Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

September 7th 1991:

"Spike, Spike slow down!"

Slow down? The engine beneath the pedals at his feet revved in retaliation. This car didn’t know the meaning of the word. The 10 o’clock lamps flickered on, bathing the herd of supercars in a ghostly glow. The bustling sidewalks of LA did little to quell the squeal of tires. Motorists and pedestrians alike fled from the curbs. Men howled and pumped their fists, and women held their billowing skirts from prying eyes. A young mother grabbed her toddler as he ambled a little too close to the busy street.

As they lifted their gaze, they saw nothing but the burnt trail of asphalt and devilish glows of taillights.

"By Primus, Spike! You’re gonna cause an accident!"

The young brunette adjusted his rearview mirror, squinting in the glare of faux headlights. A cherry red Lamborghini was riding his bumper, and his chest bloomed with something akin to fury. It was hot, and it was angry, but it wasn’t vicious. Smoke billowed from the open windows, and his engineering button-up stuck to his skin with the western heat.

"You just celebrated your birthday, and now we’re going to be planning your funeral!"

His teeth clenched the cigar as it sizzled.

"Take it easy, Spike. Buster didn’t mean it."

With a turnover of the engine, his turquoise '67 Impala seemed to translate his blossoming anger into something comprehensible to a race almost entirely of cars.

Buster never means it.

Sparks flew as he squealed around the corner.

"Bee, I’m not angry! Trust."

“Yeah, ok kid.” Sideswipe huffed, taking amusement in Spike’s predicament.

“I’m not a kid! I’m 21, that’s a full-fledged adult who can take care of himself."

"Yeah. Next you’re going to tell me you’re Megatron."

"Would you believe me if I did?"

He jerked the wheel, but he overestimated how narrow the turn it was.

The brunette chuckled as he glanced out the window at his missing side mirror. The Impala was Buster’s pride and joy; it was his 21st birthday present, and in the ten years he’s owned it, it had no more than a scratch right below the right headlight. Until now.

"Youch. Whoops. I’ll have Dad add it to the tab."

"Attaboy!"

"Don’t cheer him on, Cliffjumper!"

"Stick it in neutral, B! Buster’s been busting my bolts with all this talk of sanctions and regulations. Who put him in charge?"

"The US military." Sideswipe beeped, narrowly avoiding a pothole.

"And Buster was just doing what he was told!"

More cheers, from a group of break dancers this time. He took a drag of his cigar. He had been on the rig his entire life, constantly trailing after Buster. He was everything that Spike adored, everything he could be; everything he wanted to be. It was only fair he enlist in the army as a combat engineer, fighting to serve in the same regiment as he.

“He had no right,” Cliffjumper began. “To say that stuff. About Spike, his Creator…. Carly.”

Spike snarled and waved his hands in front of his eyes; the smoke clung to his nostrils as it slowly disintegrated.

"To hell with him! Carly too! Ever since he became a general he’s been walking around like he has a stick up his ass. He does nothing but give orders, and he expects us to follow at his whim! He’s been a dick to Dad, to me!"

Was the smoke heavier?

“And Dad just… lets him! He rolls over like a dog and allowed Buster to feed him whatever he says.” He was burning. What was once a dull flame was a ravaging fire.

"He does it to Prime too!"

A chorus of angry engines rebuked.

"You’re going too far, Spike."

"Shut up. Shut the hell up and LISTEN. All Buster has to do is throw a tantrum and Prime is on his hands and knees."

"Spike!"

"Like a common bitch!"

"Your temperature is rising!"

"Listen kid, you best—"

"I’M NOT YOUR FUCKING KID. I’ve calmed down enough and I swear to god if you try to coddle me one more time I’m going to torch your-Jesus CHRIST!"

His jeans. His jeans were on fire. His hands flew from the wheel, aggressively patting his burning pants. Leave it to him to accidentally set himself on fire in a car going more than 120 miles per hour in a city zone.

"Spike, the WHEEL!"

Someone screamed, probably Bumblebee. Bumblebee always liked him more, and that was one of the few things that Buster couldn’t stand. Spike couldn’t have Prime, his dad, or his position, but he could have Bumblebee, and that was all he needed.

He looked up and slammed on the brakes, but it was too late. He was almost nose to nose with concrete. The tires shrieked, rubber burning against pavement, but the car didn’t stop; fishtailing, surging forward like it had a mind of its own.

He and his father were the first to find the Autobots in their stone coffin. Sparkplug himself had tripped over Prowl’s hand and activated Sky Spy, queuing everything that would ever be. He had faced the likes of Rumble, Starscream, Megatron? 

Was this what people meant when they said “Your life flashes before your eyes?” He was going to crash. He was going to die.

No. Not here. He lunged for the wheel, fully locking it to the left. He braced for impact.

“Of all the hare-brained, stupid things you could’ve done. Have you completely lost your mind, boy?“ Sparkplug sputtered. Optimus stood by his side, shadowed only by Buster, who could only stare at his car in disbelief. The gemlike turquoise paint was skinned, leaving only the silver body work. Luckily, the interior had been reinforced by the Autobots years prior, for fear of their human counterparts fleshiness. They hated the car, what it represented, but they would make damn sure it could protect thier charges. Wheeljack was poking and prying the broken vehicle, cataloging the repairs, parts that needed to be replaced. Bumblebee took a knee besides spike.

“Do you have any idea how close you came to dying?! To killing someone else?! You think this is some kind of game? It’s a god damn miracle Buster pulled enough strings to let you keep your job- What was that.”

Spike looked away; it hurt to crane his neck. Everything from his head to his toes was sore, and his fatheres grey hairs and aging face excacerbated his bone deep weariness. He loved his father. Most of the time.

“Did you just roll your eyes?”

He shrugged. Then came the slap. It wasn’t too loud- nothing compared to an explosion, or a gunshot, but even the insects stopped their warbling.

Optimus’ face, despite being the the least expressive of the bunch due to his mouthplate, was frozen in disarray. Bumblebee’s door wings practically swept the ground. Wheeljack dropped Busters car, and Buster, finally tore his eyes away from his mangled possession. His expression was hard unreadable. Spike’s jaw ached, and his eyes stung. He would not cry.

“Go home.”

In the Witwicky household, that would usually be followed with a whimpering "Yes sir." But Spike didn’t have it in him. Not today. He silently turned around, favoring his left leg and limping toward the direction of his home. He had to be at least two miles away, but he would be damned if he asked anyone for a car ride after that. All he wanted to do was be alone and cry. Or punch something. Probably do both.

It only took 10 minutes before the hum of a thousand-year engine masked with the throaty baritone of a 1970s Camaro. He was glad Bee upgraded—the Beetle was always a bit cramped, and he just didn’t seem like a Beetle to Spike. He continued to walk, albeit a little slower.

The Camaro pulled up beside him, matching his pace. The door opened, and Spike stopped. The car stopped too. It only took a beat, but Spike slowly maneuvered himself into the passenger’s seat, reveling in the alien warmth that caressed his muscles. He wanted to go home. It seemed that he wouldn’t be taken home.

He awoke with the cold cutting of engines. The door creaked open, slowly exposing Spike to the cool, night air. It was still dark, probably only an hour since his chewing out—maybe less. Spike slowly exited the vehicle. The stars were so bright for such an impossibly dark night. He tapped the tip of his boot on the ground.

Bumblebee spoke first.

“Do you want to talk?”

Spike brushed off his sleeve.

“Alright.”

The door opened once more, but Spike did not go inside. He limped toward the hood before bracing his hands right above where Bumblebee's spark would be. He fumbled for a bit before heaving himself atop the hood. It was chilly, but the tickle of the wind against his skin was welcome. Sleep crept at the edges of his vision. It must be really late if Spike was falling asleep with Bumblebee; he would usually challenge himself to stay up as long as possible—a feeble attempt at keeping up with his alien comrades who had no need for sleep.

“I love you, Bee,” Spike said, yawning into his hand before rolling to his side.

Bumblebee could feel Spike’s slowing heart rate, and he felt something restless in his spark stir.

“I know, Spike.”

Chapter Text

August 1st, 2005:

"Come here, huuuuman!"

“This is special agent William Fowler with the former United States military!” With every step of the titan, the ground shook. The human vaulted over the nearest fallen log, a testament to his fate. It was supposed to be a simple recon mission. A quick “Once around the block.” of the last vegetative areas on Earth. The last thing he was expecting was getting shot out of the sky by a renegade Decepticon! But the Decepticons were disbanded years ago! Prime made sure of that.

A resounding crack followed by exploding filth rained down on the agent. He only wanted to give his men a break, the least he could do for weeks and weeks of resistance training, hand-to-hand combat, and PT. It would be the last good deed he would ever do.

"My aircraft has been shot down, and I am currently being chased by a rogue Cybertronian—WOAH!" Another blast, this time closer than the others. The agent felt his organs rumble with the shockwave. An uncomfortable feeling, like what stirring soup feels like—if you were the soup.

“Weight class?” The voice on the other end responded.

“Unknown.” Fowler ducked as a large charcoal hand swiped for him.

“Height class?”

“Unknown!” A roar of fury.

"Is there anything you do know, Agent Fowler!" He sputtered in disbelief. The new bots on Earth, or rather, New Cybertron, were a thorn in his backside, and a pain to work with, but this but this...insubordination, really ruffled this bald eagles feathers.

"We're scrambling the Aerial Bots now! Hang in there, Agent Fowler, help is on the way!" A human voice, thankfully.

"I don't think help's gonna make it in time, soldier.” Fowler whispered, pressing himself against an impossibly large tree trunk. Regret seeped its way into his mind. Before the Great Extinction, he'd served in a handful of military tours, been to places that would send the average man to an asylum. He’d taken lives—men, women, children—all without regret. Regret was for people who deserved to be forgiven. But now, frozen in the face of death with nothing but his silver cross and sins, he prayed for forgiveness.

"I’ve got you!" The hand descended upon him. He shut his eyes, waiting for the burn, the flames of hell to engulf him. That was, until the angel arrived.

It was the color of a tropical ocean—rich and brimming, just like the one he and his wife had visited before... everything. It clearly caught the encroaching invader by surprise, as its purple eyes grew to the size of saucers. It quickly deployed its arm-mounted gatling gun, firing a few mistrewn shots before the angel flashed its wide wings with an electronic snarl. It was as nimble as a street cat, grabbing the gun in a single fist and flinging the invader over its shoulder, chucking it away from Fowler.

The smaller attacker hoisted itself from where it fell, clutching its eye. It was covered in coniferous roots, Energon staining the forest floor. It stumbled a bit before murmuring something in an electronic tone.

The angel did not pause to process its words, continuing its carnage. It was all a blur for the agent, who had accepted his death and slid to his seat under the tree. His hand still clutched the cross as he watched the robots falling down the hill, ripping each other to shreds.

"Agent Fowler, come in, Agent Fowler! Reinforcements are inbound, ETA, seven minutes! Hold on, Agent." He slowly raised his hand to his communication device.

"Copy…that...” He whispered, but it sounded more like a breathless mumble. The deafening bellows and cracks of broken trees and broken metal had stilled, and the forest grew silent. He had lost sight of the two after they had crossed the initial hump. His legs were wobbly as he clambered onto his feet, holding nearby branches for support.

He made his way to the summit, only to find a single bot at the bottom, clutching its missing arm. Its eye was missing, and sparkling Energon splashed from the absent appendage, and the invader buzzed with pain. The angel had fled, and Agent Fowler had released a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Until the horrid, thunderous roar of rotor blades pierced his skull.

He ducked, shielding himself beneath the brush as a military helicopter descended before transforming and landing beside the smaller one. Its rough voice warbled something wicked—Fowler assumed by the way the other flinched—before it gently picked the injured up and put it over its shoulder in a fireman’s carry. It readied for a jump before pausing and scanning the destroyed clearing. It stalked its way toward a boulder, before peeking around it. It secured its partner before grabbing a detached and mangled arm, sans the gatling gun. The smaller bot clung to its partners shoulder, grabbing its missing appendage. The helicopter finally jumped, activating its foot thrusters before disappearing into the atmosphere.

William waited a beat. Then two, before the sound of echoing jet engines jumpstarted his adrenaline.

"Human Agent Fowler," five military jets descended upon the bloodbath. "We are here to…rescue…you?" The largest, a silver Concord, murmured; astonished by the electric blue painted on the trees. The four others were speechless, mouths hung open in a startlingly human display of disbelief.

Agent Fowler stumbled forward, tripping and falling down the hill and into a puddle of distilled Energon.

"I’m… here… Soldier.” He rasped.

"Did… did you do this?" One asked, kneeling over the spilled lifeblood.

"No…" Darkness teased the edge of Fowlers vision as he began to sway, and his words began to slur. The ground shook with each step of the silver behemoth. It reached its arm out, grabbing his crumpled form and transforming, encasing the agent in the safety of its cockpit.

"It was…" The seatbelt slithered across his chest before snapping securely.

"An angel…"

Chapter Text

June 25th, 1993:

“My fellow Americans, we stand on the threshold of a new era; an era, of transformation. In the recent years, many of you have witnessed extraordinary sights: the rumble of mobilized forces, the tremors beneath your feet, the unexplainable footprints scattered across fields and neighborhoods alike. These are not signs of chaos—they are the markings of history in the making. Behind the scenes, we have united with the Chinese, the Soviets- governments around the globe to make major advancements in medicine, in military technology, in robotics, and in aerospace. These advancements have not come easily, nor have they come alone. Today, we honor those who have stood with us. Our allies. Our guardians.  Our symbols. With great pride and profound gratitude, I invite you to meet our steadfast sentinel."

"Ladies and gentlemen, the Optimus Prime.”

Huxley Prescott was a reporter. Not the best or the brightest, but a reporter nonetheless. He could spin a single-strand story into a web of a thousand lies deceits, and tricks. He lacked a crew, and whatever hitchhikers or broke nobodies he picked up along the way looking to make some quick cash were chased away by the story. He had a nose for news, and could sniff out a lead from miles away. Sometimes it brought him to long abandoned homes of mildew and flies; sometimes it brought him to active shootouts. Sometimes it brought him to jail. When he was informed of a sudden White House address to the people, he scrambled his way to the mainland and doubled down in a crab shack, waiting for what could make or break his career.

With him, he had his cheap notepad, the clothes on his back, a long faded superhero pen he got for his twelfth birthday, and a single, well worn phrase. He had said it so much, stuffed it in the wrinkles of his brain that writing it down was almost muscle memory. Earth Defense Command. He was prepared for anything.

Anything but this.

He noticed the unusual entourage of super vehicles- sleek and imposing, unlike anything he’d ever seen at the White House. Anything he could afford, either. He assumed they were apart of a special government envoy, perhaps being introduced to the American Embassy as apart of this “Earth Defense.” He didn’t expect the largest-a glittering, all-American Peterbilt, to split itself into near-infinite pieces and reshape itself into the largest statue the reporter had ever seen. Less of a statue and more of a living, moving creature. A man? Well… not exactly. Its eyes carried more history than man had ever known. Camera shutters fell silent. Breaths were held. Its hands—God, its hands—looked like they could snap a spine, his spine, with a flick. No man could do that. The surrounding press was primed for escape. Legs tensed, and fingers twitched, prepared to drop whatever $3,000 dollar camera or 2 dollar scrap pad they had. It was a recipe for disaster.

Then, the manlike robot took one step. Then another, before kneeling beside the president.

Thunder filled the air.

“Greetings, people of Earth.”

Silence.

Then a camera shutter.

Then two. Then three. A cascade of questions, answers, flashes and confusion burst in the air.

“Where did they come from?”

“Who are they?”

“What are they?”

The surrounding security guards winced and shielded their eyes despite their blackout sunglasses. Huxley began to wade his way through the crowd,waving his dollar-store notepad high above the turbulent sea of elbows and microphones. The presidents words were lost among the stampede —until a sharp of feedback echoed across the press area, overwhelming every microphone and speaker in range. Cameramen dropped their priceless cargo, nearby crew vans began to spark. Microphones screamed in a deafening loop, causing everyone to cover their ears for fear of Tinnitus.

Then—quiet, save for disgruntled camera crews.

Huxley had made his way to the front of the crowd. Since the arrival of recording devices, high-tech equipment, and digital everything, good old-fashioned pen and paper had fallen out of style. Not for Huxley, who couldn’t afford anything else.

“My name is Optimus Prime.” He gestured to the herd of vehicles behind. “We are Autobots—autonomous robotic organisms from the distant planet of Cybertron. We arrived on your world thousands of years ago, yet remained dormant until recently, when the threat of the Decepticons could no longer be ignored. We have not come here to rule. We have come here to stand between you and that fate. For the past several years, we have worked discreetly alongside your governments, your scientists, and your defenders. We have shared technology, exchanged knowledge, and built trust. But the time for secrecy has ended. The time for unity has come, and we vow to do everything in our power to protect your planet. Your people. Your freedom.”

Huxley Prescott’s mad scribbles on that day, titled “The Transformers” would go on to immortalize global history for generations to come, marking the beginning of his prolific career in journalism, and the end of the world.

Chapter Text

August 3rd, 2005:

The cyberformation of Earth had left only a few things for its native children. The worst things—but they were theirs, and organic. The rain, the sun, and the buffeting wind that shook the shabby staff tent above General William Lennox.

The never-ending monsoons had turned the once-parched ground into slush beneath his feet, and marble-sized droplets formed pools that threatened to waterboard every secret government document on his scorched desk. Endless billows of fog rolled over the hills of Mount Saint Hillary, and The Ark's once golden mirror finish was streaked with dirt and thick mud. 

It was a small victory for the human race that, although they’d been conquered, tamed, and shamed—even though they were beaten bloody twice over—there was always someone bigger and badder than they. And that someone was Mother Nature.

The General opened his desk drawer, grabbing a corroded coffee grinder and a bag of grounds. Coffee grounds were almost impossible to find after the Great Cataclysm obliterated the tropics, and they were considered a luxury product. He sat silently in his chair. He had half an hour until his next debrief, and his mood immediately soured.

There was a running joke whenever Lennox entered a room. Less of a joke and more of an eerie silence. Wherever he went, there was a red and blue semi not far behind. His subordinates and privates—Part of Earth Defense Force high command—used to joke that it was his sorry sense of humor that attracted the Commander of the Autobots, or his sorrier attitude. But everyone was that way nowadays.

Lennox played it off with a sly remark or an airy chuckle, yet the hairs on his back would teeter and the sweat would gather on his brow. Eyes would be on him, yet whenever he looked up, none at all.

The screeching of his walkie startled him from his stupor. He quickly set down his cup of coffee—black as crude oil—and held the device to his ear.

“General William Lennox, report to Bunker B, Level 6. I repeat, William Lennox, report to Bunker B, Level 6. He’s awake.”

The tepid cup spilled with the squelching of his chair as it tipped over.

The elevator simmered with toiling impatience when Lennox stepped inside. There were already three passengers present.

“General.”.

"Madam Secretary." He stood at attention and gave a fierce salute. Being the acting commander of NESTCOM often put him in close quarters with SecDef, and while most of the American Government had fallen, he still chose to uphold the basic rules of respect.

During the national destabilization in 1999, Marissa Faireborn saw opportunity in the chaos. She had been a well-embellished lawyer for powerful people in even more powerful places, and after the assassination of the President in 1996, she was able to shoehorn her way into the American Embassy, demonstrating her cunning. She tackled corruption within the American government head-on and solved problems plaguing their society since its genesis. Some would call her a filthy opportunist; she preferred the term “impassioned bystander.” As the elevator doors closed, he took one last look at The Ark. 

The Autobot flagship was pilfered of all valuable technology back in the ’90s, and it was now only a front to keep what little media remained satisfied. The real base of operations was miles underground and layered in false trails and hushed whispers.

The lights flickered and the elevator rumbled. Every human within grabbed onto the nearest object with purchase, bracing themselves for impact. Luckily for them, it never came, and the light above the steel door blinked green. There was a belated beep, and the elevator door folded within itself, revealing a long, long hallway.

The ceiling was no less than a mile tall, and the unpeeling of ragged skin against metal vibrated through the gaping maw. Lennox straightened himself up, wiping at the sweat under his collar. The others were getting themselves similarly situated: slowing their breathing, wiping their fallen bangs back, and wringing their shaking hands.

Faireborn was the first to step out, followed by Carly Spencer, the lead developer of BATS. The clacking of her leather-like heels grounded Lennox as he matched her pace behind her. Behind him wheeled Chip Chase, an informal pillar NEST. He wasn’t a soldier, but his advancement for American civilization—if the 15,000 scattered Americans could be considered a civilization—made him an invaluable ally.

Lennox squinted as the light at the end of the tunnel grew to a blinding fire. The flames dimmed to reveal the hulking figure of Optimus Prime, and the much smaller—but no less intimidating—silhouettes of Jazz and Prowl beside him.

They were sitting at a round table; Jazz was leaning back in his chair, optics to the sky, while Prowl’s back was ramrod straight. Prime was subtly hunched over, optics burning a hole into a ginormous data pad.

Beside them was a lift that could slowly—very slowly—bring the humans to about eye level of any bot, giving the illusion of equality. There was also a ladder for anyone who wanted a workout. It led to the “human quarters”—a singular bed with a sink and a bathroom in the left corner. It was currently occupied by a special guest—one of the only men or bots who knew what happened on August 1st.

“Optimus Prime.” said Faireborn.

“Marissa, Carly, Chip. It is good to see you,” he replied, placing the datapad down to give the incoming humans his full attention.

“Ditto.” Chip replied.

Carly merely nodded.

“General Lennox.” The corners of his eyes quirked up in what could only resemble a smile below his mouthguard.

“Sir.”

“We apologize for the chaos caused on Earth, and we understand the proactive measures you have taken since the end of the Great War. The last thing humanity would like to do is affect your political relationship with the Decepticons.”

“We are Decepticons no more, Miss Faireborn.” The glow of crimson optics materialized from the shrouded mist of the opposite hallway. Gunmetal gray cast three-headed shadows onto the near-mint stainless floors.

From the darkness came Megatron. The former Decepticon leader had resigned from the tactical arena toward the political, and now ruled Cybertron along with Optimus Prime.

“We are all Cybertronians.”

“Liar!” A voice shouted up from the spare bed.

Carly raised a brow.

“He refuses to speak to us without another human present.” Prowl murmured, barely looking up from his datapad.

Secretary Faireborn made her way to the lift, followed by her herd. Pulling the lever, the gated metal slab began its tedious ascension. The pressing of hydraulics echoed and bounced around the metal room.

“Would you like assistance?”

The Prime could barely finish his sentence before he was cut off with a swift, “No.”

It was the longest five minutes of his life, waiting to reach the top of the command center. Lennox didn’t even know why they had installed a ladder; it’s not like any human could actually climb this far up.

Once they had finally stepped off the moving balcony, Lennox was faced with his former drill sergeant, William Fowler. The man’s deep skin had been littered in scratches and purple bruises, and his head was firmly bandaged by a white, toeing crimson cloth.

“General Lennox. Been a while, hasn’t it?”

“It sure has, Drill Sergeant.”

“Commander Faireborn.”

“Hey, Bill,” Faireborn chuffed, feigning exasperation. “What happened out there?”

The Transformers had since gotten up and stood behind their human allies. Lennox could hear the mechanical chirrups and whirs of each mechanism within the Prime standing directly behind him—closer than he would have preferred.

He had spoken to the bot quite a few times, and needless to say, he admired his bravery, but they weren’t that close.

They weren’t friends.

“I was attacked by a ‘Con! That’s what happened.”

“That is not possible, Special Agent Fowler. The Decepticons are no more.” Optimus sighed, voice tight.  

“Well, he sure acted like one!”

“Now, what does that mean?” Megatron sneered, glowering at the human below.

“You know damn well what I mean.” Fowler returned the glare with equal force. “The ‘Con shot my plane out of the sky.”

“Why didn’t you ask one of the Aerialbots to accompany you, Special Agent?”

“That’s not the point, Optimus,” Chip sighed. “We shouldn’t need the Aerialbots to shuttle us on our own planet. It makes us look dependent.”

“No offense, Chip,” Jazz shook his head, “but you humans are dependent.”

“Jazz,” Optimus replied sternly—before he was cut off.

“Human trafficking has become quite the issue across Cybertron.” Prowl muttered.

“Among many,” Megatron growled.

“The guy made a grab for me. I thought it was over,” he resigned. “My memories are a bit… blurry, but another bot saved me.”

At that, everyone seemed to stand at attention—especially the surrounding Cybertronians.

“I had never seen the guy before! But he tore the ‘Con up good. Too good. I remember Energon—everywhere. Enough to paint my American behind blue for the next week!”

Someone in the crowd snickered.

“By the time someone else showed up—”

“Another bot?” Jazz questioned.

“Yeah, a copter. To pick up his friend’s missing arm,” he said with surprising austerity. “The guy was hurt bad, Prime.” Fowler grimaced. “By the time the other bot came, the guy who helped was gone.”

“Did he bear the mark of a faction?” Megatron asked the question that teetered on the tip of everyone’s tongue, regardless of species.

“Megatron—”

“No,” Fowler replied, unwavering.

Megatron took a minute to scowl at the contentious human. Optimus Prime turned around swiftly.

“Prowl. I need the files of every bot residing on Earth, civilian or otherwise. Jazz, canvas the area Special Agent Fowler was found— the Aerialbots could have missed something. Megatron. A word.”

The surrounding Transformers scattered immediately in different exits. Jazz had transformed and sped down a highway-like hallway, and Prowl had plugged himself into Teletraan I.

Optimus led Megatron down the hallway the gray bot had arrived from, yet before they were encompassed by shadow, he sent one last look, making direct eye contact with the General.

“Is there something on my face or something?” Lennox whispered beneath his breath.

“Don’t worry about it,” Carly sighed, eyes glued onto the exiting party’s hallway. “You remind him of someone he knew.”

Chapter Text

September 17th, 1999:

Spike stood above the hulking computer display. At his feet were massive holographic keys in symbols that he couldn’t hope to understand. Past the glowing purple monitor lay the infinite cosmos. Earth glowed like a blue marble, but something was wrong; it was covered in large swaths of silver, like someone had spilled paint on what was already a masterpiece.

Millions of people, little toy soldiers and dolls, that didn’t even know he existed continued their lives. As many people as the stars, he liked to hope, were loving and hurting and killing and birthing and he got to see it all. Well, most of it he thought as he wiped the blood caked over his brow.

“Spike! Get down here and help me!” Hollered Buster as the collisions on the opposite door grew ever louder and more frequent. The dents in its hull grew more poignant and varied. Voices overlapped, screaming at them to stop, to think about what they were dong, to kill themselves, to let them in.

“Buster,” Spike sighed, never taking his eyes from the blue ocean. “Come look.”

“You won’t be able to look much longer if you don’t get down here and help me.” The older brother seethed.

“You think we’ll live?”

Busters hands stopped moving. “No.” He muttered. “But everyone else will, and that’s all that matters.” His hands were moving again.

Spike tore his eyes from the wonderful planet below, wiping his hands on his threaded and torn overalls. Scampering towards buster, he helped him life the surprisingly heavy object from its duffle bag. The device was small for a transformer, about the size of a young child. It was a long, pill like shape carved with the same symbols on the alien keyboard.

“Are you sure this is going to work, man?” Spike panted, running his hands over his face.

“Would it make you feel better if I said yes?” Buster growled as he took step back, taking a rectangular box from his pocket and pulling the retracting antenna. He flipped the switch on the side, waiting for the little light at the top to light up. It didn’t.

Buster slammed it against his hip before punching the hell out of it. “Fuck.” He hissed.

“Give it here.” Spike insisted before Buster threw it at him. He removed the back panel, revealing the internal circuitry. He took a wire stripper from his belt buckle before removing the rubber covers and hot-wiring the little remote.

“How the hell did you know how to do that…?” Buster mumbled.

“I helped build it.” Spike deadpanned.

“Oh.”

Spike threw the remote back as Buster turned it on again. “We’re live! Help me carry it to the middle! Quickly!”

On either side of the pill like device, they carried it to the center of the console before the door flew past them.

“You germs!” A purple and black jet yowled before reaching for the brothers. He held one in each hand, squeezing till they wheezed in pain. “I should squish you for this.”

“Silence, Skywarp.” A massive yellow and white transformer waltzed past the others, toward where the humans were being held. He blanketed the room in dizzying control. The behemoth knelt before the humans. “You people are… an auspicious species. I congratulate you on your success of getting this far.”

“What?” Skywarp screeched. The rest of the Decepticons balked in shock.

“This creature fights to defend his home.” The mystery bot stated. “Is that not what we’re trying to do?”

There was silence, only broken by the rhythmic beeping of a device.

“What is that infernal noise?” He snarled, before Ramjet, who was positioned right at the entrance began to scream.

“BOMB! THERES A BO—“ Before the entire room was lit aflame.

“Wake up! Wake up, Sam!”

Spike peeled his eyes opened to his brother’s battered and bleeding face.

“Oh thank Jesus. How are you feeling?”

He supplicated a cough in response. Buster sighed before prying Spike from what had protected him which was, Skywarp? The Decepticon was charred, and his optics were dark. He had more than likely attempted to turn himself away from the blast, shielding the prisoners. There were various dents littering his frame, but none were worse than Jhiaxus’, who had attempted to grab the bomb before it went off. His face was stripped of its armor, and his red eye lay dangling by a single optic wire. His thick lips were shredded, leaving only his teeth, and the entire front of his body was covered in black char. His left entire arm below the elbow was missing, and the fingers on his right hand were all but torn off.

“Christ. You said it was a bomb but I didn’t think it was a bomb bomb.”

“Its compressed because of mass shifting, meaning way more bang for less buck.” Spike winced as Buster hoisted him up. His leg was clearly broken, but he couldn’t find it in him to care.

“I’m…” Buster sighed, giving him almost a pitying glance. “Sorry.”

“You can make it up to me.”

Buster threw him a questioning glance.

Spike pointed to the top of the console, where they once stood. “Take me back up there.”

“I— I can’t get you up there, Sam.” He chuckled mirthlessly.

“I believe in you, Brandon. Now please.”

Spike put on his best injured puppy face, hoping it would work just like it did when they were kids.

Buster huffed. “What about down there..” He pointed to the open spot below the command desk.

“…That works.” Spike grinned as Buster put him in a firefighters hold.

He yelped as Buster firmly grasped his broken leg.

“I’m sorry.”

The few steps to the fractured window took almost all the energy from Buster as he gently set his brother down. They stared for what felt like hours, but was probably only minutes, at the blue, green, and silver storm below.

“Look at us.” Buster sighed, analyzing their reflections.

“Look at us.” Spike smiled. Their faces were swollen and bruised. Spike’s forehead had since coagulated, but it was replaced by his split open chin. Busters lip was split, and half of his face was painted in an ugly green and purple.

“You think this is what Dad saw whenever we fought?”

“I hope not.” Spike chuckled. “We look terrible.”

Both of their smiles faded as they looked at each other.

"Trypticon's targeting system is destroyed." Buster began. "It's only a matter of time."

“No one will know what happened to us.” Spike muttered giving his brother a tired look.

“Someone is bound to figure it out.”

“They’ll feel bad.”

“I hope they do.” Buster sneered.

“I hope they don’t.”

A gaping silence settled the air. Despite being brothers, they couldn’t be more different.

“You think they’ll miss us?” Spike whispered, never taking his eyes off the brilliant orb.

“We’re blips in their lives Sam,” He said, so softly that it could barely be heard unless in the deadness of space. “For every lifetime we live, they live a thousand more. Might as well be a one-night stand.”

Spike winced at his bitterness, eyes downcast. Buster groaned, rubbing his eyes tiredly before putting his head in his hands.

“I’m sorry.”

The younger brother grunted.

“For making you do this with me. You were never supposed to be here, Sam. You were supposed to be down there,” He put his hand to the glass, the ragged splinters piercing his calloused palms.

“With your friends. With Chip and Carly and Bumblebee and Hound and everyone. Not here. Not with me.“

At his silence Spike turned. “I couldn’t think of any other way to go other than by your side.”

The developing crows feet along Buster’s eyes folded. “Fuck you, Sam.”

Spike scooted close to his brother, eyes glassy. Buster wiped his face, looking into his brothers honey green eyes and only seeing his own.

“I hope in another life,” he began, “We get to be brothers again.”

Chip's finger hovered over the large red button. He couldn’t feel his legs, but he knew they were shaking. They had to be. He whimpered softly as he gripped the handle of his wheelchair. This was for the greater good, he knew. But that didn’t make it any easier.

The floating space ship Trypticon hovered within frame of the giant monitor. Retrofitted with the Omega Lock, it was beaming molten cybermatter down onto Earth surface, transforming all organic life into liquid silver. The Omega Lock was a tool created to repair Cybertron by the greatest Autobot and Decepticon minds across the cosmos. It was a pool of heavily concentrated liquid metal that would integrate into and repair the planet’s core, yet rather than doing that, Jhiaxus and his group of unaffiliates saw it better to cyberform Earth. Humanity would be obliterated.

Bots would look upon setting suns and know a budding species would never feel its warmth again, and with that silence, they would know they did their work well.

He hiccuped looking at the floating Damocles. His friends were probably already dead, and he would be damned if he let it be for nothing. If this failed, and Earth ended up a flaming pile of destruction, at least he took Jhiaxus with him, and he would never take anything, from anyone, ever again.

With a feral shriek, he slammed his fist on the big red button. The klaxon alarm blared as the missile launched, and he sobbed.

Bumblebee stared upon the iron cliff he stood as Trypticon lit up like a supernova.

“By Primus…” He sighed, every color under the sun reflected in his optics.

The bots around him were frozen in awe as well, until a whoop pierced the sky. One cry brought five more, until almost half of the Ark’s passengers were shrieking with joy. Dozens had chosen to join Jhiaxus in his mission to cyberform Earth, but there were those who remained behind to get as many humans to safety as they could.

Behind Bumblebee stood Optimus prime, kneeling, with his hands clasped in prayer. In this rare moment, his battlemask was drawn back, revealing what could’ve been a smile. The humans behind them wept in triumph, clutching their loved ones, and even strangers.

Bumblebee held his index and pointer finger to what would be his ear, pressing the small button of his communications array.

“Spike, are you seeing this?”