Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The impact was going to hurt. Canopy had expected it to—but knowing that it was going to be painful wasn’t going to help him in the end. Hefty armor that had seemed crucial for a construction worker such as himself only caused his ship to pick up speed when entering the planet’s atmosphere. Any semblance of control he’d had over his escape pod’s descent had been ripped away far quicker than he’d anticipated, and the controls had been reduced to mere strips of metal by the time he’d abandoned the steering wheel, terrified by his ship’s unresponsiveness.

He was helpless to do anything but watch as he spiralled out of control toward the planet’s surface. Dumb luck kept him away from any section of the planet that would have lead to his deactivation—the icy poles, or even the expansive oceans that covered the majority of the Prime’s chosen planet, but as he descended a sense of despair fell over him. He was headed directly for an area that appeared to be inhabited by the planet’s native species, if the metal spires and shelters were of any indication. A crash-landing in the midst of their home would not make a good first impression.

The warning klaxon had been blaring for so long that his audios were beginning to short out. Canopy didn’t know how to shut it off. He’d never intended to leave his home planet, even once the war had begun to tear Cybertron apart. His escape pod was as foreign to him as the fast-approaching planet. In a panic, he began to grasp at controls again—to do what, he wasn’t quite certain, but he had to try something.

The first set of controls he pawed at blinked at him cheerfully as he slammed at the buttons before beeping once and beginning to smoke. Canopy jerked back in frustration and tried another control, a lever this time. The whole panel came away in his hand.

The escape pod hadn’t been meant for a Cybertronian of his bulk, designed for a much smaller and weaker mech. Canopy was unused to reigning in his strength, and in the confined space of the cabin it was even harder to refrain from destroying crucial mechanisms with every motion. The frantic vibrating of the pod as it fell toward the planet was only making things worse. Even as he struggled to find something to save himself, the small ship lurched unsteadily, sending Canopy slamming into it’s side and crushing another several panels beneath his weight.

Without warning, the shrieking alarms doubled in intensity. Blinking his optics in bewildered terror, Canopy glanced up from the controls and lurched in fear when he realized how close he was to impact. He had seconds to collision, if that. In desperation he flung himself toward the center of the escape pod, ignoring the strangled screech of metal as he smashed more controls with the frantic movement.

He curled into himself, allowing his armor to shift around him in the best approximation of a shield he was going to get. There was no other way to protect himself. His armor had been built to withstand blunt force; this was a different story altogether. A ship hitting a planet’s surface at near terminal velocity did considerable more damage than a falling beam at a construction site on Cybertron.

He braced himself, and powered down his optics. There was nothing else he could do.

On Lennox’s first day working for TRF, two Cybertronians, one Autobot, one Decepticon, started going at each other in broad daylight, thirty miles away from TRF’s home base.

They received the alert barely ten minutes into the work day, and fortunately (or unfortunately, as Lennox saw it in hindsight) Santos’ crew was closest. The orders were high priority—two battling Cybertronians had been spotted, far too close to Los Angeles for the government’s comfort. Lennox slipped into his new TRF gear, loaded onto the truck, and once inside nearly balked at the sheer amount of firepower that had been brought along by his new teammates.

One of the TRF agents must have spotted his surprised expression, because the man grinned when Lennox sat next to him, shouldering his grenade launcher and gesturing at Lennox’s standard issue assault rifle.

“We’ll have to get you something more heavy-duty after this, Captain Lennox, sir,” the man suggested playfully. “You think something that small’s gonna do little more than dent those metal monsters?”

Lennox frowned.

“Not if you know where to aim,” he replied. “But that’s not the point. The Autobot should do most of the work for us, if it’s as competent as the rest of it’s faction.”

He received a few odd looks for the comment. The man with the grenade launcher chuckled humorlessly.

“Sure, man, it’ll do some of the work. The Decepticon, too.”

Lennox blinked, and was about to ask for clarification, but Commander Santos marched into the troop-carrier a moment later, and Lennox closed his mouth.

The ride to the outskirts of Los Angeles went by far too slowly. Lennox skimmed over the vague mission assignment that was being passed around, struggling to read through the indistinct description of the Autobot. It didn’t appear to be anyone he knew—the Cybertronian was, according to the report, primarily black with red highlights. Lennox only knew one Autobot who was mostly black, and that bot had been offlined long ago, betrayed by the one who was supposed to be their savior.

Lennox scowled as the familiar pang of loss ricocheted through his body. Ironhide had been a close friend, kind despite his battle-ready demeanor and surprisingly intelligent when engaged in conversation. His death had been sudden and painful, and Sentinel Prime’s treachery hadn’t even allowed anyone to mourn the hardened warrior’s demise.

Too many good Autobots had been offlined recently. Lennox wanted that to change, and if he could convince TRF of the Autobot’s innocence, with any luck, it would happen.

He was pulled out of his distracted thoughts by Santos, who got to his feet and reached for his weapon.

“Almost time, men,” their commander said. “Get ready for a fight. The machines are still going at it, we’ll have to act fast if we want to keep them away from the residential area. We’ll use formation C, am I clear?”

“Sir, yes sir!” Lennox barked automatically with the rest of the unit, the response drilled into him from years of military service. He’d worried that he was so used to being in command that the reflexive addressing of superiors wouldn’t occur; fortunately that was not the case.

Santos made his way down the transport, stopping just in front of Lennox.

“Captain,” the commander said, nodding, and Lennox nodded back in response. “I want you to stay close to me this time. You can’t be my official second until you understand how we operate. I know you’ve worked with the invaders before, but TRF is different, and your only assignment this mission is to observe. Do you understand?”

Lennox bit the inside of his cheek as subtly as possible and nodded. As their transport began to slow, Santos shouldered his weapon and made his way back to the front.

“You know the drill, men!” he called. “Get in, neutralize the threats, and get out!”

The bay doors opened, and Lennox found himself swept away in the wave of men who poured from the truck. The battle wasn’t initially visible, but the vibrating earth and painful sounds indicated that they were close.

Santos took command easily, gesturing for Lennox to join him as he stepped aside to allow his men to take the lead.

“How quickly can your men get into formation?” Lennox asked curiously, falling into step behind Santos and cringing when a horrific screech of metal on metal sounded. The buildings here were just high enough to hide the combatants from sight—a fact that made Lennox nervous, but Santos seemed unbothered.

“Teams Alpha and Gamma will be in place much faster than Beta, but it shouldn’t take any more than a few minutes. I’ll attach you to Gamma squad once you’ve learned all of our formations, Captain. It shouldn’t take you long. I’ve heard good things about you, Lennox. I was pleased to hear you’d been assigned to us, no matter how temporary it may turn out to be.”

Lennox blinked, surprised by the compliment.

“Thank you, sir,” he replied. “I’ve heard good things about you and your team, as well. I’m glad to be here.”

He’d had no choice but to be here, but that wasn’t the point.

Santos’ radio crackled. “Alpha squad in place.”

“Excellent,” Santos said, and reached for the radio to speak into it. “Hold position until Gamma is set. Beta, how close are you to the assigned location?”

“Give us two minutes, sir. The terrain was more difficult to navigate than we’d expected. The western staircase was completely ripped apart, so we had to find another way in.”

Santos hummed. “Not as bad as it could have been. Beta squad, continue to the third set of coordinates. You’ll be our second wave, understand?”

“Yessir.”

Lennox tilted his head.

“Second wave?” he asked. Santos waved a hand dismissively.

“You’ll see,” the commander said. He broke out into an easy jog. Lennox followed, and they entered a building, ascending a small set of stairs. Lennox’s eyes widened in shock when they entered what must have previously been some sort of lounge. The building had been abandoned long ago, dusty couches and shattered glass covering the floor. Through the broken windows at the front, Lennox could make out two massive forms colliding against each other on the other side.

“Gamma squad in place. All guns primed and ready to fire. Do we have permission to continue, sir?”

“Permission granted. Alpha team, Gamma team—you are cleared for firing. The moment you see an opening, take it.”

Lennox stood in front of the window and watched as the two Cybertronians duked it out, transfixed by the intense hand-to-hand combat skills both opponents displayed. The Autobot was holding his own, but he was smaller than the brightly-colored Decepticon. Lennox was fascinated by the living machines—even when he had worked side by side with the Autobots he had rarely witnessed their training sessions, and during combat he had been too occupied with his own opponents to watch the Autobots fight. Now, for once, he has a clear view of the battle, and it was ten times more interesting when Lennox wasn’t worried about getting stepped on.

The Autobot was sturdy, despite having less mass than the Decepticon. He was slower, but his hits seemed to pack a punch—a much different fighting style than the Decepticon, who wielded a sword and struck in quick, glancing blows. Every time they collided, sparks erupted into the air.

The Decepticon fell back suddenly, optics scanning his opponent as if looking for an opening in the Autobot’s defense. Unfortunately for the Decepticon, in doing so he unknowingly left his back wide open, and TRF struck hard, without hesitation. The Decepticon bellowed in surprise and pain as Alpha and Gamma squad caught him in a vicious crossfire of rockets and heavy caliber bullets.

“Tell your men to aim for the gaps in armor at his shoulders and hips,” Lennox commented to Santos, watching from a safe distance away. “It won’t kill him, but if you can manage to get rid of a limb it’ll leave an unarmored access point to his insides.”

Santos relayed the information to his men, and Lennox nodded in approval as the Decepticon howled in pain again, spitting out what had to be some sort of curse in it’s native language. The Autobot scrambled back as the explosive firepower increased, pinning the Decepticon in place.

Lennox hated to admit it, but he was impressed with the ease the TRF took down the Decepticon. It had taken him and his own men ages to figure out the best ways to take down the Autobot’s enemies, and that was even with advice from mecha such as Bumblebee, or Sideswipe. TRF was succeeding with sheer force and a simple formation.

(Although, to be fair, Lennox hadn’t had as many men or resources as Santos did.)

The Con crumpled in record time, and someone got in a lucky shot as a grenade punctured through a weak spot in the Cybertronian’s armor. Green energon splattered, and the Decepticon let out one final screech of pain before it stilled, and it’s optics dulled. The Autobot watched it go down passively, optics narrowed.

“Nice job, men,” Santos said. Lennox nodded and turned, moving for the stairs—but Santos didn’t follow him.

“Commander?” he said slowly. Behind them, the Autobot was peering around curiously, glancing at the TRF agents—not fearfully, but warily, at least. Lennox wondered what TRF was planning on doing to convince it to return to base with them.

Then, Santos spoke again.

“Take out the other one.”

A hail of weaponry descended from behind the Autobot—Beta squad had finally gotten into position, just in time to get the drop on the unfortunate Cybertronian. It wailed in surprise, whirling and lifting a gun, but before it could fire Alpha and Gamma squad joined in, trapping the Autobot between three lines of fire.

Lennox’s jaw dropped.

“What are you doing!” he shouted. “That’s an Autobot! Friendly, friendly, hold your fire!”

Santos didn’t even look at him. Lennox let his assault rifle fall from his hands, nearly sprinting the distance to his new commander and grabbing the man’s arm.

“Call your men off! That thing is not our enemy, Santos—Santos!” In desperation, he reached for his own radio, wincing and nearly fumbling when the Autobot let out a low cry of pain.

“All units, stand down immediately!” he shouted into the radio. “Stand down, hold your fire—!”

The fist that slammed into his face sent him reeling backwards, and his radio dropped into the dust, delicate components shattering on impact. Santos suddenly towered above him, and there was something aggressive and terrible in his expression. Lennox tensed.

“Continue fire. Take the invader down,” Santos said coldly. “Captain Lennox’s advice is to be ignored.”

The Autobot screamed, and it’s voicebox glitched out, spitting static into the air. Lennox gritted his teeth.

“You’re killing it,” he hissed. Santos nodded.

“Of course we are,” he said. “They’re alien invaders, Lennox. The so-called factions don’t matter on our planet. They destroy homes, families—entire cities. Chicago is gone, Captain.”

“The Autobots had nothing to do with that!” Lennox growled. “They defended us, millions more would have died if they hadn’t—!”

“I don’t care,” Santos said bluntly. “I don’t care, and neither do my men. We have jobs to do, Captain, and if you can’t obey my orders I’ll see you transferred out faster than you can blink.”

An explosion shook the ground, and Santos’ radio crackled to life.

“The Autobot is down, sir. It might not be dead yet, we can’t see it’s optics from here .”

“Alpha squad, get down there and check,” Santos ordered. “Careful. It wouldn’t be the first time one of ‘em’s pretended to be offline.”

He continued to relay instructions to the men, but Lennox didn’t hear them—all Lennox could hear was the Autobot’s pained cry as TRF opened fire, the heavy crash as it hit the ground, wailing in betrayal and fear—

Lennox was running, then, racing for the ground floor. Santos’ shout went ignored. He reached the earth at a full sprint and bolted for the courtyard the fight had commenced in, swinging wide around the corner to avoid the Decepticon’s smoking body. Someone from Alpha squad shouted at him as he raced past, but they went ignored, too.

The Autobot wasn’t dead. It’s vents were quivering, struggling to keep it from overheating, but it was fighting a losing battle—as Lennox approached, the heat rising from the metallic form made him flinch away. It lifted it’s head slightly, optics wide, and Lennox clenched his fists helplessly when he saw the tons of energon draining from the dozens of punctures visible in it’s frame.

He took another step forward, braving the blistering heat. The Autobot flinched back. It was terrified. Lennox let out a shuddering breath, lifting his hands to show he was unarmed.

“I’m sorry,” Lennox whispered. The Autobot stilled completely at his words, and tiny mechanisms in it’s eyes shifted as it turned its entire attention to him. The weight of the massive being’s awareness was enormous, even as it was moments from death.

Lennox gritted his teeth. “I’m sorry,” he gasped out again. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. I’m sorry. This… this wasn’t what Prime wanted.”

The apologies didn’t make Lennox feel any better. Apologies couldn’t save this Autobot. Apologies couldn’t bring back a dead planet, or give an alien race of sentient robots a home. At the very least, the Autobot shifted at the mention of his Prime, hissing out a jumble of syllables so garbled that Lennox couldn’t tell if it had spoken in English or Cybertronian.

“I didn’t know they would—” Lennox began haltingly. “I didn’t know… I would have…”

He trailed off shaking his head, and suddenly realized that he wasn’t sure what he had planned to accomplish by speaking to the bot. There was nothing he could do to help. Without warning all he wanted to do was turn around and run again, run away from TRF, away from the Autobots—but to do so felt like a betrayal to Prime’s memory. One of Optimus’ loyal soldiers lay dying at the hands of humans. It was the least Lennox could do to stay with him, to stop TRF from doing any more damage than they already had.

“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. He couldn’t stop apologizing. The Autobot watched him silently, save for the clicking and resetting of displaced gears and parts that would never be repaired. It had to be in excruciating pain, but it was still, and looked at him. Lennox could only stare back at it, his face contorted in his helplessness.

A screech of moving metal caused Lennox to flinch. He’d been so focused on the Autobot’s face that he hadn’t thought to watch the rest of it’s battered body—a massive arm was slowly lifted, reaching toward him and spraying sparks as it moved. Lennox held completely still as fingers the size of his entire arm quested closer. Someone in Alpha squad shouted in alarm as they approached, but neither Lennox nor the Autobot looked at them.

The fingers tapped his chest gently, and then shifted up, resting on the top of his head. So lightly that Lennox could barely feel it, as if the Autobot was taking extreme care not to harm him, it patted him in a gesture that appeared to be… comforting.

Which didn’t make sense. The Autobot was bleeding out. If anything, the Cybertronian was the one who need reassurance, not Lennox—but the touch, as unexpected as it was, succeeded in calming Lennox down. His eyes widened as the Autobot’s optics flickered, and it’s frame shuddered.

“t’s... ‘lright,” the Autobot hissed out, so quietly that Lennox had to lean closer to understand. “Alr%*&&(#ight.” It’s words were interspersed with static and white noise, but it continued to speak determinedly. “Not yourrrr##%#$^^ fau#lt. Not—” It spat energon from its intake. A dry noise that Lennox would have called a cough if the bot had been human erupted from its vocalizer. “Where—where, sss%#*Prim()e?”

“He’s… he’s safe,” Lennox said. “Optimus is safe. I promise.”

The Autobot smiled weakly, and Lennox’s heart clenched.

“N::ot your fault,” the Autobot said again, clearer than anything else he’d attempted to say. “Prime… safe]]…”

It’s optics flickered again, once, twice. It jerked it’s hand away to rest it on the ground, and then, with a whine of failing machinery, it stopped moving.

Offline.

Lennox was a soldier. He’d seen men die in battle before. He’d seen bots die, too, some in much more horrendous ways than this. He’d learned how to disassociate himself very quickly once he’d reached a position of higher rank, grieving for his men as they were lost but managing himself so that their deaths didn’t hang over him.

Deaths hurt; they always did. But for some reason… this one hurt more than most others had.

He stepped, back, bowing his head respectfully as Alpha squad filed closer, aiming their weapons at the Autobot’s destroyed frame. Lennox had to fight to keep his sudden surge of anger contained.

“He’s already dead. Don’t waste your ammo,” he growled at them, and several of them men drew back, taken by surprise at Lennox’s furious tone.

“Captain Lennox!”

Speaking of furious tones.

Santos did not sound happy, but Lennox couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Lennox, are you trying to get yourself court-martialed? You broke formation! My men could have been placed in unnecessary danger because you felt sympathy for a target—an alien invader, at that—!”

Lennox whirled on his commander, face twisted in a snarl.

“He was innocent!” he raged without hesitation. “That Autobot hadn’t done anything wrong, wasn’t going to do anything wrong, and you shot him because he looked dangerous. That’s not protection, Santos, it’s murder! They just want a home! The Decepticons are the ones tearing up our cities. I’ll arm myself against them without hesitation, but that was unnecessary!”

Santos glowered at him, signalling for his men to begin to pack up even as he strode toward Lennox. Lennox froze, tensing in anticipation of another blow, but instead of throwing a punch Santos grabbed Lennox by the shoulder and leaned in.

“Do you know why I signed up to join TRF?” Santos hissed, right by Lennox’s ear. “We lived in Brazil, me, my wife, and our two children. A son and a daughter. Twelve years old, and seven years old. Happiest time of my life—right up until those Autobots came tearing through the jungle, exchanging blows with their faction counterparts and not caring if they crushed a couple of homes in the process.” Lennox swallowed, trying to pull away from Santos’ grip, but Santos pulled Lennox closer. “They killed my family. I don’t care if they’re fighting a war. This is our planet. If they wanted a place to fight, they could have gone to Mars. They come here, they’re invaders. Regardless of faction, or how helpful they are. You have a  wife and daughter, don’t you? How’d you feel if one of those Autobots you’ve worked with suddenly turned around and crushed them beneath those giant feet?”

Lennox’s stomach dropped at the very suggestion, even though he knew it wouldn’t ever happen. Ironhide had been the only transformer to meet his family, and the big mech had been so concerned with the baby’s well being during the encounter that he’d refused to transform while she was around out of fear of crushing the newborn child. The weapons specialist had been fascinated by Lennox’s daughter despite his worries, and had spent most of their time together marvelling at her tiny fingers and toes.

It was one of Lennox’s favorite memories of the large Autobot, but as enlightening as the experience had been, he understood Santos’ logic.

“Santos, they aren’t trying to come to earth, they just—” he tried weakly, but Santos cut him off.

“That’s Commander Santos to you, Captain,” he said stiffly. “You’re on thin ice, soldier. I will overlook your actions today for the sole reason that your advice and experience cut our mission completion time in half. Do anything like this again, and I’ll report you to high command. I don’t care what you think of the aliens, Captain, but while you’re on my team, you’ll obey my orders and shoot what you’re ordered to shoot. Is that clear?”

The chain of command had been reinforced. Lennox snapped to attention automatically.

“Yes, sir,” he barked out obediently. He'd lose his job if Santos reported him to high command. Santos continued to glare at him for a long moment before whirling on his heel and beginning to march away.  

“Don’t let this happen again,” he tossed back over his shoulder. “Let’s move. The men are waiting on you.”

Lennox slumped the moment Santos was out of his direct sight, shoulders sagging.

His eyes stung. He ignored them and turned away from the Autobot’s corpse.

It wasn’t right, but he was helpless to do anything else.

 Cade found that running from the government was much easier to do when you had an alien ship at your disposal.

Well, assuming Drift was driving. When Crosshairs drove, things tended to get… messy. The very first time the green Autobot had taken the ‘wheel’, so to speak, he’d barely been in the pilot’s seat for ten minutes before the samurai had stalked into the cockpit and resorted to a forceful removal of the cackling pirate. Crosshairs had complained that his reckless driving hadn’t hurt anyone, but Hound had been moments from purging (who would have guessed that the toughest of them all had the weakest stomach?), and Bumblebee could barely keep his balance in the wildly bucking vehicle.

Crosshairs had since been exiled from the ship’s cockpit, a fact that he was very vocal about protesting.

Time seemed suspended while they were up in the air. From the confines of Lockdown’s old ship it was difficult for Cade to tell what time of day it was. His sleeping patterns had been irregular far before his encounter with Optimus Prime, and their travelling only made things worse. It was difficult to work on finding a new location for them to call home from satellite imagery, too, and Cade hated sending bots off to investigate different places even though it was necessary. TRF was getting bolder and bolder with every strike, and Cade had zero intention of greeting Optimus with news of a fallen comrade once the Prime returned.

Grimlock was… pretty terrifying, if Cade was being perfectly honest with himself. The dinobot kept mostly to himself, with only Slug the alien triceratops as a companion. The rest of the Dinobots had disappeared after the battle against Lockdown—whether they had been killed in the thick fighting, or were simply unwilling to leave their sanctuary in the mountains, Cade wasn’t sure. Both Dinobots were rarely seen outside their beast form, and on occasion Cade forgot they had a bipedal mode at all. He was so curious about it that on one evening he cracked and asked Drift about it. The samurai had been attempting to meditate at the time, and his optics had brightened in annoyance at the interruption before his expression smoothed out.

“You ask me why they prefer to walk the Earth as beasts, instead of mechs?” he asked, and Cade nodded.

“Yeah,” Cade answered. “It just seems like it’d be so much more convenient for them to be able to talk to you guys like normal, y’know? And they’d take up less space that way, too.”

Drift looked at him intently.

“Grimlock and his people were left on this planet many centuries ago,” he said. “While abandoned, there was no need to act as though they were civilized. It was simpler, on this primitive planet, to act as beasts. Easier to keep the natives away, and easier to keep themselves in check. Our arrival does not change their customs, so they do not transform. They cannot be who they once were, not anymore.”

Cade frowned.

“That sounds kinda sad,” he pointed out. “What if they want to go back to the way it was before?”

Drift tilted his head.

“Abandoning your past is not always a bad thing,” the samurai muttered, and one metal hand lifted to run absent-mindedly across a scar on his shoulder. “Sometimes, it is the only way to survive.”

Cade blinked. “I’m not doing that,” he said, with so much force that he surprised even himself. Drift’s optics widened, and then he leaned down toward Cade, spreading his arms in a placating gesture.

“You misunderstand me, Cade Yeager,” the Autobot said. “I do not mean you should abandon those in your life you’ve been forced to leave behind.”

Cade let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding, and thought of Tessa. Even if he couldn’t be with her now, he wasn’t going to leave her behind. Never.

“No, friend, peace,” Drift continued. “I was speaking of my own past, nothing more. Now, if you are satisfied with the answer I have given, I wish to return to my meditation—”

“What do you mean, your past?” Cade interrupted, curious despite Drift’s reluctance to continue the conversation. “You abandoned your past? Don’t you want to go home?”

Drift paused. “I abandoned my past, that is correct. But I have not abandoned my planet. Do not accuse me of such a thing.”

“Sorry,” Cade said quickly. “So, uh… what’d you abandon, exactly? Who were you before you went all… samurai-y?”

Drift let out a hot vent of air that washed over Cade forcefully. Being in such close quarters with the Autobots meant that Cade had started to learn their mannerisms, and Drift’s mighty ex-vent was a sure sign that the conversation was over.

“That is a conversation for another time,” Drift said stiffly, and offlined his optics. “My past is of no concern anymo—”

“You mean ya don’t know?” a voice came from the door. Cade scrambled to the side as Crosshairs came bursting through the door. The green mech’s metal cape had a nasty habit of flicking out and whapping unsuspecting humans on the head. “Drift, mech, you didn’t tell him? Sneaky, sneaky.”

Drift onlined a single optic and peered at Crosshairs with an expression that all but screamed danger. Crosshairs, as usual, was oblivious, strolling up and poking at the samurai.

“No worries, I’ll tell ‘im whatever you won’t,” Crosshairs purred, shooting a sly wink at Cade. His words had their desired effect—Drift leapt to his pedes, irritation flashing across his face and one hand going to his swords.

“It is not your place to speak of my past!” the samurai hissed, and both Crosshairs and Cade jumped at the startlingly aggressive reaction. Crosshairs, for once, looked just a tad guilty.

“Sorry, sorry,” Crosshairs muttered. “Touchy, ain’t he?” he said to Cade. “Can’t even make a joke nowadays, sheesh.”

Drift settled slightly, lowering the hand from his sword hilt. “Apologies,” he said, but he didn’t sound sorry. “It is not…” he paused for a moment, and then his face fell. “It is… something you should know, Cade Yeager. It is not something I enjoy speaking about.”

Crosshairs looked shocked.

“Wait—you’re actually gonna tell ‘im?” he drawled. “Whoa, didn’t expect that.”

Drift glared at him, and then looked down at Cade.

“I will tell you this, because you are a friend of the Prime’s,” he said. “But do not expect explicit details, because you will not have them.”

“Aww,” Crosshairs pouted. He was ignored.

Drift still hesitated. Cade was about to tell him that it was fine, he didn’t need to know, but then Drift spoke again and Cade’s mind froze.

“I was once a Decepticon,” he admitted. “On Cybertron, I served Lord Me—I served Megatron as one of his most skilled warriors.” He rubbed at the scar on his arm again—with a start Cade realized that was where his Decepticon insignia would have been. “I was young, and believed in Megatron’s original teachings of fair treatment for all Cybertronians, regardless of their position in the caste system. As such, I was swayed to his side and fought many battles against the Autobots as Deadlock, an officer in the Decepticon army. It is not… a time that I enjoy dwelling upon.”

Cade’s eyes were wide. “So why did you leave?” he asked. “Why did you join the Autobots?”

“I was shown the error of my ways by a friend who recognized how far Megatron had fallen from his original goal. He taught me the value of freedom, and trained me in the way of the sword.” Drift smiled. “I owe much to him.”

Cade was almost afraid to ask, but he did anyway.

“What… happened to him? Your friend. Did he survive the war?”

Drift hummed. “He was killed, even as he fought to save thousands from slavery. I have long since made peace with his demise.” He lifted his helm. “I will never forget what Wing taught me. I fight with my swords in his name, and took up the Prime’s words even as I abandoned Megatron’s: Freedom is the right of all sentient beings. I swore to serve Optimus Prime from that day forward.”

“Wow, that’s much more exciting than my own story,” Crosshairs commented. “But not by much.”

Drift lifted an optic ridge skeptically.

“You left Cybertron halfway through the war to become a scavenger, then joined the Autobots again when your ship was damaged and you were forced to crashland on Earth,” he said bluntly, and Crosshairs’ face twisted in shock and surprise. The expression was so out of place on the ordinarily headstrong gunner that Cade couldn’t help it—he laughed. That only made Crosshairs flail harder, spluttering as Drift looked on smugly.  

“I— Pirate, you fraggin’ samurai, I became a pirate,” Crosshairs spat out. “That sounds so much cooler than scavenger. Primus, how’d you even know that?”

“A magician never reveals his secrets,” Drift replied teasingly, and Crosshairs scowled at him, one hand reaching for his gun.

“Hey, guys, Bee just got back from patrollin’ those new coordinates Cade came up with,” Hound suddenly said, interrupting the tension through the ship-wide comm system. “He’s got some good news. You might wanna get up here.”

Crosshairs whirled to leave, muttering about nosy samurai, and Drift followed, scooping Cade up in his hands so the human wouldn’t be left behind. Cade was used to such treatment by now and held still as Drift made his way to the cockpit, where Hound was taking his turn to fly. Bumblebee was waiting for them, wriggling with excitement.

  “Y’all ready for this?” blared out of his radio, and Bee animatedly slid his way over to a information console, plugging in a set of coordinates. Drift set Cade down on top of the console so he could see what Bee had found.

The coordinates were… pretty close to Chicago, a hotspot for TRF activity, which made Cade nervous. Other than it’s close proximity to the destroyed city… the junkyard appeared to have potential. Cade studied it for a long moment before turning to Hound.

“It could be the one,” he admitted, and grinned as Bee played thunderous applause, kicking out his pedes in celebration.

“You got it!” Hound said cheerfully. “One sketchy looking junkyard, coming right up!” He grabbed at the controls. Bee folded down into alt-mode, zipping past them no doubt to head to his quarters, and Crosshairs followed, muttering something about high-grade. Cade turned and caught Drift’s optics before the samurai could disappear as well.

“Going back to your room before we land, Drift?” Cade asked, motioning for Drift to bring him along. Drift obliged him, picking the human up once again.

“Seeing as my meditation was interrupted and replaced by storytime, I would like to do so before we leave. So, yes,” Drift answered. Cade nodded.

“Hey, Drift? Just so you know… I don’t care if you used to be a Decepticon. None of the others do, not even Crosshairs, and I think… I think Wing would be proud to see the man—er, the mech you’ve become.”

Drift froze, lurching a bit unsteadily. Cade nearly tumbled from his hands, barely managing to hold onto a finger.

“Cade Yeager,” Drift said slowly, raising Cade up to eye level. Cade stared into the samurai’s startlingly wide optics. “I thank you. I… do not believe you understand how much your words mean to me.”

Cade placed a careful hand on Drift’s cheek, fascinated by the way the plating making up his face moved.

“No problem, Drift,” he said softly, as sincerely as he could make it. “The Autobots are lucky to have you.”

 Space was vast. Incredibly so. Optimus had known that long before he decided to leave earth, but even knowing he was setting off on a near impossible task did not prepare him for the loneliness and freezing cold of empty space.

In the end, that was what knocked him into stasis—it wasn’t a lack of fuel (he’d brought along plenty of energon), nor was it any sort of malfunction, or a sudden devastating plasma shower.

It was the hopelessness that swept through his body after three long months of searching, to no avail. It was the exhaustion of the mind, not the body—and though he struggled against it, there was nothing he could do against the crushing depression as it settled deep into his frame, freezing his limbs in place and halting his efforts.

He was tired. Optimus had been fighting for eons.

He wanted to rest.

The moment he focused on his fatigue was the moment he lost the will to continue, and though he was ashamed to admit it, he was powerless to fight against it. His processor refused to function, and his jets cut out, spluttering out weakly.

He would die out here, alone, if this continued.

The admission felt like a betrayal. Optimus was Prime. Autobots across the universe were counting on him to put an end to eons of war… but in the back of his mind a dim, selfish section of his processor argued that he’d done his duty for long enough—that he deserved rest, deserved to let someone else take command.

His creator was somewhere out there as well, anticipating his arrival, but Optimus knew he wasn’t going to make it.

He’d failed.

He managed to position himself out of the path of any stars or black holes before his optics failed, and spent an indeterminable amount of time floating weightlessly wherever space took him. The chill settled into his frame, and a wave of panic swept over him.

In a final, desperate attempt at salvation, he recorded a message, set it on loop, and began to broadcast it out into empty space.

Darkness took him, then, and he knew no more.

 Across a galaxy, she woke to the sound of her finest creation’s voice, light-years away but still audible to her.

She smiled softly.

Optimus Prime was coming home.

Chapter Text

“You would trust me with something as important as this?” Hot Rod asked. “Because it seems like something that might require… subtlety. And responsibility. I have very little of either.”

Burton looked amused at that, chuckling. Cogman made a sighing noise next to him, visible gears twitching in agitation.

“He does have a point, sir, he may not be the best choice,” Cogman pointed out. Hot Rod nodded in immediate agreement. “He’s flashy, stupid, and irresponsible to the point of extreme—”

“Oi, oi, so maybe that’s true, but there’s no need to say it like that — !”

Cogman continued as if he hadn’t even heard Hot Rod speak. “—so perhaps someone else would be better suited to the task.”

“Someone like whom, Cogman?” Burton asked, shifting his weight and tilting dangerously when one of his knees trembled. Both Cogman and Hot Rod tensed, preparing to leap out and catch their master if necessary, but the old man righted himself with an annoyed look.

“Surely you didn’t just think I was about to fall, you two? I’m not that old, you brats.” He whapped half-heartedly at Cogman with his cane, who didn’t even bother to dodge the blow, allowing it to clang noisily against his helm.

(Neither Cybertronian bothered to point out that they were both countless centuries older than the human, because that argument had been proposed before and always ended in quite a bit of yelling and Burton waving his cane around like a sword. Despite his protests, the man was getting old, and all of the Cybertronians taking refuge on his grounds knew it.)

Burton steadied himself and looked back up toward Hot Rod again.

“Really, my old friend, who else could do such a task? Bulldog is too old, and too attached to his current vehicular form to consider changing. Cogman can’t transform into anything useful—”

“On the contrary, sir, my alternate form is quite important, and you know that—!”

“Cogman can’t turn into anything useful —a giant head, for pity’s sake, you couldn’t have picked anything better?—and the others are quite literally falling apart.” Burton looked up, and suddenly his gaze was dead serious. Their master very much enjoyed teasing and prodding, but he did know where to draw the line, and Hot Rod was frozen by the human’s stare. “It must be you. And it must be now. She is old enough to start unintentionally drawing attention to herself, and you know as well as anyone else that she’s a very important target.”

Hot Rod shuffled his pedes.

“I understand, yes, yes, but—”

“No buts,” Burton stopped him firmly. “The child of Merlin is at risk, mech. You swore an oath when your kind came into contact with the order of the Witwiccans, and now I am calling you to answer that oath.”

“I will complete my duty,” Hot Rod said quickly. Cogman humphed behind him.

“You’d better, for once,” the headmaster grumbled. “Else I’ll be the one who gets to listen to him complain about it.”

Hot Rod narrowed his optics and took a single step forward, scooping Cogman up into his hands effortlessly. Cogman let out a very undignified squawk, kicking at Hot Rod’s hands uselessly.

“Put me down, you spawn of the Pit, release me this instant —”

If Cogman really wanted to get free, Hot Rod knew with absolute surety that he could and would. Cogman’s harmless appearance was deceptive. The headmaster was stocked full of all types of blades, missiles, and explosives. Fortunately, Cogman didn’t want to harm him, so it was with no small amount of glee that Hot Rod dumped the tiny Cybertronian in the center of Burton’s grand fountain.

Burton roared with laughter at the sight of Cogman rising from the depths of the fountain, dripping wet, and turning furious optics on Hot Rod.

“Well, you did tell me to put you down,” Hot Rod pointed out, and then yelped when Cogman’s jaw folded back, revealing a plethora of large and rather vicious-looking missiles.

“You’d better get going, then, lad,” Burton advised (unhelpfully). “I’ll text you the address after Cogman’s had his fun, eh? Oh, and the ferrari form needs to go. As beautiful as it is, subtlety is key. Can you manage that for a couple of months?”

Hot Rod didn’t answer him, because he was busy dodging Cogman’s first missile and spiralling down into the beautiful black and orange ferrari. Cogman wasn’t aiming for anything too vital, but it would still hurt like the Pit and Hot Rod had no intention of being put out of service for a few weeks because Cogman couldn’t take a joke.

His tires squealed as he shot away, swerving to avoid another missile and laughing wildly at the thrill. Cogman chased after him. He wouldn’t be able to catch up—Hot Rod was too fast, and his engine roared at his command, sending him shooting down Burton’s long driveway.

Babysitting hadn’t necessarily been on his to-do list, but Burton did have a few good points—the child of Merlin would only be in more danger as she grew older, and he had sworn an oath a long, long time ago to obey the orders of the Witwiccan organization. It was a pain, and he despised leaving the beloved ferrari behind for something that was no doubt going to be embarrassing in comparison.

But Burton had trusted him with this assignment, and Hot Rod wasn’t going to fail.

Not this time.

When Canopy’s systems finally started their reboot, Canopy tried very hard to convince himself to just go back into recharge.

Maybe he’d wake up, and it all would have been a dream. The war, the death, the crashland on an unfamiliar planet—

Then again, that was far too much to hope for. He sat in silence and fear for several kliks before finally daring to open his optics.

His first view wasn’t much, but that was because his escape pod had landed window-side down. The only light came from his own biolights and the flickering emergency light that had somehow survived, casting an eerie glow across the crumpled metal.

Incredibly, Canopy was mostly unharmed. The metal had crumpled around him, yes, but Canopy’s thick plating had protected him from most of the damage—superficial scratches covered his entire body, and long sections of paint were completely stripped away, but nothing was life-threatening, or even overly painful. A tiny bit of metalburn was the worst he’d sustained, which stung fiercely, but at least he wasn’t leaking energon.

The relief slammed into him with all the force of a titan. The sensation made him dizzy. He crawled to his hands and knees and shuffled through the wrecked pod toward where the doors had been.

He himself was unharmed, but he knew he’d been headed toward a city or town of some sort when he’d lost control. He sent a quick prayer up to the heavens that the organics would be merciful if he’d destroyed anything important—or, Primus forbid, terminated anyone.

The doors refused to budge once he found them—at least, the button command to spiral them open didn’t work. Canopy didn’t have any weapons, but he was stronger than most mechs, and it was an easy task to pry open the sheets of metal and let in the light from the foreign world.

His optics had to cycle several times before they became accustomed to the bright glow of the nearby star. Cybertron was a dark planet, with acid rain clouds commonly hovering overhead. The closest stars had been near enough to provide light, but not much of it, leaving Canopy’s people to create lights themselves instead. The powerful star of this organic planet surprised him.

Once he’d finally adjusted, he was shocked at what he saw.

The city around him was deserted. Many buildings were crushed, glass windows shattered and doors caved in. Trash littered the ground, and there wasn’t a single organic in sight. Canopy stared dumbly at the ruins for a few moments, gaping in surprise.

He couldn’t decide if it was good luck or bad luck that no one ran out to greet him as he stepped cautiously forward. In fact, nothing even moved, and Canopy dimly wondered what had caused such a thing. The organics wouldn’t have left such a grand place voluntarily, and it’s razed state meant that something terrible had happened—and Canopy would bet shanix on that something being Decepticons.

That wasn’t a good sign. Canopy had attempted to remain neutral throughout the majority of the war—he was a builder, not a fighter, and had no desire to partake in any kind of violence. Unfortunately, he had realized partway through that the Decepticons didn’t care to allow neutrals the choice of staying out of the conflict. Horror stories of Decepticons forcing neutrals to choose between deactivation or swearing allegiance to Megatron had scared Canopy (and many other neutrals) into seeking refuge with the Autobots. There, at least, his decision to avoid fighting was respected and he was able to assist with construction… until…

He shuttered his optics and vented nervously as his frame shook. He wasn’t ready to think about that yet.

He glanced back at his escape pod and wasn’t surprised to see that it was completely decimated. Unusable, unless he wanted to strip it for parts. Canopy was certain he could build something that was more efficient, provided he could find sufficient parts, and it was with that in mind that he began to make his way down the wide road in front of him.

The buildings towered above him on either side, and he glanced around nervously, keeping watch for anything potentially dangerous. His pedes crunched noisily on glass and metal, and he winced with every step, fully aware of the loud noises he was making.

Nothing jumped out to attack him. No Decepticons, no scraplets, not even an organic. Canopy kept a slow pace as he wandered warily through the abandoned streets.

He was wondering how he was ever going to find anything in the maze of metal when a thought struck his processor, and it was such an obvious answer that he nearly smacked his own helm in exasperation. He had several different types of sensors equipped on his frame, but he’d only used them during his work, to check out different construction sites and assess the qualities of his creations. He hadn’t even thought to use them until now.

Heat sensors whirred to life, and it was if Canopy was looking at the city with a whole new set of optics. Little flares of life appeared all around him—organics, no doubt, but he didn’t see anything large enough to be Cybertronian—if there were any, they were either able to hide from his sensors or out of his range.

So, there were organics still in the city, but it seemed that they were in hiding. Canopy didn’t mind that so much, if they were there it meant that the area was reasonably safe.

Safe enough to hide a lonely refugee, at least.

Canopy hissed in annoyance as his helm caught on a low-hanging wire draped across the street, and had to resist the urge to rip it down. Even if he didn’t interact with the organics, he had to respect their creations, or else they might see fit to come after him in revenge.

He meandered for a few more long moments, watching organics scuttle about in fascination. They tended to stay in groups—family units, no doubt, apart from a few loners who were travelling fast and far. Canopy was intrigued by the tiny things, flitting among the rubble and moving so quietly that he had to strain his sensors to the maximum in order to hear their footfalls. He was so intent on watching the tiny blips of heat maneuver their way through the destroyed city that he didn’t realize he was coming to the end of the street until he’d collided with the wall. Cycling his optics in surprise, he took a step back to glance upward at the building—

—and froze in startled shock as Optimus Prime stared back at him from above.

Not the real Optimus, unfortunately, but a poster of the Prime’s iconic helm. Canopy had only seen the leader of the Autobots once, from afar as he worked on one of the Autobot’s projects, but the Prime’s features were unmistakable.

As was the human writing beneath the image.

ENEMY

Canopy’s processor, although not equipped with high-quality integrating programs, had been lazily accessing the planet’s languages and customs since he’d come into orbit. There were thousands of different languages to study. Canopy had been overwhelmed by them all, but he’d been able to pick out many important phrases and words that he felt might be important to know. ‘Enemy’ he’d learned with the intention of saying ‘I’m not an enemy’, but it seemed the organics had already judged him in that regard.

The sudden terror of that realization struck him hard, and he reeled back, stepping on the front hood of a vehicle and crushing it. A shrill and grating alarm went off, only serving to panic Canopy even more.

Enemy. They were enemy here? Or was Optimus the enemy? He turned, flicking his pede to get rid of the vehicle, and then froze again when he saw a second poster, half-hidden by a crumbling brick wall. The word was the same, but the picture was different—this one depicted Megatron, leader of the Decepticons, and Canopy’s spark stuttered.

That settled it, then. All Cybertronians, regardless of faction, had been declared enemies of this planet… but how, and why? Canopy couldn’t imagine the Prime ever doing something that would give a whole planet reason to turn against him. What had happened?

...More importantly, where could Canopy hide?

No organics were near at the moment, but one was headed in his direction, and Canopy didn’t know enough about them to properly defend himself if one of them happened to be equipped with some sort of weapon. His frame shuddered as he turned, heaving his considerable bulk as fast as he could down the street.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to run very far before he came across a gaping hole in the ground, leading underneath one of the larger buildings. Canopy lowered himself into it without hesitation. There were lines and writing painted in large letters on the ground beneath him, and Canopy had to stoop to fit inside—it was organic-made, no doubt, but dust flew up as he crawled forward. No one had been there for a long, long time. It was a perfect spot for an oversized, terror-stricken, and now panicking refugee to hide for the night.

Canopy curled himself as small as he could and made his way as far from the entrance as possible. Eventually, the only light in the dark space came from his own body, and it was there that he finally stopped, struggling to quiet the loud rattles that shook through his frame.

Borderline-hysteria threatened to consume him, and his vents spun loud and frantic to prevent overheating. Canopy wasn’t ashamed to admit that he was terrified. He was on an unfamiliar planet, alone, low on rations and supplies, and to top it all off, the native residents seemed to have some sort of grudge against all Cybertronians in general.

Canopy huddled in the dark, and tried very, very hard not to break down into sobs.

He was largely unsuccessful.

The junkyard was everything Cade had hoped for—that is, after he’d managed to convince the owner of the property to let him have the run of the place. Sherman… hadn’t been very keen on allowing Cade access, especially once Hound had grown impatient and landed the ship in broad daylight. For a few terrifying moments, Cade was sure the large man was going to flip out—call the authorities, or punch Cade in the face, or simply run screaming into the distance. Naturally, Bumblebee had taken that moment to emerge from the ship as well, nearly sprinting in his excitement to finally out of the tight confines of the ship—

And had promptly tripped over a rusted pickup truck, sprawling head-over-heels and landing directly on his face. It had happened so quickly that Bee hadn’t had time to even cry out, and as such his startled squawk of dismay and surprise came after the dust had settled.

It had taken every inch of Cade’s self-control to not burst out laughing at the sight. From the ship, Crosshairs had no such reserves, and burst into raunchy laughter—which wasn’t helping. Cade gritted his teeth nervously and turned back toward Sherman, intending to… apologize, maybe, or even attack if he had to… but Sherman himself was hiding a strange, bewildered smile. He turned toward Cade, shaking his head, and heaved a sigh that was marred by his tiny grin.

“You’re lucky it’s me and not anyone else,” he said. “I don’t know you’re here. I don’t know anything about flying ships, a wanted man, giant clumsy robots—” Bee let out an offended beep as he rose to his feet, which went ignored. “I don’t know you’re here. Keep them out of trouble, and we won’t have any problems, understand?”

Cade could hardly believe his ears.

“You a sympathizer?” he asked. Sherman had tilted his head and looked at Cade darkly.

“If you want to call it that,” he said in answer. “I know what it’s like to be forced from your home. My people and their people are not so different.”

Cade hadn’t been so sure how to respond to that, mouth suddenly dry, but the man hadn’t given him the chance, turning and marching back to his car without looking back.

So, they had the junkyard. It was perfect, really—Bee had made a great find. Cade settled in to the trailer on the far side, and let the Autobots pick out their spots and get comfortable as well.

For several days, Cade spent most of his time fixing up his new living space. Bumblebee and Drift were always willing to lend a helping hand when Cade needed to get to the roof, or needed heavy steel cut into smaller pieces. Cade also picked one of the less-damaged vehicles and set to work restoring it, souping up the engine and doing delicate repairs to the car’s frame.

There was no need to go anywhere, not at first. Cade had acquired a decent-sized supply of water bottles and assorted foods (courtesy of Crosshairs, and Cade had known better than to ask where the mech had gotten such items), and Lockdown’s ship had also contained a large supply of energon.

It was the closest all of them had to a base since the government had cast them out. Cade took actual naps, and wasn’t worried about an attack happening while he slept.

It was almost peaceful. Almost, because despite the slight reprieve they had obtained there was still plenty of conflict—conflict that took the form of a large green Corvette.

Crosshairs, simply put, became Cade’s worst nightmare.

The self-proclaimed pirate was suddenly more trouble than any other Autobot had been, ever. Cade was dimly reminded of Tessa’s young and rebellious years, but from what he had gathered Bumblebee was supposed to be the immature teen. Crosshairs was an adult… but he was acting far from it. He’d taken to shoving Drift out of balance whenever the samurai attempted to meditate (which inevitably ended in shouting, swords, and explosions). He attempted to ride Grimlock twice, and somehow managed to repair one of Lockdown’s smaller hover vehicles, zipping around at high speeds. Even mild-mannered Bumblebee was beginning to get impatient.

The Autobots mostly listened to Cade, understanding that he was their only connection to the human world, but Crosshairs was running tempers so short that even Cade couldn’t stop the conflicts before they escalated.

In desperation, he turned to Hound one morning, staring up at the large mech with a fairly frantic expression on his face. Hound noticed the expression and followed Cade’s pointed finger toward where Crosshairs and Bee were going at it again, crushing cars beneath their tussle (Drift had disappeared earlier to meditate without interruptions, and no one had tried to stop him). The massive Autobot shrugged, shifting the cigar in his mouth.

“Don’ look at me!” he said. “If I knew what was goin’ on in that head of his, I’d do somethin’ about it, but I don’t.”

“You don’t know?” Cade asked, slightly horrified, and Hound shrugged again.

“Nope. But I do have a few guesses, if you want ‘em.”

Cade’s head shot up in hope. “Yes! Anything, at this point. I’m not sure we can take much more of this.”

Hound hummed, taking the cigar out of his mouth completely and placing it on the ground. The movement piqued Cade’s curiosity, as it was rare that Hound ever removed it.

“What, exactly, do you know about our resident pirate over there?” Hound asked.

“Not too much,” Cade admitted. “I know he ran, instead of staying to fight during the war.”

Hound nodded. “Didn’t know him until I came to Earth, but I knew his name. Nobot was quite sure why someone like him would join the Autobots instead of the Decepticons. As far as I heard he was always either drunk on high-grade, in the brig, or at the shooting range. No one was surprised when he left. Didn’t take orders well, didn’t like authority. ‘Course, it didn’t help that Prowl of all mechs was his commanding officer—”

“Prowl?”

“Ah, second-in-command of the Autobots. Head of tactical, and very by-the-book. Not as much as Ultra Magnus, mind you, but still, he wouldn’t have taken well to Crosshairs’ attitude. When he was offlined… I’ve never seen Optimus so angry. And Jazz was so devastated. Had to step up, the poor mech, since he was TIC, but his heart wasn’t in it after that—” Hound glanced at Cade, suddenly realizing how off-topic they were getting. “That’s old history, though. Sorry ‘bout that.”

“No need to apologize,” Cade said quickly. It was rare that any of the bots felt like talking about the war, and as horrific as it was Cade was always fascinated by their stories.

“Anyway,” Hound continued, “Crosshairs wasn’t the first, or the last, to desert. The gang of pirates he joined was full of both organics and Cybertronians, and as the years dragged on soon word came back to Cybertron that Crosshairs had somehow become the Captain of the crew. Didn’t think much of it, then. In fact, we weren’t even sure what had happened to the crew until we’d arrived on Earth.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Cade interrupted. “Drift said his ship crashed.”

“Not quite,” Hound refuted. “Crosshairs told us the whole story, after—they were shot down, by the Vok. Pretty sure the pirates stole something from ‘em first, though. Regardless, Bee an’ I watched it come down. We knew it was risky, but we made our way over to the crash site. It was…” Hound paused for a brief moment before continuing. “It was pretty bad. Most everyone was dead.” Hound’s voice was completely flat as he spoke of the carnage, sending a shiver down Cade’s spine. “We found Crosshairs in the middle of the wreckage, working desperately to save one of his men, a Cybertronian. The mech was mortally wounded, that was easy to see, but Crosshairs didn’t give up until well after his mech had joined the allspark.  He didn’t know enough about the organics to help them—none of us did. All of them died. Crosshairs just stood there, for a long time, in the middle of the flames. We thought he’d glitched for sure, but then he turned and walked up to us. He saw the symbols on our chests and said, ‘Come to drag me back now that my men are gone?’ Then he collapsed. We didn’t know what to do with ‘im.”

Cade blinked and realized he’d been holding his breath through the story. He made a conscious effort to breathe.

“We took him back to base an’ patched him up the best we could. We weren’t planning on going back to the crash site, but the moment Crosshairs woke up he was crawling up out of the cave we’d holed up in. Was babblin’ then, near delusional with pain, but that didn’t stop him. He made us go all the way back, and refused to sit down until every one of his men had been buried. It’s not our way, to bury the dead—but we didn’t argue with ‘im. Maybe it’s a pirate thing.”

“You could ask him,” Cade suggested, and then winced, realizing too late how insensitive that would be. Crosshairs had obviously cared very much about his men.

“Don’t even know if he remembers,” Hound said. “He collapsed after the last man was in the ground, and didn’t wake up for six Earth rotations. Once he did, he was…” Hound cut himself off, and gestured toward the brawl, where Bumblebee appeared to have gained the upper hand. “Well, he was like this. Sarcastic, always looking for a fight, and defiant to his last breath. Didn’t mention his crew even once, even to this day.”

Cade nodded silently, glancing at the pirate in new light. He took a deep breath. Hound shifted behind him.

“So, now that you know that, what are you gonna do about it?” the large Autobot asked. Cade frowned.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “I’ll figure it out. Maybe. If he squishes me into a pancake in the next day or so, you’ll know why.”

Hound chuckled. “You’re a brave man, Cade. Braver than the rest of us.”

“I didn’t fight in a war,” Cade reminded him, and Hound stopped laughing.

“No,” he said. “You didn’t. And that’s why you’re braver.”

Cade didn’t understand, but Hound turned and left him after that, without giving Cade a chance to ask for an explanation.

The Autobot probably wouldn’t have given him an answer, anyway.

Crosshairs was hard to get alone, just because the pirate was always bothering people. Cade managed to get him while he was cleaning his weaponry in his little room on the ship, a ritual the green mech never skipped, no matter what nefarious plot he had planned for the day. When Cade entered, Crosshairs’ back was turned, so Cade cleared his throat.

He blinked, and the tip of a gun was millimeters from his forehead. Cade held very, very still.

“Cade,” Crosshairs said slowly. “Careful there. I coulda blown your head off.”

“I’d prefer if you didn’t,” Cade answered, sagging as the enormous weapon was lifted away from him. “I rather like my head where it is.”

Crosshairs snorted. “You an’ me both, human. What are you doin’ in here?”

Cade hesitated. He doubted Crosshairs would hurt him, but anger or even full-out rejection was possible, and Cade wanted to stay on as friendly terms as possible with all of them.

“Spit it out,” Crosshairs said impatiently. Cade sighed.

“I wanted to ask you some questions,” he admitted. Crosshairs leered at him.

“Never been a fan of questions,” he said, and turned to leave. Cade jogged to keep up.

“Crosshairs, come on!” he said, and decided to forgo all subtlety. “You’ve been acting like a child lately, and I want to know why! This can’t continue!”

Crosshairs scoffed, as Cade had known he would. “You ain’t my creator, Yeager. Stay outta my business if you wanna keep all your limbs.” He reached for the door. Cade couldn’t let him leave, not without answers. The tiny locking mechanism Drift had lent him activated with a click of a button, and Crosshairs snarled as his door was sealed shut.

“What did you just do?” the pirate hissed, turning on Cade threateningly. “Give me that remote.”

Cade stowed the remote in his pocket and held his ground, refusing to be intimidated even when Crosshairs’ pede came down a mere foot from his body.

“Not until I get some answers,” he replied stubbornly. Crosshairs snarled at him wordlessly.

“You’ve got some nerve, human!” the Autobot spat through gritted denta. “I should just take it from you. It’s not like you could stop me.”

“True,” Cade confirmed. “But I don’t think you will. I think you want to talk to someone.”

“You think wrong!” Crosshairs shouted.

“I think you’ve been holding some things in for far too long,” Cade continued loudly, boldness growing with every moment. “I think you’re tired of being alone, but you’re too afraid to let us get close. I think you’re so use to being on the run that now we’ve found a place to settle, you don’t want to submit to the change. I think you’re scared .”

He’d expected anger in the wake of those statements. Yelling, denial, offense. He couldn’t contain his surprise when instead of doing any of those, Crosshairs visibly deflated, staggering back a few steps and plating clamping tight against his protoform.

“Well, well, well,” Crosshairs said darkly, “It seems you’ve got me all figured out, haven’t you, Cade.” He chuckled, but there was no humor in the sound. “Who told you? Was it Drift? Slagger wasn’t even there when it happened, he had no right to tell anyone—”

“Wasn’t Drift. It was Hound,” Cade told him. Crosshairs waved a hand in annoyance.

“Doesn’t matter. It wasn’t his story to tell, the glitch—”

Cade held up his hands. “Look, it doesn’t matter that he told me. In fact, it’s a good thing, because now you can talk about it and not worry about any of the others ever hearing about it.”

“Who says I wanna talk about anything?” Crosshairs sneered. “I don’t need you to be my… my psychologist or something.”

Cade arched an eyebrow.

“I don’t know, the way you’ve been acting seems to indicate otherwise,” he accused. Crosshairs glared at him dangerously, but Cade kept going. “Besides, talking about things always helps.”

“Not to me,” Crosshairs said, but his eyes were narrowed, considering Cade’s offer warily.

“It wouldn’t hurt to give it a try, would it?” Cade coaxed carefully. “And you know I won’t go telling your secrets to everyone else. I’m not that kind of person.”

Crosshairs stared at him for a long moment. Eventually, he sighed, and a gust of air washed over Cade as the Cybertronian’s vents flared.

“Alright, Yeager,” Crosshairs said reluctantly. The pirate lowered himself onto the large bench in the room and gave Cade a flat look. “What, exactly, do you want to know?”

The idea was that Crosshairs would talk about anything bothering him, but seeing as the mech was treating this as more of an interrogation instead of an open session Cade decided it would be best to ask questions.

“Why did you join the Autobots?” he asked. Crosshairs’ optics flared bright momentarily, indicating surprise.

“Because of Optimus Prime,” he answered—slowly, as if he’d never said it out loud before. “Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m a big fan of freedom. I like to do whatever I want, whenever I want.”

“The Decepticons wanted that too, though, didn’t they?” Cade asked. Crosshairs made a face.

“Sure, that’s what they said, but that’s not what they did. I knew Megatron was trouble the moment I first heard ‘im speak. Sure, he was convincing, but he was a gladiator. I know his type, an’ I knew it wouldn’t be long before things got violent with ‘im. I’m not a fan of needless violence.”

“Is that why you left?” Cade inquired. Crosshairs shrugged. He was attempted to keep an aloof attitude, but Cade could see it beginning to crumble.

“Only partly. Didn’t like my teammates, didn’t like my commanders. Being a freelancer was much more appealing.”

Cade nodded. “Tell me about your crew.”

Crosshairs’ vents hitched. For a moment Cade thought he’d taken things too far, but then Crosshairs started to speak.

“They were… a bunch of rabble rousers, crooks, thieves—looking for work, or entertainment, or just running. Brave and fearless, all of ‘em, an’ not afraid to punch you in the face if you so much as looked at ‘em weird. Loyal to no-one but the Captain, an’ even that was sometimes a stretch,” he began softly.

“Sounds… interesting,” Cade said. Crosshairs smiled.

“Interesting is an understatement. I’ve never had so much fun in my life,” Crosshairs said. “Too many of us were war refugees, and we started to get close over time. Like family.”

Cade’s heart lurched in his chest. He knew what it was like to lose family, and he could completely understand the fond mixture of love and sorrow in Crosshairs’ voice. He’d heard the very same tone in his own voice at times.

“Tell me about them,” he said. “Tell me about all of them. As much as you can remember.”

Crosshairs stared at him in shock.

“You…” he started, and then trailed off. Cade looked at him expectantly, patiently, willing to listen for as long as the pirate needed.

Crosshairs took a deep breath, and then began to talk.

Above all things—Cybertronian, Decepticon, warrior—Barricade classified himself as a survivor.

Perhaps that labelled him a coward in some cases, but in his own opinion a few year’s disgrace earned from abandoning a hopeless fight was much better than spending an eternity trapped in the allspark.

Barricade wasn’t ashamed to admit that he was afraid of death. The thought of being permanently offline terrified him more than anything else could. It was for that reason that he had, without a second thought, abandoned his fellow Decepticons the moment the Autobot’s victory became apparent. Perhaps that was something he should be embarrassed about, but in his mind, it had been the correct decision.

He was alive, and the others were not. That made his shame quite worth it.

He’d been wandering Earth for far too long now, alone save from the occasional human who mistook his alternate form for the Earth police force. Whenever a signal from a Cybertronian appeared on his sensors, he turned and headed in the opposite direction.

Both Autobot and Decepticon wouldn’t treat him with any sort of respect anymore. It was better to remain unseen, to wait and watch how things played out. Megatron was dead, after all, and Barricade had neither heard nor seen anything of Prime since the whole fiasco in Hong Kong. More Cybertronians landed every day, but no one of high enough rank to take full command of what forces existed on Earth.

All the officers had been killed already, most likely. Starscream, Shockwave, and Soundwave were all gone, leaving one of Starscream’s trinemates in command—trinemates who were nowhere near Earth. Fortunately, the same could be said of the Autobots. Prowl was long offline, and both Jazz and Ironhide had been killed off by Decepticon ploys.

It was as if the two factions had finally reached a stalemate. With no one in command, a lawless world formed, where Autobots and Decepticons existed in wary peace. Of course, fighting still occurred, but no one was actively looking to battle—energon was too sparse here to risk losing large amounts, and they were still enemies. That would never change.

Now, the humans had become the number one enemy. Barricade had run into TRF previously, but the pitiful human vehicles had been unable to keep up with Barricade. He’d easily left them in the dustt.

The humans, while he hated to admit it, were getting smarter. More effective at killing Barricade’s people. It was something he had to worry about, more so than running into an over-aggressive Decepticon, or an Autobot.

The world was changing. Barricade wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

All he could do in the meantime was run, and wait.

The betrayal of her knights had hurt her more than she cared to admit. She had created them—created all of them, and still they had struck her down, stolen her most precious item, and left her care. It had been so sudden, so unthinkable, that she had been taken by surprise and overpowered.

She’d had a single moment to strike them all down during their assault. In that moment, they’d seen their mistake, and had been bracing to be destroyed beneath her hand—but she had hesitated. They were hers, after all. She hated to destroy the things she’d spent so much time perfecting. In her split second of uncertainty their leader, her captain of the guard, had turned on her, shielding his brothers and tearing into her with ferocity she hadn’t realized she’d given him.

They had escaped with the staff, twisting together gracefully to form a beast of legend just as she’d created them to. Even as they escaped her wrath she was struck by how beautiful they were—and then the truth had overruled her ill-placed pride, and she had screamed her rage to the empty sky.

The traitors would pay. She would make sure of that.

Even as her chosen twelve abandoned her, another returned—one that was strong-willed and pure-hearted. She had no doubt he would be angered by her intentions, but he would serve her eventually. The little Prime would kneel before her in time. Of that, she was certain.

He was still very far away, but his message was still audible to her. She smiled as it played, over and over, and prepared herself for his return. She’d never claimed to be a patient deity. She directed her planet toward her wayward child. She would meet him halfway. Cybertron moved at her command, slowly, reluctantly, but it obeyed.

The message continued to play. It fueled her, excited her for what was to come.

“My name is Optimus Prime, and this is a message for my Creator… I am coming for you…”

She couldn’t wait for him to return home.

Chapter Text

Chicago was crumbling. Efforts to rebuild it after the Decepticon’s ruthless attack had been half-hearted at best. The destruction had been too widespread to fully repair, and it hadn’t been long before the construction crews abandoned their work. The people of Chicago had followed soon after, leaving a shattered city behind.

It gave Lennox chills. The rest of TRF were unbothered by it, but they hadn't been there like Lennox had when the attack occurred—hadn’t watched as Shockwave’s machine had torn through metal and glass and buildings, hadn’t watched as Sentinel Prime’s pillars had nearly destroyed the Earth…

Chicago haunted Lennox’s nightmares. It brought up too many dark memories, and with every step he took the sensation of slogging through heavy, clinging mud increased. His head spun as he looked up at towering buildings with dusty and shattered windows, leaning precariously on each other.

Seven blocks North of here, Michael Alitz was killed by falling debris. Five blocks Southwest, Jamison Rodriguez was killed in a Decepticon-caused explosion —

He remembered them all. It hurt to see this place again. He’d never intended to come back, but according to Santos, Chicago was their most-patrolled city in the area. He would have no choice but to become familiar with the razed metropolis.

His boots crunched over abandoned papers and shards of glass. He picked his way around an abandoned truck and glanced back to ensure the rest of his team had followed. Santos’ squad was several blocks over, with armored vehicles trailing behind. Lennox was leading the scout team across the area inaccessible to the vehicles—the glass and stray bits of shrapnel would cut up the tires if the trucks attempted to advance.

A shout from one of his men behind him made him pause, and he glanced over his shoulder to watch as two men made their way down a side street, guns raised. Lennox backtracked to their position, motioning for the rest of his squad to follow. As he approached, he got a better look at what had caught his soldier’s attention.

A massive hunk of machinery—a ship of some sort—lay in the center of the side street, and sparks were still being flung into the air. It was a recent crash. At his men’s inquisitive glances, Lennox gestured them forward silently, raising his own weapon and ignoring the nervous clench in his gut.

What would he do if the resident of the pod was an Autobot?

His men stalked closer to the ship, moving as silently as possible, and Lennox held his breath as the soldier in the lead sacrificed his hold on his gun to lift a heavy scanner towards the wreckage.

A moment later, the man shook his head.

“No energon signal,” he said, and in the silence of the ghost city the man’s voice cut through the air sharper than any blade. “If an alien was here, it’s not anymore.”

Lennox sighed in relief.

Then he remembered that the contents of the pod could have also been a Decepticon, and frowned. He reached for his radio.

“Commander Santos, add one more tally for possible Cybertronians in the area,” he reported. “We found a crashed pod at the corner of Grand Avenue and North Noble street, but the occupant is nowhere in sight.”

“Understood, Colonel Lennox,” Santos replied after a beat. “Have your men spread out and search the nearby area. It may still be nearby.”

Lennox dropped the radio and relayed the orders to his men, who dutifully obeyed, slipping into the shadows and down alleyways to look for clues. Lennox spent a brief moment surveying the crashed pod, searching for telltale green stains indicating injury. There were none—and whether that was a good or a bad thing, Lennox didn’t know.

The Cybertronian was likely deep in hiding. Despite TRF’s proficiency at hunting them, Lennox knew if a mech didn’t want to be found, they weren’t likely to be. He resigned himself to an uneventful search and picked the direction his men had mostly moved away from, struggling to keep the drowning memories of death from consuming him.

As he walked, the wind began to pick up, howling through abandoned buildings like an uncontrollable beast. The sound was unearthly—fitting for a wasteland such as this, and it flitted unevenly across Lennox’s eardrums. He squinted, attempting to turn his head against the muffling force, and hissed in annoyance when the action only served to unbalance him.

He was so distracted by the disorienting noise that the whine of the high-performance engine didn’t register until the vehicle rounded the corner. Lennox jerked in surprise, bringing his weapon up to fire… and then froze as the speeding form finally registered in his mind. In confusion, Lennox lifted his head to peer at his would-be attacker.

The yellow Camaro screeched to a halt in front of him, blinking its headlights in greeting.

“Bumblebee?” He whispered out the name, hardly daring to believe that the Autobot scout would be here, of all places. The car’s engine let out a little rev at the word. It rolled forward a few inches, and then stopped in front of his feet.

“You!” Lennox flinched in surprise as Bee’s radio let out a sudden burst of sound. “Soulja Boy, tell ‘em! Hey, I got a new dance for you all called the Soulja Boy. You!”

Lennox’s jaw dropped.

Bee chirped at him in what sounded like excitement. The Camaro shuddered, cracks forming in what had appeared to be seamless metal and folding as easily as origami, slotting into place with a grace hardly any other being could hope to match. When the swirling tornado of gears and metal plates finally stopped, Bumblebee stood before him, peering at him with wide eyes and wriggling.

“Soulja Boy!” the scout’s radio repeated, before spitting out static. Bee waved at Lennox enthusiastically despite already being close, and a woman’s voice sounded, another audio clip: “I missed you so much!”

“Bumblebee!” he said again, louder this time, and as he spoke, his bewilderment was washed away by bone-deep relief. “I… I missed you, too.” It was true. Lennox had missed the cheerful Autobot, and had spent several long months pacing around his living room, flexing his fingers helplessly and wondering if the Autobots would survive. It was the helplessness that had torn at his heart the most, but he’d been unable to even leave his home for the longest time.

“You try anything, soldier, and I’ll make sure your entire life comes crashing down around you. Your career, your friends—and your daughter, she’s just about to start school, isn’t she? It’d be a real shame if she wasn’t able to go.”

Lennox swallowed, pulled himself from the horrifying memory, and turned his attention to the Autobot.

“Bumblebee, I’m glad you’re alive,” he said, lowering his weapon. “I worried that—well, no one would tell me if you’d survived.”

“I’m still kickin’ buddy. It’ll take much more than that to kill off the likes of me.” Bumblebee posed dramatically, and Lennox couldn’t fight down an amused chuckle.

“Where have you been?” Bee asked via a woman’s singing. “‘Cause I never see you out, are you hiding from me, yeah?”

Lennox’s smile faded.

“I couldn’t… I wasn’t… allowed to be around, Bee,” he said in way of apology. “It’s a long story, I don’t have time to tell it—”

He froze, the word leaving his own lips finally sinking in.

He’d been so elated by Bumblebee’s appearance that he’d nearly forgotten the entire reason he was there in the first place. Wildly, he glanced behind him, and slumped in relief when none of his soldiers rounded the bend.

“Bee, it’s not safe here!” he said urgently. “Listen, there are men here who will kill you without a second thought. I’ve seen it already, they don’t care if you’re an Autobot!” Bee made a confused sound and stepped a little closer, tilting his head. Lennox clenched his jaw and shuddered as images of the last Autobot he’d encountered flashed before his eyes—broken, clinging to life, searching for Prime even seconds from death—and then his breath hitched as he suddenly saw Bumblebee in the nameless Autobot’s place, crying out as Santos’ men cut him down without an ounce of sympathy in their cold gazes. He shoved at Bee’s knee in desperation.

“I’m not kidding, Bee. You need to get out of here, before it’s too late.”

Bee didn’t budge, and tapped his chest twice before pointing at Lennox firmly.

“I ain’t leavin’ you here,” a heavily accented voice said from Bee’s vocalizer. Bumblebee’s optics were narrowed, and Lennox’s breath hitched as he recognized the look the fierce Autobot was giving him. He’d seen it countless times before on the battlefield, an expression of determination and loyalty that was near impossible to find anywhere else. Bee’s vocalizer cycled through a variety of stations, picking up splinters of dialogue to help him speak.

“Thought you were dead too… you know… not going anywhere without… You scared, man? We can fix that… come on, then!”

The Autobot twisted, tucking mass away with an ease that never failed to awe Lennox. When Bee was finished, the iconic black and yellow Camaro had returned. The side door opened invitingly.

Lennox’s heart stuttered, and he shook his head.

“I… I can’t, Bee. I can’t come with you. I’ll be in trouble if I do.”

He ached to explain more, to make sense of his decision, because he wanted nothing more than to get in and drive until TRF was nothing but a bad memory in the distance. He wanted to know who else had survived, wanted to help the Autobots like he had all those years ago—

But Sarah and Annabelle were on the line. He refused to put them in danger like that, not when Attinger’s threat still hung over his head.

Bumblebee revved his engine hopefully, and Lennox dragged his gloved hand down his face.

“I’m sorry,” he said slowly. “I can’t come with you.”

Bee transformed again, and lowered his face down so it was nearly level with Lennox’s. Lennox stared into Bee’s optics and watched as the Autobot began to connect the dots.

“...they threatening you, ma’am?” Bee asked. Lennox swallowed.

“Not me,” he answered carefully. “Not me. But they might as well have.”

A sound that Lennox could only classify as a muffled snarl erupted from Bee’s voicebox. The Autobot reared back, slamming his fist into the ground in anger. Asphalt cracked beneath the blow.

“I’ll kill ‘em,” he raged. Lennox nodded and scowled.

“Get in line,” he said. Then: “Bee, you need to leave. TRF is here. They’ve got weaponry that could even take Optimus down, I’m serious. Get out of here.”

Bumblebee didn’t look happy, but he listened, for once, ducking back down into his alternate form. The Camaro whipped around with a squeal of tires, zipping off into the distance and turning out of sight.

Lennox sagged. A swirling mix of emotions settled heavily in his gut—too complex to fully identify. Relief and joy warred with fear and uncertainty with such ferocity that after a few moments Lennox couldn’t separate them from each other.

He forced himself to take deep, measured breaths and tried his hardest to relax. Bumblebee, at least, was alive, and the simple fact that someone else knew about Lennox’s blackmail made the burden easier to bear. The intense desire to explain his disappearance had finally been fulfilled.

His radio crackled suddenly, causing Lennox to jump and nearly fumble his weapon. He scoffed in annoyance, glaring down at the infernal device and wondering what Santos wanted this time.

“All units, we’ve finally got something,” Santos called out, and something in his voice sent a chill down Lennox’s spine—a hint of bloodlust, of anger and excitement. “Command has eyes on a retreating vehicle. Yellow Camaro, moving fast… but not nearly fast enough.”

Lennox’s heart skipped a beat, stuttering unsteadily and making him lurch. He fumbled for the radio, pressing at the button with shaking hands.

“Hold your fire, Commander,” he tried desperately, struggling to keep the stress from his voice. “We don’t have authorization to fire on just any old vehicle, it could be a civilian—”

It was futile. He knew it before he’d even spoken, knew Santos wasn’t going to listen.

“Colonel.” The address was bitten out, sharper than the crack of a whip. Lennox reeled back as if he’d been struck. “We both know that’s no civilian.”

Lennox was trembling. Sweaty palms grasped at his gun uselessly.

Not again. Not another one, another loss, no, please—

Numb fingers tightened their grip on his radio. “Santos, you can’t—”

“I can, and I will, Colonel Lennox. Are you questioning my authority?” The words were tinged with warning, and Lennox deflated.

“No, sir,” he muttered. His mind was shrieking in panic. If Bumblebee was killed here, it would be on Lennox’s head—Lennox should have pushed the Autobot to leave harder, had gotten him out of the city before Santos had gotten close enough…

“Transmitting coordinates now,” Santos said gleefully. “Converge around it and pin it down. Double time, men. We’re not letting this one get away.”

Lennox broke into a sprint, tearing through the destroyed city. His boots ate up yards, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to get there in time. The image of the Autobot from before flashed in front of his eyes as it convulsed and died on the ground—

Gunshots sounded.

Lennox let out a wordless cry of frustration and fear. He was already too late.

All he could do now was pray that Bumblebee would get out alive.

Bumblebee stumbled into the junkyard, dented, sparking, dripping bright green energon positively everywhere, and Cade nearly had a heart attack right then and there.

As it was, he and the rest of the Autobots spent a few terrifying moments frozen in complete shock; at least, until Bumblebee actually keeled over, smashing a battered Honda Accord beneath his weight. Cade surged to his feet, shouting in alarm.

“Bee, what—what happened?” Cade cried, diving for his bag of equipment. Drift was second to move, clearing the distance to Bumblebee almost faster than Cade could register. The samurai ignored the rivers of energon running down Bee’s frame, kneeling and clasping his hands down across the worst of the wounds. Bee let out a sharp, binary cry of pain at the pressure, struggling beneath Drift’s hands. Drift bit out a vicious curse.

“Hound, help me!” he ordered. Hound jerked out of his stupor, lumbering quickly to Drift’s side. As Cade approached, hefting the heavy bag of tools over his shoulder, the larger Autobots worked to keep Bee from thrashing. One ill-timed flail could easily cripple or kill Cade, and they all knew it.

Cade climbed up Bee’s immobilized arm and reached into his bag, removing a set of large clamps—most of which were nearly as long as his own arm. The inventor grimaced as he inspected the largest wound on Bee’s chassis. Large, armor-piercing rounds had torn through several crucial energon lines, dangerously close to the Autobot’s spark chamber. Cade set his jaw and went to work, delving through the spilt energon to clamp the severed lines shut.

Bumblebee’s optics were white, delirious from shock and pain. His entire frame shook as Cade progressed, and little whimpers worked their way out of his damaged vocalizer—whimpers that made everyone cringe in pity and fear. Each time Cade moved to clamp another line Bee convulsed involuntarily, and the Autobots had to scramble to keep the erratic motions from dislodging Cade. After one such convulsion nearly ended in Cade’s legs being crushed, Drift snarled, turning toward the only Autobot who hadn’t even moved since Bee had appeared.

“Crosshairs, are you not going to help us?” the samurai growled. Cade glanced at the pirate in his peripheral vision and swore under his breath.

“Leave him, Drift!” he said sharply. “He’s not going to be able to help us!”

Even from a single glance, Cade had seen Crosshairs’ frozen, horrified expression and known that he wouldn’t be any help. Crosshairs had been stunned, optics wide and fixed on Bee’s injuries. Cade had spent enough time with the war-torn species to recognize a flashback when he saw one.

Beneath them, Bee let out a yelp as something inside him malfunctioned, spitting out smoke. Gears ground together unhealthily. The sound grating on Cade’s senses like fingernails on a chalkboard. Cade’s heart skipped a beat in horror as the scout suddenly went limp, optics fritzing out and then going dark.

“Frag, frag,” Drift muttered, releasing Bee’s limbs. “Cade, his bipedalism cord—!”

“I know!” Cade nearly shouted, reaching wildly for his welder. Out of all of the Autobots, Drift was the one with the most field-repair experience, and Cade relied on that now, allowing the ex-decepticon to point out the section that had been damaged and rip aside a large chunk of armor so that Cade could get to the organ.

Now that Bee had fallen offline, there was no need to hold him down. Hound backed off to allow the others to work, hovering anxiously nearby. Cade lost sight of him as he worked his way through Bee’s systems, desperately repairing the delicate protoform, but after a moment the large Autobot spoke.

“Cade, is there—is there anything I can do, anything at—”

“There is not,” Drift snapped tensely, before Cade could say anything in response. “Do not bother Cade Yeager again. The situation is severe, and if we want to save Bumblebee, you will allow the human to keep his entire attention on the injured!”

Hound grunted out a strangled apology and fell silent.

For a few long minutes, the only sounds in the entire junkyard were the snap-hiss of Cade’s welder and Crosshairs’ loud, stuttering ventilations. Cade’s world narrowed down to the gears and hinges in front of him. Whoever had done this hadn’t intended for Bee to survive, that much was clear. Cade’s breath came out in short bursts as he patched wires and straightened deep dents—tiny, but paramount repairs that would determine if Bee survived. None of the others had fingers dexterous enough to properly fix such miniscule damage.

It was all down to Cade, now.

Eventually, from out of sight, Cade heard Drift let out a heavy sigh of relief.

“He is stabilizing,” the samurai reported. “His spark is beginning to steady. I believe he will pull through.”

Cade had known that already—he was so far inside Bee’s mechanisms that he could feel the unearthly tug of Bee’s spark, buried even deeper in the Autobot’s frame. The gentle hum had settled some since Cade had begun to work, reassurance that, if anything, Cade was helping.

“Thank Primus,” Hound breathed, startlingly quiet. Crosshairs still didn’t speak.

Cade wasn’t done. He couldn’t stop—not yet, not while there was even a slight chance the scout’s spark would gutter again. He abandoned Bee’s bipedalism cord in favor of checking over some of the other wounds. He’d been able to clamp most of them shut, and self-repair was already beginning to kick in, knitting some of the smaller injuries together.

Cade didn’t stop working until his hands were so slick with energon that he could no longer hold onto his tools. The panic was finally fading, and even though Bee was far from fully repaired, Cade slumped, allowing the welder to slip from his fingers. Adrenaline wore off, taking Cade’s strength with it. His vision was nearly blurry from focusing for so long. The drop to the ground from Bee’s unconscious frame nearly sent him reeling, but a large hand steadied him before he could fall.

“Easy there, Yeager,” Hound told him. “Easy. He’s gonna live.”

Despite the large Autobot’s reassuring words, there was a definite tremble running through his frame. Cade swallowed and suddenly realized he was parched. A glance at his energon-slicked watch showed that he’d been working for nearly two hours.

“Yeah,” Cade croaked. “Yeah, Bee’s gonna live.”

The wave of exhaustion took him by surprise. His legs turned to jello, and his head swam. He tried to take a step away from Hound’s supporting servos and nearly collapsed, turning and grabbing onto Hound’s thumb for purchase.

“Don’t think I can walk,” he mumbled. The fatigue was both a mixture of physical and mental exertion, and it left Cade sore all over from being so tense.

But Bee was going to live. That was all Cade cared about at the moment.

“Cade?” Crosshairs’ voice was faint. At some point during Bee’s desperate surgery the pirate had retreated some, putting his back to the old garage--whether that served to support him or keep him from running away, Cade wasn't sure.

“He’s alright, Crosshairs,” Cade said. Crosshairs didn’t look convinced, optics darting from Bee’s prone form to Drift to Hound to Cade.

“You… you’re sure?” the pirate asked. His voice was incredibly small. It never failed to surprise Cade, how fragile the enormous beings could actually be. To Cade and the rest of the human race, characters like Optimus Prime and the Autobots were invincible legends, creatures of power and grace and no regrets.

The more time he spent with them, the more Cade realized that wasn't true.

Crosshairs had been completely frozen, unable to assist--and of course the poor mech had seized up. He’d been terrified to lose Bumblebee just as he’d lost his crewmates. Crosshairs liked to pretend that he didn’t care for the mechs who’d been dubbed the “Pathetic Dirty Foursome” (Thanks, Hound), but Cade knew better.

Cade met Crosshairs’ fearful gaze and projected as much comfort as he could with his voice. “Bumblebee is going to be fine. He’s not going to die, Crosshairs.”

He’d used the same words he’d been speaking since he emerged from Bee’s innards, but Crosshairs only now seemed to register them. He slumped.

“Good,” the pirate said. “Good.” Then: “Cade, I’m--I’m sorry I--”

Cade yawned. In the face of Crosshairs’ apology and remaining insecurities it was rude, but Cade was unable to halt the involuntary motion. He wanted to keel over and sleep for a thousand years, even though it was barely mid-afternoon. Luckily, Drift came to the rescue--Cade watched through half-open eyes as the samurai placed a hand on Crosshairs’ shoulder. Despite their all-too-common quarrels, this time there was understanding and sympathy on Drift’s face. He leaned closer to the pirate, speaking softly, comfortingly. Cade couldn’t quite make out individual words.

The whole world shifted as Hound scooped Cade fully off the ground. Large fingers curled around him carefully. Cade was more than happy to settle back and be carried.

“Drift will take care of Crosshairs,” Hound said. “You need rest.” Cade could have argued, but he refrained this time.

Hound set him down in front of his trailer. Cade swayed in place, squinting up at the Autobot. “You’ll come get me if Bee wakes up, right?”

“Course,” Hound promised easily. “Don’t worry. Drift an’ I can keep Bee stable until you regain some strength. You trust us, right?”

Cade trusted them more than he trusted anyone else.

The energon on his hands had partially dried. He had to scrub at it forcefully to get any off at all. Eventually he grew fed up with the sink and stumbled his way to the creaky cot in the back.

Cade was asleep before his head even hit the pillow.

Bumblebee hovered in stasis for two days. On the morning of the third, he finally eased online. The tension that had hovered thickly over the junkyard dissipated with the cheerful scout’s reentry into the waking world.

To Cade’s horror, Bumblebee turned out to be a terrible patient. The welds crisscrossing his chassis and back needed time to heal—time that Bee wasn’t to keen on spending laying down. It took the combined efforts of Cade, Drift, and Crosshairs to keep Bumblebee occupied while Hound took care of the daily patrols ordinarily assigned to the scout. Even then, Bee refused to sit down, wandering around the junkyard forlornly and casting dangerous puppy-dog looks in the direction of anyone nearby. No one was immune, save Drift, who liked to dangle that particular accomplishment in Crosshairs’ face every time the opportunity presented itself.

If the scout was in any pain, he hid it well—so well, in fact, that Cade knew this wasn’t the first time he’d been injured so badly.

At least Bee was smart enough to not attempt a transformation while Cade’s amateur welds were healing. Cybertronians had a self-repair system better than anything on Earth, but the yellow Autobot’s injuries had been severe, even by their standards. It would take time, and patience, for him to heal enough for Cade to willingly let him back out into the field.

Bee had explained, haltingly through broken radio channels, how he had been ambushed by TRF. The other Autobots were furious, and Cade had spent the better portion of an hour trying to convince all three of his trigger-happy companions that it wasn’t a good idea to go human-hunting—at least, not yet. Bee had also seemed incredibly happy about encountering a human called Lennox, but Cade was skeptical of that.

“If he was working for TRF, I’m not sure he’s a friend of yours,” Cade pointed out, and instantly regretted it when Bee’s engine revved angrily. He still continued, however. “This Lennox character could have set you up, you know. Could have told his buddies where you were.”

Bee’s optics narrowed, and he slammed his fist into the ground.

“He would never!”

Cade shook his head.

“People change, Bee. Even if you knew him years ago, there’s no guarantee he’s still—”

“I fought and bled alongside those men, and I’m not abandoning them now!” Bee said at full volume. The Autobot’s fists were clenched, and he loomed over Cade, suddenly threatening. His plating bristled. The radio cycled. “Don’t assume you know anything about our relationship!”

Cade took a step back, raising his hands and frowning at the sudden aggression. “Right, sorry, I’m sorry , Bee. I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m just trying to keep you safe! Optimus would kill me if anything happened to you guys.”

Bumblebee seemed to deflate, plating flattening.

“Sorry,” the Camaro replied, but somehow the apology didn’t seem sincere, even though the recording was. Grumbling subvocally, Bee turned away from Cade.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Bumblebee said in a teenager’s voice, stomping toward Drift’s last known location. The sun played over the weld lines on his side and back, highlighting the dark splotches where flawless metal should have been. Cade’s gut twisted at the sight.

Hound came loping around the corner as Bee stormed off. The large Autobot smelled faintly of gunpowder and explosives, apparently just coming from their makeshift shooting range. He watched Bee disappear with a wry expression.

“He’s touchy ‘bout humans from his past,” Hound said. “Don’t take it too personally. We learned not to ask about it.”

“I see that now, ” Cade replied. “Did you know this guy?”

Hound shifted his cigar to the opposite side of his mouth. “Nah, that was before I got here. Only humans I’ve ever gotten close to are you, and your daughter. The boyfriend, too, I guess.”

Cade sighed at the reminder, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “See, then we’ve got no reason to trust him besides Bee’s word. Not that I don’t trust Bee,” he rectified hurriedly, “but Lennox works for TRF.”

“I hear you,” Hound said. “When Optimus comes back, he’ll be able to tell us if we can trust Lennox. Until then, we’ll say he’s open for target practice.”

Cade blinked at that last bit, and then frowned.

“No,” he said. “No, he’s— Hound.”

Hound grinned, not repentant in the slightest. “Fine, fine. He's safe unless he tries anything.”

“Better,” Cade told him. He expected the conversation to end there, and for Hound to begin the long ritual of tending to his enormous assortment of weaponry—but instead, the massive Autobot shifted from pede to pede almost… nervously?

“Listen Cade, I—” Hound stopped for a moment, then continued. “I need a favor.”

Cade looked at him suspiciously.

“What kind of favor?” he asked. Hound sighed. He waited for a moment, as if trying to decide what to say.

“Ratchet’s dead,” he said softly, voice dropping dramatically in volume. Cade blinked.

“I don’t know who that is,” he admitted. Hound sighed.

“Suppose you wouldn’t,” he said. “Ratchet was probably the greatest medic in Cybertronian history. A miracle worker, practically. The Autobots would have lost the war without him. Optimus told us Lockdown and those K.S.I. slaggers killed him.”

Cade sighed. “I’m sorry.” He meant it. “He sounds like a great mech.”

Hound snorted.

“Great medic, yes. Great mech… debatable. Ha! His bedside manners were somethin’ to behold. Not even Optimus was safe from his wrath. He’d be smacking Bee around with a wrench if he was here now, no doubt.”

“That sounds… counterproductive,” Cade pointed out. Hound shrugged.

“It got mechs back to the medbay. But…” He trailed off, and his expression darkened. “I couldn’t stop thinking about him, when Bee… you know. Couldn’t stop wonderin’ what he would have done. Pit, I didn’t even know the mech very well. He repaired me a couple times, but it was never serious enough that I had to stay long. An’ I thought, he’s gone now, so who’ll be the medic? If you hadn’t been here, Bee would have died. Drift knows a bit, but not even he could have done what you did.”

Cade didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t speak. Hound wasn’t done yet.

“I know I’m not built for that kind of work,” Hound continued, glancing at his large hands. “I can’t be as good as Ratchet. But that doesn’t mean I can’t learn.” He looked at Cade seriously. “Teach me. I ain’t ever seen any non-Cybertronian who’s better than you at fixin’ us.”

Cade struggled to prevent his shock from showing. Hound, the violence-loving, explosion-prone, fire-starting Autobot—wanted to be a medic?

Then again, the incident with Bee had scared everyone more than they cared to admit. Cade could understand Hound’s desire to learn.

“Of course,” he answered honestly. “I’ll teach you everything I know.”

Hound relaxed. Cade squinted at him. “Did you really think I’d say no?”

“Dunno, maybe. On Cybertron, you were whatever you were created to be. No changes allowed.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Cade said. “You wanna be a medic, you be a medic. This is Earth, not Cybertron. Do what you want, as long as it doesn’t end in blowing anything important up.”

Cade wasn’t positive, but he was fairly certain that was the best thing he could have said, because Hound’s smile was tinged with awe and surprise.

The next day, Hound showed up to morning training with red medic crosses on his helm and shoulders. The other Autobots didn’t seem surprised. Cade wondered how long Hound had been considering the change, to be so ready to paint the symbols on that fast.

He wondered if Hound’s newfound goal would change his demeanor in any way—the roars of victory the Autobot let out as he flattened Crosshairs into the dirt during their sparr quickly answered that.

Some things would never change.

Canopy spent four and a half days huddled in the darkest corner of his hole until the need for energon forced him to crawl his way back toward daylight. Warnings flashed in front of his eyes, unhelpfully reminding him how close to starvation he was. The alerts edged him on, building up his courage. Canopy was no less afraid, but he refused to sit still and waste away. He wasn’t that scared.

Not yet, at least.

In fact, he was so desperate for fuel that he was nearly reckless in his determination. When he came to the entrance of his hiding place he was seconds from throwing himself out into the open to get it over with, and didn’t hear the heavy footsteps until they were nearly on top of him.

The robot that stalked by with halting, mechanical footsteps wasn’t sentient. Canopy shrank back down into the dark as quickly as his bulk would allow, cursing his courage. He’d only gotten a quick glimpse of the walker, but the heavy turret on its front was difficult to miss.

He offlined his optics and prayed it hadn’t seen him.

Fortunately, the native-made machine didn’t react to his presence, moving on fairly quickly. Canopy’s vents cycled heavily in relief as it passed. He waited until its footsteps were nothing but tiny pops in his audios before venturing out into the light again.

The city hadn’t changed much while he'd been in hiding. Several of the organic natives had travelled to different locations—or were completely different individuals, Canopy wasn’t sure—but other than that, nothing was different. Canopy had been expecting construction crews, or even more destruction. Neither had occurred. It was as if the city was trapped, suspended in an endless state of half-deterioration, and it made Canopy nervous.

He was a construction worker. He’d been created to fix things like this city, and to be unable to do so made him uncomfortable.

The dreaded posters were still in place. Canopy was tempted to rip them down, but thought better of it at the last moment. The walker’s presence showed that the city was patrolled—Canopy had been lucky not to run into one earlier. He most definitely would have been killed if he had. Canopy’s frame wasn’t equipped with weapons—tools, that could be used as weapons with the right force behind them, but nothing long range.

Casting a wary look around, and keeping his sensors trained on the nearby humans, Canopy reached out with a different set of scanners, searching desperately for any trace of energon. To his surprise, several options appeared. One was close, but the signal was faint and scattered. Meaning, it had been bled out. Canopy shuddered at the implication and looked at the other signals. Both were a fair distance away, but it was better than nothing. Squaring his shoulders and forcing his spark to calm, Canopy began to move towards the smaller one.

He felt terribly exposed. The tall buildings felt constricting instead of comforting, with entrances far too small for him to even consider using as cover. He dialed all his senses up to the highest sensitivity possible, straining for any sign of enemies.

Nearly a third of the way there, Canopy realized that the energon trail was leading him into an area significantly more inhabited than his original landing site. His frame shuddered nervously. He considered turning back, but his tanks pinged him another warning—his systems were reaching a critical low point, and he would begin to shut down if he waited too much longer.

That thought scared him more than almost anything else. He steeled himself and pressed forward, nearly trembling from fear.

He saw his first human right as he reached the halfway point, sitting on a fallen concrete beam in the middle of the street. Canopy’s sensors had picked him up, but Canopy had assumed he was asleep, or dead, based on how little he was moving. The human didn’t seem surprised to see Canopy, simply tilting his head. To Canopy’s shock, the he abandoned his seat a moment later, disappearing into a nearby building and tossing Canopy a flippant wave over his shoulder as he did.

Canopy didn’t know what to make of it, and quickened his pace. The human’s reaction hadn’t seemed to imply that that Canopy was an enemy, but he could have been going for help, to fetch reinforcements. The energon was so close now. He had to get to it. He had to.

Little blips of heat surrounded him as he approached the destination. Humans were everywhere. Canopy didn’t see any more on the ground, but he caught flashes of color from windows above him and knew they were there. He imagined hundreds of hidden weapons all pointed at his spark and let out a tiny moan of despair.

For all he knew, he’d signed his own death warrant by coming. His choices were death by starvation, or risking death at the hands of the humans. Both were painful, but one was faster… at least, Canopy hoped it was faster.

The humans were small, but Canopy knew better than to judge them by their size alone.

His sensors blared out in success as Canopy turned the corner and emerged into a large, open area—some sort of park, or a central area. It was hard to tell what it was suppose to be through the destruction and debris. In the center, wide out in the open, three cubes of energon sat abandoned. Canopy gaped at them in shock.

Surely he wasn’t that lucky? It had to be some sort of trick.

His hands were shaking. He needed the fuel badly, so badly that he was tempted to race in and grab what he could, scrap the consequences.

He almost did. Just like before, he nearly let instinct take over. Motion in his peripheral vision made him pause, and he tensed as a shape emerged from several streets over.

Sharp, pointed edges and wicked razor teeth gleamed in the sunlight. Canopy froze, vents stuttering in pure panic. The newcomer was Cybertronian—a small build, but a dangerous one, and Canopy’s terror skyrocketed when he noticed the dull purple emblem painted over the mech’s green and silver plating.

A Decepticon. A Decepticon, here—and by the looks of it, a hungry Decepticon. Canopy needed that energon… but the other mech wanted it, too. And the other mech wasn’t afraid to kill for it.

“Well, well, well,” the Decepticon drawled. Canopy jumped, but the Decepticon hadn’t noticed him yet. “Lookit all that nice energon.” He prowled a few steps forward, glancing around warily. “This belong to anyone? Not that it matters. I’m taking it anyway.” The Decepticon narrowed his optics, and a searching gaze pinned Canopy in place. Canopy stifled a gasp as it leered at him.

“Heyo,” the Con said. “What do we have here? Who are you, mech? Don’t see an Autobrand on ya.”

“I—” Canopy started, but his vocalizer seized before he could say anything else. His spark was pulsing frantically—he took a step back, and the Decepticon took a step forward.

“You shy or something?” the Decepticon prodded. “What’s wrong with you? You got a problem or something?” There were vicious looking blades running along his plating. Canopy had no doubt they doubled as weapons.

“ Neutral!” he nearly shouted when the Decepticon came closer again. “I’m a neutral, I don’t want any trouble, I just want—!”

The Decepticon bared its teeth at him and snarled.

“Want the energon, do ya? You willing to fight me for it?”

Canopy shook his head. “No, no I’m not, I’ll leave, you can have it—”

“Well, you’re no fun,” the Decepticon groaned. He sounded slightly unhinged, swagger and gusto combining with starvation and desperation to create something hideous, wild, half-crazed. “Don’t wanna play with me, coward? I’ll go easy on you!”

Canopy didn’t need any kind of special training to know the other mech was lying. He backed up further, trying to distance himself, but the Decepticon kept advancing, even leaving the energon in favor of pursuing his prey.

“The name’s Mohawk,” the Decepticon said. “You seem like a decent guy, Neutral—what’s your designation?”

Lie, Canopy’s common sense screamed. “Excavator,” he blurted out, a coworker’s name, and then stiffened in terror when his back collided with a building. Glass shattered. He hoped the humans didn’t kill him for it.

“Excavator, huh,” Mohawk repeated. He slid closer, coiled and ready to strike. Canopy flinched away, struggling against paralyzing hysteria. “You know, I was going to take this energon here, but I don’t think I will anymore.”

It took Canopy a moment to register what had been said through his all-consuming fear, and even once he did he didn’t understand it.

“Wh—what?”

“That’s right,” Mohawk sneered. “I’m not going to take that energon, because I found a much larger source of fuel somewhere else.”

Canopy didn’t understand. He shook his head again, and Mohawk grinned. His teeth were serrated.

“ You , neutral. I’m going to tear you apart, and drink the fuel from your veins!”

The Decepticon launched himself at Canopy, a whirlwind of silver and green death. Canopy cried out in horror, flailing wildly and diving to the side—but Mohawk was much faster. Sharp blades and claws and teeth dug around his armor, digging at vulnerable transformation seams. If Canopy had thought his armor was going to protect him at all, he would have been wrong. Mohawk tore at him with the expertise of someone who’d been fighting larger, heavily armored mechs all his life.

Canopy struggled wildly, optics straining to follow the Decepticon’s quick, erratic movements. Warnings blared in front of him as wires and lines were slashed. Energon spewed from the wounds, further draining his already meager savings.

In desperation, he flung himself forward, toward the energon cubes and away from the building boxing him in. At the very least, it caught Mohawk off guard. For a moment he'd freed himself. Mohawk whirled to face him, flexing energon-smeared claws threateningly and crouching into a low fighting stance.

“Please,” Canopy gasped. “Please—” He wanted to ask for mercy, to plead for his life, but he stopped himself. He knew that would only excite the Con further.

“ Please ?” Mohawk mocked, just as Canopy had known he would. “ Please , tear me apart? Why, darling,” he bared his teeth in a disgusting parody of a smile, “all you had to do was ask!”

He lunged again. Canopy struck out at him this time, but Mohawk dodged the weak blow easily and scored another long cut across Canopy’s thigh.

There were missile launchers on Mohawk’s shoulders. Weapons that would take Canopy down in an instant, but he hadn’t bothered to even activate them. Mohawk knew he wouldn’t need them.

The Decepticon circled him, optics bright in anticipation of the kill. Canopy rotated to follow, terrified, shaking—

He wasn’t getting out of this alive. Mohawk was toying with him. It was only a matter of time before he got bored and delivered the killing blow. Canopy whimpered, and then cringed when the Decepticon hissed out a laugh. No one was coming to help him.

Canopy had two choices. Die at Mohawk’s merciless servos easily, without resistance… or, go for the energon, and die fighting. Both sounded horrific, but Canopy didn’t want to go down like a mechanimal in a slaughterhouse. As Mohawk sauntered toward him, oozing confidence and cruel amusement, Canopy made his decision.

His hand transformed into a hammer at his bidding, out of Mohawk’s sight, so the Decepticon wasn’t expecting Canopy to swing at him with all the strength he had left. It wasn’t a war hammer by any means, but Mohawk was small and light, meant for quick assassinations rather than brutal brawling. The work hammer collided with Mohawk’s chassis with a sickening crunch, sending him sprawling backwards. Canopy nearly didn’t move at the opening, too surprised at his luck. He only bolted into motion when Mohawk let out a murderous growl and began to rise.

Canopy leapt for the energon. Even spurned on by his hammering spark, he wasn’t fast enough. Mohawk beat him there, snatching up two of the cubes and crowing in victory—

The moment he touched the cubes, a cannon sounded. Mohawk screeched as a massive bullet tore through half of his pelvic plating, shearing a leg right off. Canopy dove to the ground as more shots streaked through the air, narrowly missing him.

The energon had been a trap all along. Canopy cursed himself for not realizing it sooner.

From the opposite side of the park, humans began to emerge from various hiding places, firing their weapons on Mohawk. A few of them shot at Canopy, too, but the bullets ricocheted off Canopy’s thicker armor.

Mohawk shrieked and raged, writhing under the barrage of weaponry. His missile-launchers finally roared to life, firing blindly at his attackers. Some of them hit their marks, sending humans flying, and others soared into the nearby buildings, starting fires and devastating innocents huddled inside.

It was chaos. Canopy stumbled, and one of his pedes kicked something solid—

He glanced down, and his spark nearly stopped.

The energon cubes were right in front of him. Hope swelled within his chassis, so suddenly that he almost fell over. He snatched them off the ground and stuffed them in his subspace.

He had the energon. He had the energon.

Now, he had to escape.

The humans had shifted their focus onto Mohawk, the obvious threat. The Decepticon was doing his best to fight them off, but he was drastically outnumbered. It wouldn’t be long until they overwhelmed him.

Canopy turned on his heel, and ran.

A few stray bullets followed him as he dove for the nearest side street. One managed to strike a gap between two armor plates on his back. He gasped at the unexpected pain, but it wasn’t enough to fell him. He struggled on, forcing his bulky frame to move far faster than what it was accustomed to.

He was being followed. The heavy steps of a walker, like the one he’d nearly run into before, followed him. Canopy turned down another street, then another, desperate to stay out of its line of fire. A crumbling wall behind him exploded as the walker missed its first shot.

Primus, Primus please, help me get away, Canopy thought desperately. He was so close. So close to getting away, with three whole cubes. If he rationed them carefully, they’d keep him alive for weeks.

Assuming he escaped, that was.

Canopy rounded another corner, vents cycling air so quickly they were nearly howling.

There!

A pile of rubble, so large and so quantitive that it would easily hide him. He went for it, diving into the concrete and shifting just enough so that the debris covered him—and then he went completely still.

The walker came closer and closer. The ground shook, and Canopy knew it was right next to him. He offlined his optics and waited, expecting the worst.

The walker buzzed. Canopy nearly flinched, barely remembering to restrain the motion in time…

The robot moved on. Canopy couldn’t believe it, but he still didn’t dare move.

Had he… had he really gotten away? It had seemed so hopeless. He’d… he’d done it?

Once the walker’s footsteps had faded into the distance, Canopy poked his head out of the rubble and peered around, half expecting to be shot.

The street around him was deserted. Canopy was alone.

The relief was so strong it nearly knocked him offline. His tank pinged him a warning again, and this time Canopy could do something about it. Several sips of one of his successfully retrieved cubes made his engine purr in happiness.

He’d done it. He’d faced down walkers, humans, and even a Decepticon, and he hadn’t died.

Even though he had fuel, exhaustion weighed down on his shoulders, heavier than a metrotitan. Canopy knew the rubble wasn’t the most secure hiding place, but it had hidden him from the walkers—and he was uncertain if he could find his original hiding spot again.

For the moment, he was safe enough. It would have to do.

He let recharge sweep him away.