty good,” Astrotrain comments. “You didn’t say anything snarky!”

“I said but one word.”

“That word is usually derogatory. This time, it was genuine. Progress!”

Oh, Astrotrain. She is not one to commonly show her religious side, but it is usually revealed in our most dire situations. She wasn’t always, mind you; her transition to a Spiritual was during the war, but I have never seen her happier than since that cycle. The once scowling bot’s dead optics and ruthless brutality changed, evolved, into something beautiful. Like the metamorphosis of a cyberfly, she shed her old ways and changed. It’s not something many bots can lay claim to. Our species is inherently cynical, jaded, and violent, but not Astrotrain. To her, life is precious, which I suppose is one explanation for her Spirituality. She wants to believe that death is not the end, that the Afterspark provides the damaged and the damned with everlasting comfort, and that other species receive the same blessing. I, unfortunately, am unable to reciprocate this belief. I will not deny the beauty in eternal life through death, but life is not beautiful. Life is painful, dangerous, and empty. All roads lead to a hollow nothingness, and that is the tragic yet comedic meaning of life.

It means nothing.

“Ip no nausiem der nus rhit de incoma, vas jun de lux,” Astrotrain chants in old Cybertronian. “O gesh no malorma dectrina a unventi i hastis lino. O vox ius lifnis sovantia. Vas jun de lux. Fina.”

Chapter Text

You Know You're Right

“Love is hard, Optimus. Love hurts, love takes, but love gives. 

I think, assuming you feel the same, that we would be fools not to try.” 

- Megatronus Prime of Tarn

i am a miserable pile of scrap. a horrible excuse for sentience. i am the iron that lines the streets. i hate myself and i want to die.

Sorry, I needed to get that off my chest. Whenever I get in my head, I feel this need to scream into the void and not be heard. I have this blade I keep at my workstation, a small Precisio for trimming off small pieces of plastic and metal. It’s capped, yeah? Blade so sharp that it could easy take some shavings off if it even grazed me. When I’m stressed, I play with it. I flick the cap with my thumb or press down hard. A few nights ago, I was so stressed that I took the cap off and didn’t even notice.

And then I cut myself.

It wasn’t, like, deep or anything, y’know? But it was a cut.

I was so stressed that I cut myself on accident . Crazy to think, right?

I guess that’s the word I’d use to describe my existence right now: stressed. I’m stressed about my amica, I’m stressed about my lack of a conjunx, my coworkers hate me, my friends don’t want me around, like how much is enough? When does life ease up? Even as I write this, I have my blade just sitting at my desk, and all I can think of is stabbing myself with it. It wouldn’t go very far in or anything, the blade is tiny, but still.

It’s the thought that counts, right?

My head hurts.

I don’t have much time to focus on my budding headache, however, because of the teal set of arms I now find draping over my shoulders.

“Hey Bernie,” Lyzack’s sultry voice echoes in my audio processor.

“Hey you,” I respond in a meek imitation of her charm. “You just finish?”

“Yeah, I did.” She runs her digits along her metal quills. “You almost done?”

“Eh, I can finish this later.” Another late night of working. “Ready to go?”

“Always.” Lyzack takes her arms off of me and spins my chair around, grabbing both of my hands in one fluid motion. “C’mon, let’s go.”

“So…” Lyzack starts as we walk down away from our cubicles.

“Yeah?” I ask.

“Me and Smokescreen are starting to get serious.”

“Oh shit! Congrats!” I give her a squeeze on the shoulders.

“He’s been staying over a lot recently.” Lyzack tugs at her quills and looks away.

“Yeah, I've had a feeling,” I admit, trying to hide my confusing disappointment. “Your paint has been a bit scuffed.”

“Am I that obvious!?” she screams under her breath.

“Only to me.”

“Yeah, well, I just,” Lyzack pauses. “I think about him all the time. It’s getting harder to focus on the kids because he keeps dancing into my mind.”

“I’m really happy for you!” And… other things.

“Yeah, it’s nice. Last night, we stayed up late just talking about insert name here.”

“Oh, the meta piece? It looks great.”

“It is! You’d love it. I’ve been meaning to tell you to watch it but, you know…”

“Smokescreen,” I finish. 

Lyzack’s servos warm her face. “Yeah…”

“You just sighed like a protoform.” I turn to Lyzack and poke her chest.

“Maybeeee. I don’t know, I’m just,”

“You love him,” I finish again.

Lyzack pauses and looks down. “I think I do.”

“It makes me happy to see you so happy.”

“Thanks Bernie.” I can hear Lyzack’s fans running.

“Always, Ly.”

“So, what about you?” Lyzack asks. “Any hot dates?”

“A couple, but nothing hot or serious.”

“Whatever happened to Hawk?” Her tone is caring, as though I’m the center of her world for but a brief moment.

“Dunno. He’s been ghosting me a while now,” I shrug.

“Need me to go break his pistons?” Lyzack punches her fists together and throws a few punches at the air.

“Nah, don’t bother,” I sigh. “Guess it wasn’t meant to be.”

“I was really rooting for you too!” Lyzack pouts. “It just felt so right, you know?”

“Yeah, I thought so too.”

Chapter Text

Atom Bomb

"Do you remember the day we met, Optimus? It feels just like today. 

The joy I feel when I look down at our creation… it’s unmatched..”

- Megatronus Prime of Tarn

“All rise!” The command ushers a wave of shuffling across the makeshift courtroom as each bot moves to stand.

“The trial of The Intrepid Night vs. Deathsaurus is now in session.” His icy voice echoes against the walls, freezing the air in an abrasive silence. The silence is so loud, you’d swear you could hear the ticking of your gears.

“The prosecution stands ready to rend, Your Honor.” His words are sharp, digging into my coat like claws through skin.

“The defense is, uh, ready as well,” I squeak out. Rend? Really?

“Very well,” the judge nods, his sole optic glowing cyan. “Prosecution, you may begin with your opening statement.”

“Your Honor, the defendant today is well and truly a murderer,” he starts, emerging from behind his desk. “We have multiple sources that indisputably prove and document his violent nature, and that is not the kind of bot that should be allowed on this ship. This is a mission to save Cybertron, and allowing an enemy to join our ranks because he claims he is reformed is as unjust as it is foolish.”

He briefly pauses before slamming a fist on his desk. “In this trial, I will show exactly the menace he is, and how he is not only unfit for our crew, but unfit for freedom or life at all.”

The judge tilts his head and narrows his optic. “Then, if I am to understand, you wish to see the defendant executed?”

“I do, yes,” the prosecutor affirms, the slits in his mask ablaze. “Although I understand that is not the purpose of this trial. Call me optimistic, I suppose.”

“Does the defense have a response?”

“We do, Your Honor.” I step out from behind my desk and turn to the jury. “While we cannot deny the acts he has committed, there is a truth behind them that must be brought to light.   In this trial, the defendant’s true nature will indeed be revealed, and this court will have no choice but to absolve him of his crimes. Thank you.”

“That was great, Windy!” Chromia’s smile comforts me as I slip back to my seat.

Wish it felt great. Tarn’s unbridled rage is nauseating, as if I’m a mite at the base of a mountain. It almost feels like he enjoys my unease, gains vigor off his toxic dominance.

He probably does, actually. Almost definitely. Like a despair vampire.

“Thank you, counselor. Prosecution, please call your first witness.”

“With pleasure.” I can almost hear the smug smirk lurking beneath his mask. “The prosecution calls one Detective Minerva to the stand!”

****

“You may now begin your cross-examination, counsel for the defense.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.”  Chromia flashes me two quick thumbs-ups as I shuffle out from behind the desk and approach the witness bench. All I can muster in return is a weak smile.

“So, Detective,” I start, pacing back and forth in front of her. “How long did it take you to arrive on the scene?”

“Just an hour,” she coolly responds, as if every syllable is intentional. “I live on the far south side of Iacon, so entering the heart can take a bit.”

“I’d imagine the traffic that day only exacerbated the problem,” I nod.

“Objection, Your Honor, relevance.” Tarn sneers.

“I’m just painting a picture of the day in question, Your Honor,” I retort. “The streets were flooded for hours after the evacuation.”

“Overruled.” Pretty sure I just heard a faint set of scoffs from behind their bench.

“Absolutely,” Minerva confirms. “I found myself taking almost exclusively side streets as I neared the scene.”

“Speaking of that scene, is it possible it was tampered with before you got there?” I already know the answer, but I’ve been shooting blanks this whole time.

“No, it’s not possible.” She shakes her head and taps the bench. “As soon as the evacuation finished, a perimeter was quickly established by first responders.”

“Is it not possible that an evacuee disturbed part of the scene as they fled?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Tarn calls out. “The defense is seriously trying to pose the idea that citizens fleeing from a terrorist attack would be prioritizing evidence destruction over their own safeties.”

“Sustained,” the judge nods. “Counselor, unless you have evidence to back this line of questioning, I suggest you pursue a new avenue.”

“Understood.” It was worth a try. “Detective, you claim that the defendant attacked three bots before his joint duel with the Prime, is that correct?”

“That’s correct.”

“How exactly was that determined?”

“Each victim was found to have markings on their chest consistent with that of a mace.” It almost seems like she’s enjoying this. “Combined with the report from the previous Prime and a couple of other testimonies, we determined that the defendant was indeed wielding a mace.”

“I see.” Slag. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

“Thank you for your time, Detective.”

A smirk crawls up her face. “Of course, My dear Senator Shockwave.”

“Why, you-” Minerva disconnects her holocall before he can get another word out. “That headache of a detective. Prosecution, your next witness.”

“The prosecution calls Arcee to the stand.” 

Arcee stands up from within the jury and shuffles towards the witness bench, getting a flirty slap from her conjunx on the way. Suddenly, the pen on my desk ignites and begins to write on my notepad. Hi Windblade . Who even uses paper anymore? You are so old . I just shrug at her.

“Witness, name and occupation for the court,” Tarn commands, as if he has never spoken to her in his life.

“Arcee of Kaon. I was a Wrecker, but now I’m just a humble librarian.”

“You were a Wrecker?” Tarn feigns confusion. “What was that like?”

“Objection, relevance,” I interject.

“The witness’s combat experience is relevant to my next line of questioning.” Tarn rebuts, wagging a claw at me.

“Overruled. Please continue, witness.” Shockwave’s sole optic radiates an acidic yellow.

“Violent, for one.” Arcee crosses her arms and pouts. “That’s why I left, actually.”

“You needed a break from the constant fighting?” Tarn asks.

“Something like that, yeah.”

“How did they react to that?”

“They took it well, I think. They threw me a nice sendoff.” Arcee covers her mouth and snickers. “They did get a lot weaker without me though, something Impactor never fails to remind me of.”

“Weaker?” Tarn quizzically repeats, looking away. “How so?”

“The Wreckers are for two types of people: outliers and those with a death wish,” she explains. “I was the former, and probably their strongest at that.”

“And what is that power exactly?”

“I’m magnekinetic, so I can control all types of metals.” Arcee points a digit at Tarn’s desk and raises a chair in the air. Hot Rod, who’s seated next to Tarn, looks like he’s seen a ghost. “The heavier it is, the more effort it takes, but I’ve basically got no limit.”

“Thank you, witness. Now then…” Tarn turns back to her and curls his claws. “How would you say your situational awareness is during a fight?”

“I’m always keeping track of every moving piece.” She seems proud of herself. From the crowd, Slipstream seems pleased as well, smiling at her conjunx’s words as her optics occasionally flare with pride.

“Then you’d be able to recount all of the details of your fight with Deathsaurus on Zi XVII, right?”

“Objection, calls for speculation,” I interrupt. You didn’t have to elbow me so hard, Mia.

“Your Honor,” Tarn practically cackles, “The witness was one of the most powerful Wreckers, a team known to be of a high calibur. If anyone’s combat memories can be trusted, it would be hers.”

“Overruled, defense.” Is he glaring at me? “Please answer the question, witness.”

“I would, yes. I could tell you beat for beat every movement.” 

Tarn sits on the edge of his desk and leans back a bit, taking out a datapad like a magician reaches into their hat. Too much Tenn and Peller, Mia. “Well, would you mind recounting your incursion for us?”

“Well…” Arcee tilts her head and puts a digit to her cheek. “The six of us first broke into teams of two, as we each had a partner we felt most comfortable with.”

“And those teams would be yourself and Slipstream, Hot Rod and Drift, and Kickback and Long Haul, right?”

“Yes, that’s correct,” Arcee nods. “Anyway, I was the first to move, pinning the chain of his mace to the ground for Drift to break.”

“And by ‘his’, you mean the defendant, right?”

“Yes, I do.” Arcee doesn’t seem bothered by the incessant clarifications. “Once that happened, I threw him in the air and held him for Slipstream to cut into him and Long Haul to Fastball Special TM Kickback.”

“Sorry, fastball special? What exactly is that?” Tarn seems genuinely confused for the first time this trial.

“A Fastball Special TM is where a big bot tosses a small bot at something as if they’re, well, a basketrek ball.”

“I see,” he nods. “Please continue.”

“That led to Kickback slashing into him, so I slammed him back into the ground. Drift launched himself into the air and came crashing down on Deathsaurus to impale him in the chest, but Deathsaurus used the last of his strength to sucker punch Drift as he landed. He seemed pretty shaken by that hit.”

Sucker punched? What? That wasn’t in his report.

“I noticed that you didn’t mention one bot during that story, witness.” Tarn cradles his jaw in his claws. “What was Hot Rod doing at the time?”

“Just providing suppressing fire.”

“Just that?” He seems to enjoy the faces Hot Rod is making.

“Just that,” Arcee confirms.

“Now, I do find it odd…” Tarn starts, approaching the bench again, “...that it required six bots just to fell this one opponent. Would you say that you, shall we say, truly needed all hands on deck for that?”

“I would, yes. From my initial scans and his size, he was definitely capable of handling a few of us on his own. Honestly, if there had been less of us, we could’ve been wiped out.”

“Thank you, witness.” Tarn saunters back to his desk and waves his hand. “No further questions.”

“Your witness, defense.” At least his optic is glowing a less toxic shade of yellow?”

“Your story was pretty good, witness.” I push myself up from my desk and walk towards her. “There was just one point that stuck out to me, one detail that didn’t line up.”

Now I’m just showing off.

“What is it, Windblade?” Arcee seems genuinely confused.

“Well, I have here Drift’s report of his findings and experience on Zi XVII…” I pull out a datapad and project it to the monitors around the courtroom. “And, as you can see, there is no mention of Drift being wounded in any way!”

“What!?” Arcee almost recoils in her chair, seeming genuinely shocked. A murmur begins to echo amongst the jury, but it’s quickly silenced by a fierce glare from the judge. He turns to me and narrows his optic.

“Well, counselor? Any explanation?”

“No, Your Honor. We have no reason to doubt Drift’s report, as it has consistently been meticulous and informative. My only conclusion is that the witness is lying, whether intentionally or not.”

“I-I’m not!” Arcee pleads. “I swear, I saw him get hit straight in the gut! I’m pretty sure I even saw it cave in a bit!”

“Then how do you explain this blatant contradiction?” I press harder. “I’m sorry, witness, but this just doesn’t add up.”

“I-But I… I swear that-”

“That’s enough, Windblade.” A silence befalls the courtroom and buries it in a coat of dread as Tarn’s demonic voice fills every corner and crevice. He stands up from his desk and shakes his head before lifting it and unveiling the fires bleeding through his mask. His optics are scorched like the Inferno, a passionate and corrupting flame. If there is an abyss, it is trapped behind his mask, aching to escape and envelop our sparks in its grasp. I’ve only seen this look once before, a gaze so monstrous it invites doom upon all it falls upon:

Megatron, when he strangled Sentinel Prime with his bare hands during his inauguration.

“While this contradiction seems quite important, it is simply the work of a foolish bot with injured pride.” Tarn scoffs at the idea, as if he is not forged solely of pride and hatred. “I am able to clear up the root of this discrepancy with ease, if you would so allow me, Your Honor.”

“And how would that be, prosecutor?” The judge asks, seemingly the only one on the ship not filled with fear. I guess it’s easier to handle when you’re just a hologram.

“A witness, put simply.”

“Very well. If you have no further questions, defense, I shall dismiss the witness.”

“I-I…” I don’t have anything else. That was the only flaw I could find in her testimony. “The defense has no further questions, Your Honor.”

“You may be seated, witness.” Arcee shuffles up from the bench and rejoins the jury, looking at me with a hint of tears in her optics. All I can muster is mouthing a weak sorry .

“Your next witness, prosecutor.”

“The prosecution calls Knock Out to the stand.” I can just picture his smug face behind that mask.

Knock Out makes his way over from the jury and slides behind the bench, placing his crossed hands atop it and leaning back. Is he ever not like this?

“Witness, would you mind telling us a bit about yourself?” Tarn uses that fake nice voice again, as if he’s somehow on their side.

“I’m Knock Out, medic of the ship. I’m not explicitly a surgeon, but I have training in the area, so I can operate anywhere I need to.”

“You’re a pretty esteemed doctor then.”

“Yeah, I am,” Knock Out chuckles, admiring his digits. “There’s nobody better than me that they could’ve chosen.”

“Well, doctor…” Tarn strokes his chin, “I was wondering if you did check-ups with everyone after Zi XVII.”

“I did, yeah,” Knock Out confirms. “Windblade asked me to.”

“Is that right?” Tarn smugly tilts his head at me. “Would you mind telling us the details of Drift’s specifically?”

“I-”

“Objection, Your Honor, these are private medical records. The witness has no right to-”

“Uh uh uh, defense. If the judge deems it necessary, medical records are fair game. Your Honor,” Tarn turns to the judge, “These medical records are essential to clarifying the discrepancy with Arcee’s testimony.”

“...I’ll allow it,” Shockwave decides after a brief pause. “Doctor, please continue.”

“Well, he came in with a serious fracture to his abdomen, that’s true.” A whisper begins to dance through the jury. “He asked me for some pain medications and to splint his chest so he could let it heal naturally, and I did just that.”

He… what? Drift was injured when he left for Zerta Minor? Why didn’t he tell me? He clearly didn’t tell Hot Rod either, as he’s got his head firmly glued to his desk.

“So Drift was injured by Deathsaurus after their fight on Zi XVII,” Tarn confirms.

“Yes, he was, though you wouldn’t know it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, after I fixed his chest and gave him his meds…” Knock Out finally looks up from his digits. “He, I don’t know, acted like he was fine. Walked like normal, talked like normal, acted like he wasn’t even hurt.”

“But his medications would only have suppressed the pain, right?” Tarn clarifies.

“Right. Even with them, he should’ve been in immense pain, barely able to walk without flinching.”

“I suppose that was the sheer power of his will, wouldn’t you say? The prosecution has no further questions.” Tarn confidently walks back to his desk and sits back down, giving the still-slumped Hot Rod a condescending slap on the back.

“Your witness, defense.”

“If the court doesn’t mind, I’d like the witness to provide a different testimony.”

“I don’t see why not,” Shockwave agrees. “The floor is yours.”

“Doctor, do you remember what we discussed in the medbay while Chromia and her team were on Zerta Minor?”

“I do, yes. I assume you’d like me to tell the court about it?”

“If you would, yes.”

“Well…” Knock Out starts, “After we captured Deathsaurus and Gigatron, Windblade had me perform tests on them.”

“What kinds of tests, doctor?”

“I was asked to scan their bodies for anything that could give us any information on Galvatron as they recuperated.”

“And did you find anything?” This could finally be my chance to change the tide and get some sympathy.

“I did, yeah.”

“Would you mind telling us what this is?” I pull out a green chip and hand it to him, broadcasting an image of it to the monitors.

“This is an identity modifier. When it’s affixed to the cortex, a signal can be transmitted to it, and that signal can be used to amplify and suppress different emotions.”

“Was there anything else odd in his body?”

“Yes, there was. There was a lock around his t-cog.” I project a picture of the lock to the monitors. “It’s controlled by the same frequency.”

“So not only was the defendant having his feelings changed, he was unable to transform?” I clarify.

“That’s correct, yes.”

“What changes did you notice once those devices were removed?”

“Well, his cortex activity significantly calmed down, for starters.” Knock Out looks past me and lands on the defendant. “Once he woke up, he was quite amicable, as if his entire demeanor had changed.”

“Why do you suppose that is?”

“Objection, Your Honor, that’s the most blatant call for speculation I’ve ever seen in my time in the courtroom.” You can’t have prosecuted for that long, sparkling. I just learned you’re a prosecutor yesterday!

“Your Honor, was it not the prosecution’s own words that identified Knock Out as an ‘esteemed doctor’? If there is anyone qualified to make a judgment on this, it’s him.”

“Overruled, prosecution. Unless you feel it fit to retract that statement.” Tarn looks away and scratches his desk. Not so smug now, are you?

“I think that the identity modifier also suppressed the majority of the defendant’s memories,” Knock Out explains. “As mentioned earlier, he was quite different when he woke up, and he cited a lot of new memories that he couldn’t feel with the chip installed.”

“How did he describe the sensation of being under its influence?”

“Objection, hearsay.”

“Sustained, defense. Next question.” I didn’t even get a chance to defend myself!

“Let me rephrase, then.” Don’t let him rattle you, Windblade. “How would you describe having an identity modifier attached to your cortex?”

“I’d say it’s painful, physically and mentally.” Knock Out looks like he’s struggling to get the words out. “It clouds your vision, suppresses what makes you happy, and traps you in a perpetual cycle of agony.”

“And how would you describe the defendant’s existence with it?”

“Miserable. He seems like a nice bot that was being controlled by someone else.”

“Thank you, doctor. No further questions.” I stroll back to my seat and park in it, getting a giant grin from Chromia.

“Great job, Windy!” she congratulates in a hushed voice (as hushed as she can be, anyway). “You really flipped the case on its head!”

“Thanks, Mia.” I’m glad she stopped there, because I would’ve lost my composure at any more praise. “I’m just glad we finally put a pin in that prosecutor’s-”

Slag.

Tarn’s just sitting there with his claws interlocked, not seeming bothered at all. How? I had him! I debunked his entire argument!

“Well, prosecution? Would you like to take this opportunity to cross-examine the witness?”

“We would, Your Honor, though I think I’ll allow my assistant to take the reins on this.”

Hot Rod? Why?

“Very well. Prosecution, you may begin.” Shockwave’s optic glows a royal purple.

Hot Rod stumbles as he exits his chair and walks towards Knock Out, catching himself on his desk before he can hit the ground. He looks around frantically before hurriedly gathering his composure and brushing himself off, now smoothly ambling to the witness.

“Doctor, I wanted to clarify something you mentioned.” Hot Rod weakly points a finger at him. “You said the identity modifier only amplified and suppressed feelings, right? It couldn’t actually create anything or implant thoughts.”

“That’s correct, yes.” Oh slag, I hope he isn’t going where I think he’s going. Chromia seems similarly worried, her previous jubilance now a somber dread.

“That means it must have something to work with, right?”

“Yes, it does.”

“And if his actions were to be to the benefit of Galvatron, he’d have to have already had some sort of animosity that aligned with his, correct?”

“I can’t deny that hypothesis.”

“No further questions, Your Honor,” Hot Rod smugly declares, before pausing and dramatically touching his forehead, “But we do have another witness to call.”

“Very well. Witness, you are dismissed. Prosecution, your next witness.”

“The prosecution, heh,” Hot Rod covers his mouth and pauses. “The prosecution calls Burnout to the stand!”

****

“Alright Hawk, I’m going to need a rundown on who Burnout is.”

“We only have a little time before the holocall is set up, so you need to talk now .” Chromia plans her fist on the desk with a thud .

“Thanks, Mia, but I got this.” She can be so belligerent around me.

“We were, well…” Hawk begins to bite at his claws. “We had been seeing each other for a period of time.”

“And you didn’t think to mention her?” I press, waving my arms in the air without even thinking.

“It was not the first thought on my mind when I awoke, no. I was more concerned with, you know, what had happened to me.”

“Whatever. How long were you two dating, anyway?”

“About, uh 300 cycles?”

“300 cycles!” Chromia exclaims. “When did you break up?”

“Never, I suppose. But, if memory serves, my last cycle with her was over 200 cybercycles ago. After that… I guess you could say time became blurry.”

Hard not to feel bad for the guy when he drops bombs like that. “If my math lines up, that means you were dating around the end of the war. Were either of you affiliated?”

“We were both Autobots originally, but we left not far into the war. We were both offworld until the return beacon sounded.”

“How did you feel about coming back?” He’s hiding something.

“I was happy, I guess. I missed my home. We all did.”

“And that’s it?” I confirm.

“Yes, that’s it.”

“You wouldn’t, say, have been upset at the war, would you?”

“Everyone was upset at the war, no?” he scoffs.

“It sounds like you were more than just that, Hawk.”

“What do you mean?” Hawk bites down harder on his claws, and his optics begin to dart around the room. Time for a bluff.

“Hot Rod was right up there, you know. I talked about it with Knock Out, and he said that the base feelings being amplified need to already be strong enough to sway your emotions.” His optics almost seem ready to pop.

“So, what it sounds like to me is that you were pretty strongly anti-war, and you weren’t happy with how it ended. In fact-”

“No, stop!” he begs, his claws now digging into his arm.

“-it sounds like Burnout might be able to corroborate that.” Without even noticing it, I’m pointing at him, my digit centimeters from his face. “Well? You want to tell me the truth now?”

“It isn’t fair.” Hawk stares at the floor, his optics fixed to a tile marked by his footprint.

“What isn’t?” I know what.

“Both of you, Autobots and Decepticons, you’re both such hypocrites.” He’s snarling now. I’ve never seen him like this. “Did you know that Megatron is the largest murderer in recorded history? Megatron has killed more than anyone else, of any species, in any time, throughout the history of the known galaxy. Can you even begin to comprehend that? Can you begin to understand the lengths he has gone to?”

“I do, yeah,” I affirm. “I fought in that war.”

“And you accepted his apology! He said he was sorry, and you forgave him!”

“The Matrix chose him, Hawk,” Chromia chimes in.

“So what!? Your stupid ancient battery chose him and that was enough to allow him to rule the planet!”

“He’s just a senator, and one of the conditions was that he would be monitored by Optimus.”

“His conjunx? Primus, what a punishment! Do you hear yourselves? You Autobots all-”

“Sorry to interrupt, protos…” Tarn’s booming voice interrupts Hawk’s anger with the silence he demands. “But it’s time to resume the trial. The witness is ready.”

“Thank you, prosecutor,” I nod, upholding professional courtesy. “We’ll be right there.”

“Don’t keep me waiting.” Tarn scratches the doorway before turning back into the courtroom. I sigh and wipe my face off with my hands.

“Let’s go, Hawk,” I sternly (or my attempt at that, anyway) command, standing up and reaching out my hand. “Unless you’re asking to leave?”

Hawk pauses and stares again at the ground. Finally, three words emerge from his mouth:

“No, I’m not.”

“Then you better come with me, and trust my judgment.”

Hawk doesn’t say anything, instead just raising his head and grabbing my hand.

****

The third holocall of the trial flickers to life with a blue flame before forming the shape of a short black fembot with a boxy chest, door wings, and pointy horns.

“Witness,” Tarn growls, his optics black and his arms crossed. “State your name and occupation for the court record.”

“My name is Burnout.” Her voice is meeker than I’d expect for someone as dark and square as her. Seems like it’d be easy to misplace in a moderately loud room. “I’m a teacher at the Seeker Academy.”

“I thought the Seeker Academy was for, well, seekers,” Tarn chuckles.

“Well, they learn more than just to fly.” She’s averting every gaze but one, staring directly into the defendant chair but avoiding his gaze. “I’m a science teacher, specifically a physics one.”

“And what is your relation to the defendant?”

“I’ve never met him before.” She seems genuinely perplexed at the question.

“Is that right?” he confirms. “You’re claiming to have never met the defendant before?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I suppose that is to be expected.” Tarn chuckles to himself and turns towards the jury. “For you see, the defendant here has undergone a drastic change to his body as well. In truth, Deathsaurus was originally known as…”

The courtroom deafens to his words, hanging on each syllable as they pass through his serrated teeth. He has the court in the palm of his hand, begging for more and anticipating every word with baited breath.

“Metalhawk.”

The silence continues, Hawk was not a famous or even largely present individual, so it’s unsurprising that no one knows of him. No one, of course, except for the witness, whose face has now contorted into the picturesque summary of agony.

“Hawk?” She walks forward, her hologram clipping through the witness bench, and approaches him sitting beside us. Not a soul can dare to stop her, not even the frozen-spark with the gavel. In fact, he seems to be in disbelief, his optic glowing a baby blue. The prosecutor too is equally starstruck, his plan to surprise the court once again turned on his head. She stops in front of him, tears welling in her sockets, and reaches out her hand. He looks up for the first time all trial, and his optics fade from the crimson he showed us to a soft violet. He extends his claws towards hers, and as they draw near, he utters but one word:

“Bernie…”

She wipes her optics and gives him one teary smile before turning back and returning to the bench.

“Sorry, Your Honor, I was just…”

“It’s alright,” Shockwave stops her, waving his hand. “Just, please don’t allow it to happen again, alright?”

“Alright.” She wipes her optics again and clears her voicebox. “Prosecutor, I’d like to amend my testimony."

“A-and how would that be?” Slag, she really has him on the ropes.

“I do know him. Hawk and I dated for a few hundred cybercycles.”

 A brief mutter erupts within the jury before being quickly silenced once again by a glare from the judge.

“Please, continue.”

“We stopped dating around 200 cybercycles ago, though I suppose that implies that we broke up or something.”

“Did you not, witness?” Tarn’s entire aura of fear is gone. For the first time, he feels like an actual bot with a spark.

“No. One day he just… disappeared.”

“I-I see. In any case…” He’s practically stumbling over his words now. “I-in any case, I’d like to discuss your memories of the defendant during your relationship. Is that alright?”

“Certainly. What would you like to know?”

“I-I…” Tarn’s optics are hollow, just staring at his claws. “I think that my assistant would be better suited for this line of questioning.”

Hot Rod hurries up from his seat and exchanges a few heated whispers with Tarn. Tarn’s responses seem defeated, or, at the very least, pensive.

“Witness, I wanted to ask you some questions about the activities the defendant participated in after the war ended. Would you happen to recall those?”

“I do, yes. We did a lot of those together.”

“What would they be?” His demeanor is almost the opposite of Tarn’s, his edge replaced with a brash and sporty attitude.

“We primarily were involved with local ICPOs.”

“ICPOs?” As opposed to Tarn’s fake confusion, Hot Rod just sounds genuinely lost.

“Independent Cybertronian Political Organizations,” she explains.

“You were activists, then.”

“I wouldn’t use that word, no,” Burnout briefly purses her lips. “Hawk was pretty openly unhappy with the state of Cybertron, so I suggested that we change things ourselves.”

“Would you say you felt as strongly as he did on that matter?”

“I wouldn’t,” Burnout shakes her head. “Sure, I wasn’t a huge fan of how it happened, but I was happy to be home.”

“But you did go to those, uh, ICPOs with him, right?” Hot Rod seems to be counting on his digits.

“I did, yes. I thought it would be best to support him by going with him.”

“How did he seem at those meetings?” Please don’t say what I think you’re going to say, Burnout. Please.

“Angry, for one.” Slag. “Hawk was always a pretty calm person, but there was another side of him that only came out there.”

“When discussing politics and the state of Cybertron?” Hot Rod clarifies.

“Yes. It was like his spark was on fire, like all of the anger he lacked in the rest of his life was channeled there.”

“Did he ever talk with you about any plans?” Hot Rod asks. “Anything he specifically wanted to do?”

“No, he didn’t, but I do remember him telling me about some more radical friends he made before he disappeared.”

“Radical friends?” Hot Rod repeats.

“They didn’t seem bad or anything, just even more passionate than he already was.”

“And how soon was this before he left your life?”

“Maybe the last cybercycle we dated?”

“I see.” Hot Rod strokes his chin. “But he was this active for all of your time together on Cybertron, right?”

“Yes, he was.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.” Hot Rod waves his hand in the air and returns to his desk, his walk full of wide and slow steps.

“Your witness, defense.”

“Witness,” I start, leaving my bench, “I wanted to learn more about your relationship with the defendant too, actually. What was it like dating him?”

“Well, like I said, Hawk was always a pretty calm partner. He’s very intelligent, but not in a condescending way. Well, not usually, anyway.” That gets a chuckle from the jury.

“What would a typical cycle be like for the two of you?”

“Well, he would always greet me on my slab when I woke up, and he’d always have something prepared for me to eat. That was especially nice when we came back to Cybertron and discovered actual food.” The jury chuckles again.

“What would happen next?”

“When we were offworld, we both worked for a local library in a small town. We’d fly to work together and drop our neighbor’s kids off for school along the way.”

“That sounds nice. Peaceful.” What I’d give to have that with… focus, Windblade.

“It was, yeah. That’s how life was, for a long time.”

“Was it not the same on Cybertron?”

“It wasn’t chaotic, but city life is just different.” Burnout seems a tad melancholic.

“Sounds like you miss it, then.”

“I do,” she affirms. “But it was important that we came back.”

“Why’s that?”

“We wanted to do our part to create the Cybertron we lost when the war started.”

“And how did Hawk seem about that?”

“He was optimistic when we heard the beacon, and had a lot of hope.”

“Thank you, Ms. Burnout. No further questions.”

****

“I think I should testify,” Hawk admits to us.

“You want to do what? ” Chromia’s staring him dead in his optics.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Hawk,” I tell him. “To be blunt, you're opening yourself up to a multitude of dangerous questions.”

“Look at the prosecution!” he responds. “Tarn’s in shambles, and you can handle that kid. Besides, I…”

“You what, Hawk?” Chromia repeats.

“I want to tell them my story.” He seems reluctant of the idea, but nevertheless continues. “I think that’s the only way I can live with myself if I want to stay.”

“So, this is about you?” I ask.

“Yeah, it is.” His optics are wide and amber. “They all deserve to know the truth.”

We’re not going to talk him out of this. “Alright, but if the prosecution starts to doubt your credibility, I want you to say this…"

****

“Objection, Your Honor.” Hot Rod stands up and brazenly points at me. “The defendant poses a touching narrative, but how can we be sure it is the truth?”

Checkmate. “Your Honor, the defense is prepared to call a witness to corroborate the defendant’s story. We believe this will leave no room for doubt on the defendant’s true feelings.”

“But that’s-”

“The prosecution has no objections.” Hot Rod looks over at his partner, sneering at the interruption. He crosses his arms and slides back into his seat with a melodramatic huff.

“Very well, defense. You may call your witness,” Shockwave declares, tapping his finger on his chin.

“The witness calls Airachnid to the stand alongside the defendant!”

The jury narrows their optics and whispers in confusion, except for Thunderclash, who seems to have an idea of our plan. Airachnid slips between her fellow jurors, using her petite frame to weave under Grimlock. As she approaches the bench, she briefly glances over to Hot Rod, pity oozing from her optics, before looking away as to avoid his notice.

“Witness, would you mind telling the court your name and occupation?” I playfully ask, teasing a snicker out of Chromia.

“Airachnid. I’m a, um, a mnemosurgeon.” She seems hesitant to admit she has a prestigious occupation. The jury spurs to life at this information, passing murmurs and scattered glances between themselves.

“Would you mind explaining what exactly mnemosurgery is?”

“Mnemosurgery is a procedure that allows the surgeon to look into the memories of the patient.” She raises a hand and pops needles out from the tips of each of her digits. “It requires precise moments and an intricate understanding of the Cybertronian cortex.”

“And how long have you been practicing?”

“Since about cybercycle 21000, give or take.”

“You’re pretty accomplished, then,” I chuckle.

“So I hear,” Airachnid giggles to herself and retracts her needles.

“Now, if I understand correctly, there are two distinct forms of mnemosurgery, is that correct?”

“Yes, there are. If one enters a dormant mind, it’s called dormi-mnemosurgery, and it’s generally less invasive, and it allows greater control of the viewing by the surgeon.”

“And the other?”

“Acti-mnemosurgery. If the patient is awake, they’re able to show the surgeon specific memories, and it takes the surgeon more effort to control the viewing. It’s also much more painful, as the pain sensors are not naturally deactivated.”

“Is there any way for an outsider to view these memories? Someone besides the surgeon, that is.” Tarn’s not even looking. He’s got his optics staring down at the desk, and they’re glowing white. Did Burnout’s testimony really get to him that much?

“If the surgeon themselves connects to a special device called a mnemo broadcaster, then yes, they can.”

“That wouldn’t happen to be one of these, would it?” I raise a small black box in my hand and show it to the court.

“Yes, that’s exactly it.” Airachnid seems taken aback by my possession of it.

“Your Honor, the defense requests permission for the witness here to splice with the defendant and display his memories for the court.”

“You know the rules, defense. You need express consent from the defendant and a signed waiver stating that they accept the terms and risks of the procedure.”

“I have that form right here, Your Honor.” I take out my datapad and hand it to the judge. “As for his consent, well…”

All thirty-five optics snap to Hawk, impatiently awaiting his next utterance. The befallen silence feels different than before, the auditory absence created by an anticipated hope.

“I consent.”

A hushed gasp echoes through the court, cueing in Chromia and I that we can, in fact, finally release our held sighs of relief. Shockwave nods and ushers me to hand the broadcaster to Airachnid, which I gently place on her bench. She picks it up and walks over to a nearby monitor, removing a cord from her neck, plugging it into the box, and securing the box to the monitor. She steps towards the defendant and whispers something in his ear, to which he nods and shuts off his optics. She exhales deeply and deploys needles from both hands, slowly reaching forward before gingerly sliding them into his head. Her optics darken to a deep ruby as her hands oscillate rapidly, twitching in different, seemingly random, directions. Finally, her hands slow to a crawl before steadying, with one at a sharp angle and one lying flat.

“Ready,” she tells Hawk. “Show us.”

Energon begins to slowly drip from his optics as the monitor next to them flickers to life, at first displaying flashing images before settling on a face:

Burnout.

“Have fun with your friends, Hawk!” the past fembot says, planting a kiss as the screen temporarily fades to black. “I’ll see you tonight?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Hawk’s voice has the same cadence as it does now, but the pitch is much higher, and he sounds a lot less gravelly. “I might be home late, though.”

“That’s okay! I have a lot of grading to catch up on anyway. Someone keeps distracting me.” Burnout giggles into her hands, her fans whirring subtly under her words.

“Oh, that wouldn’t happen to be me, would it?” Hawk puts a hand to the top of the screen, his temple, before giggling as well. He slowly kisses her head crest and holds her head for a brief moment before releasing her and seeing her smile.

“Bye, my love.”

“Tonight, my love.” He places a palm on her hand before turning away and transforming, the view of the memory now shifting to his cockpit. Static fills the screen as the sky morphs into the dingy underbelly of Iacon, affectionately called The Hole by its inhabitants and District 256 by the senate. A hand on his shoulder causes him to whip around to the grey head of a bot with a yellow faceplate.

“Yo, Hawk!”

“Hey, Lightfoot,” Hawk greets, bumping the bottom of his fist against his friend’s. “So, where are we?”

“There’s somebody I want you to meet,” Lightfoot explains, his optics a bright electric blue. “Ranger and Road King are just inside.”

The two of them squeeze below a falling sign and into a dark corridor. Lightfoot points in the air and pushes a button on his chest, sending a beam of light ahead of them and illuminating their surroundings. The walls are jagged and harsh, stray wires and sharp edges abundant.

“Are you sure this is safe, my friend?” Hawk asks, his voice bouncing off of the walls.

“Totally,” Lightfoot assures him. “It’ll all make sense in a sec.”

As the two of them approach the end of the hallway, Lightfoot scans the area before finding a keypad and approaching it. Lightfoot’s back is turned to Hawk, but twelve distinct beeps can be heard from behind him, before the door slowly rises with a rough screech. 

As they enter, they’re greeted by two bots, an angular one with yellow legs and a blue upper body, and a boxy one with red limbs and a white torso.

“Hey Hawk!” the red one exclaims, patting him on the shoulder.

“Where are we, Ranger?”

“You’ll see, you’ll see!” the blue one answers, grabbing Hawk’s hand. “C’mon, he’s right over here.”

He leads Hawk to a large computer with a chair facing away from him, the sound of typing faintly audible. 

“He’s here.”

The chair spins around and reveals a tall white bot with a yellow torso, green wings, and a red helm. He stands up and towers over Hawk before greeting him with a warm smile.

“Hello, Hawk. My name is Jhiaxus.”

A faint crash erupts from the prosecution’s desk, and as I whip my head over to see what’s wrong, I see Tarn aghast, his claws digging into his mask. Shockwave is similarly distraught, his optic a putrid yellow and narrowed.

“Hey, so, why are we down here?” Hawk opens his arms and gestures around him.

“When you’re as radical as one like me, you tend to make enemies. This is the only corner of the planet I can be sure is away from prying optics.”

“Okay, but who are you?”

“Let’s just say I’m an interested party, and I have a lot of resources.” He smiles again, this time seeming a tad colder, with his optics a proud and icy blue.

Static again corrupts the screen as his vision reforms around a new image, still Jhiaxus, but in a different room. The walls are a sterile white tile, with even harsher lights staring directly at Hawk.

“Where… where am I?” Hawk’s voice is scratchy and weak, like he hasn’t had a drop of energon in cycles. He tries to move, but his body is strapped down to a chair, unable to gain even a centimeter of space.

“I’m going to make you perfect.” Jhiaxus’s warm smile is gone, an expression as still as stone resting in its place. His optics, a dead, dull grey, just a shade above black, seem to peer into the recesses of Hawk’s mind, almost as if they could reach in and claw out his thoughts. The verdant wings previously adorning his back had shifted, now instead elongated and draped down his back and over his shoulders like a cloak.

“Where are… where are the others?” Hawk can barely scrape out the words, sounding like the act of speech could kill him. “What did you-”

“Shh shh,” Jhiaxus interrupts, placing a digit over Hawk’s mouth. “Save your strength. I want you to be awake for this.

“Awake for wha-” Hawk is spun around mid sentence towards a foggy pane of glass, a manual mirror. Jhiaxus forces his hand open and fills it with a small remote, a lone red button in  the center.

“Go ahead and press that when you’re ready,” he whispers. “I’ve just got some other patients to check on. It won’t take long.”

Something, presumably the door, shuts behind Hawk, and he’s left staring at a cloudy silver slab, his silhouette vaguely reflected in the ash. He tried to resist, looking around and trying to focus on other things, but the silence was invasive. It crept into his mind, tugging at all of his wires and whispering their desires into him.

Push the button.

You want to know, don’t you?

Push the button.

It can’t be that bad, right?

Push the button.

If you don’t check now, you’ll never know.

Push the button.

Try as he might, Hawk was not strong enough to resist the urges swirling in his cortex. Slowly, he pressed down on the remote, as if that could delay the future. Once he’s pressed down fully, the mirror’s smoggy coat dissipates, and the present truth is revealed.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” A gutteral shriek destroyed the silence as it escaped his mouth, cracking the glass in front of him and sending a few shards to the floor. Staring back was not Hawk, at least, not how the universe had seen him for thousands of cybercycles. Half of his face had been torn off, revealing a smooth metallic skeleton and loose wires, most prominently dangling below his left optic and sparking. On the other side, Hawk saw something he didn’t recognise: a set of vertically stacked red optics, a sharp navy horn, and half of a silver crest on his forehead.

“Is that… is that me?” His reflection spoke alongside him, copying the movements of his mouth and optics. It followed him as he looked around, tracking his sight and never letting go.

“That can’t… that isn’t… AAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHHH!”

The static noise onscreen flares up one last time, now displaying two images side by side. On the left, an indigo mace sat lodged in the corpse of a Cybertronian guard, surrounded by rubble and a fallen sign that said …all of the Sen… in outlined black letters. On the right, the same mace could be seen, this time being swung at the wall of an abandoned town, the sky black and lifeless. Both memories played simultaneously, with the left picking up the mace and the right using it to destroy a building. The left then shows Megatronus Prime and Hawk charging at him, and the right shows Tarn, again being charged at by the camera. All that can be heard is a deafening and monstrous voice, the same voice I had heard on Zi XVII when I was face to face with Galvatron:

“Rend, slaughter, conquer. Remember what they took from you. Remember the life they destroyed. Remember… us.”

The feed abruptly cuts out as Hawk’s optics fill with color before he begins to shake and steadies himself on the bench. Airachnid removes her needles from his cortex with one swift motion and disconnects herself from the monitor. She seems relieved, tired.

“So, do you see?” Hawk asks the court, optics leaking energon onto his claws. “It really wasn’t… who I am…”

“Thank you, witness, for that act of brav-” Shockwave is interrupted by the heavy steps of Tarn, who has emerged from behind his desk. His optics are a sad, lonely shade of bluish-grey, and his tread shoulders are slouched. He looks over at Hawk, me, and finally the judge, before uttering eight strained words:

“The prosecution… would like to retract our case.”

The courtroom fill with silence one last time, every spark afraid to shine, and every gear afraid to turn, before it’s broken by his heavy footsteps as he trudges away from the stand.