Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Beep…

Beep…

Beep…

The slow, steady sound was the first to reach him as awareness took over the nothingness. He didn’t know what it was, didn’t recognize it, only focused on it as being the first thing he knew. Later, he would discover that the sound was that of machines and monitors keeping careful track of his consciousness and life-signs. In the beginning, in the now, it was just a sudden sound that was oddly comforting – the first thing that made him aware of the fact that he was alive.

He floated, it seemed, in blackness. Black space and steady beeps were his sole companions as he just existed. He was alive, but his consciousness had not yet broken through the barrier to the waking world. It wasn’t time. He wasn’t ready.

“…”

“…onding…”

“…splan… ation success…”

Garbled sounds he couldn’t understand came next, after a stretch of time he couldn’t measure. Those sounds seemed to come from different sources; two distinct sources, he was sure. He couldn’t make sense of the sounds yet.

Soon, though.

“Wake him up.”

A jolt and he was torn from the blackness he’d become so familiar with. The steady beeps continued, but the comforting black void around him was gone, replaced by a jarringly bright white as he joined the world at last. He couldn’t see anything clearly, everything blurred together into that terrible brightness. The sounds around him mingled together – steady beeps, murmured words, a new low hum.

He didn’t like it. He wanted to go back to the darkness, where he’d felt safe. This white waking world wasn’t right – this wasn’t where he belonged. Something was wrong and he knew he shouldn’t be there.

“Give me the readings, Flame.”

He turned his head, optics staring at the source of the sound. Two mechs stood near him, looking over various machines, checking information, observing and noting. One spoke in response to the first voice, speaking in jargon and nonsense that he couldn’t begin to decipher. The two mechs paid him no attention yet, caught up in talk of infinites and experiments, tests and results.

He tried to move. There was a sense of urgency in his mind, something he had to do, someone he had to get to, he realized as his consciousness began to stir more from the slumber it had been in. He couldn’t say what it was he had to do, who he needed to get to, or even give himself a name. Everything was blank to him, except that sense of urgency that he couldn’t explain.

He’d just gotten his hand to move when one of the mechs turned to him.

“Two Zero, transform.”

Three words formed a command that he had no choice but to obey. He didn’t know why he followed the command, but his body pushed forward, broke apart and shifted, re-combining a moment later. He was vaguely aware of the mech’s glee as his command was obeyed.

“Again.”

His body split and shifted a second time. It felt wrong. He shouldn’t be able to do this. He didn’t want to do this. He wanted the black void again, where he could float alone, away from this voice that commanded him, away from the body that obeyed against his own will.

“Once more, Two Zero.”

A third time, he transformed, and he hated the forms he took. He didn’t have the words for them, couldn’t speak to name them, much less beg for the mech to stop commanding him to change. He wanted to shout, wanted to defy, and take himself away. The mech walked over to him, hands smoothing over the shell of this third form.

“Excellent.” The mech turned to the other. “No signs of rejection?”

“None.” The other, Flame, checked over the monitor again. “A complete success.”

“Good. Next test. Two Zero, return to your root form.”

A final transformation and he was back to the form in which he’d woken. His whole body trembled and he hoped that it was over. He stared at his hands – shaking gold claws that were not his own; not that he recognized. He didn’t understand, though, how his body couldn’t be his own, but he couldn’t question it. He couldn’t speak.

New noises sounded and pain lashed throughout his strange body. He’d been shot. He knew that – he’d been shot before. Part of him thought he should be panicking, but he didn’t. Instead, he focused on the wounds, analyzed them; he was leaking, a direct shot to a vital part of his systems. Panic edged at his consciousness, but his body reacted instead, shifting again. This time, he didn’t transform, but repaired.

“Very good.”

“Now what, Grand Architect?” Flame asked.

Scorponok turned to Flame. “Now, we do a field test.”

Chapter Text

“We’re making excellent time.”

“Time was never the point.”

“Perceptor, if you try to tell me the journey was the point, I’m going to purge.”

Perceptor glared across the table at Atomizer. The two of them were sitting in the captain’s office, along with Xaaron and Getaway. The office had been completely redecorated since Getaway had taken over the Lost Light after the mutiny and anyone who had stepped foot inside would never have recognized it as ever belonging to Rodimus. Getaway’s taste was surprisingly classy, minimalist and clean in comparison to Rodimus’ bright and clashing tastes.

But they weren’t there for the décor.

“Rodimus’ end goal was the Knights, yes,” Xaaron cut in before Perceptor and Atomizer could start on each other, “but there was always more to the quest. His initial speech may have been mostly purple prose, but there was a genuine promise in it to see more than an endless war.”

Getaway’s plating tensed as Xaaron and Perceptor exchanged glances - he could see it, a sense of regret for leaving the former captain behind. He’d been seeing it more lately, as the Lost Light flew further from the Necrobot’s planet, where the mutinied crew members had been left. There’d been whispers around the ship of going back for them, but Getaway had stamped out the thoughts by putting all efforts into finding the Knights, getting as many of the crew involved as possible, to keep them all too occupied to consider going back.

Still, he could sense the uneasiness and regret and that was something that he couldn’t afford to have on the ship. He knew that there were those who disagreed with the drastic measurements he’d taken, though many had agreed to the mutiny. If the regret he saw were to spread throughout the ship, he could have another mutiny on his hands; one that would lead to his own downfall.

That was why, when Blaster had told him of a message from the mutinied crew, all of them saying good bye, Getaway had told him that the message was never to be seen by the rest of the crew. He told no one of his brief contact with General Neech that led him to believe the Black Block Consortia had reneged on their promise. No one aboard the Lost Light had to know that Rodimus and the others were likely dead.

As long as that information didn’t get out, Getaway could continue to lead the quest and reach their goal of finding the Knights of Cybertron.

“We know what his goal was,” Getaway finally spoke up. He leaned against the table where the others sat, one hand resting on the surface as he gestured to the map that had been cut from Rodimus’ desk and mounted to the wall. “Our goal is to find the Knights of Cybertron. This quest started over five years ago and we’re finally making progress, thanks to Perceptor and Thunderclash for deciphering the map. Atomizer is right, we are making excellent time. We should reach the Knights by the end of the year, if we keep this up.”

It was an amazing amount of progress that had been made, and Getaway would gladly boast the accomplishment. He had gotten them further along in the quest in three weeks than Rodimus had in five years. With Thunderclash and Perceptor working together to decode and translate the map, no distracting layaways or detours or unnecessary stops, the Lost Light was par for the course.

“Getaway, if I may, I would suggest a stop on the next planet,” Perceptor spoke up. He snapped the reticule from over his eye and began polishing it. “The progress you so delight in holding over the absent former captains has cost a significant amount of energy from the quantum engines. The crew requires a rest period as well, to minimize the chances of cabin fever setting in. A stop for a day or so would give both the crew and the engines a chance to recover for the next leg of the journey.”

As much as Getaway would prefer to keep going, Perceptor had raised fair points. It was a necessary stop in many ways; a stop would please the tired crew and a pleased crew meant that Getaway would continue to stay on as captain. The remaining mechs on board had thrown two captains off ship, showing their willingness to do so, and if he didn’t keep showing his superiority as a captain, he was sure they’d have no qualms about getting rid of him, next.

“Very well,” he conceded. “Work out the details with Hound and plot a course. We’ll take two days on the next hospitable planet to rest and resupply while the engines recharge. Are there any other matters to be discussed?”

He saw the way Perceptor and Xaaron once again exchanged glances and he wondered if either of them would dare bring up the stranded crew members. He half-expected Xaaron to bring up some ethical reason why they should go back or for Perceptor to talk of Wrecker loyalty - although Whirl was hardly a Wrecker anymore, Rodimus had never officially been one, and Getaway often doubted Perceptor’s status among the Wreckers. He’d heard the rumors from Blaster, of Perceptor’s late night rendezvous with Drift, a well-known former Decepticon whose loyalties were in question even to this day.

Neither of them spoke up, however, and Getaway dismissed the meeting. Xaaron and Perceptor stood and the two of them headed for the door. As soon as they had left the office and the door had closed behind them, Getaway turned to Atomizer, his friend, co-conspirator, and second-in-command.

“Keep an optic on those two,” he told Atomizer. “I get the feeling they have plans of their own.”

Atomizer gave a nod. “You can count on me.”

* * * * *

Flame watched as Scorponok went over last-minute tests, carefully taking note of every result from Two Zero’s records. It was a slow process, preparing their latest specimen, but after the success from Mengel’s laboratory, there would be little stopping the Grand Architect from implementing the next phase of the project. It was amazing the advances that had been made with his knowledge and their resources and Flame would be the first to admit that he was impressed.

Looking over to where Two Zero stood in stasis, hooked up to the machines that kept his vitals recorded, Flame could only wonder the plans the Grand Architect had in mind for him. Scorponok shared little, only giving enough details that the crew knew what he needed of them. Curiosity was a curse, though, and Flame was not immune to its touch. He longed to know the plans that danced their elegant waltz through Scorponok’s mind, but the mech teased glimpses only, with a promise to fulfill their goals of a greater existence.

Two Zero was just one more step towards perfection. There were still more tests to be run, more experiments to perform, but Flame was eager to continue. They’d been testing and experimenting so long. They were finally getting positive results and it would just be a matter of time before everything they’d worked towards would unfold.

Soon, Flame swore to himself. If not soon, then perhaps it would be time to take the reins from the Grand Architect.

“Flame, wake the subject,” Scorponok commanded.

Flame gave a nod and moved to the controls that regulated Two Zero’s status. A few keystrokes as he entered code, and the machine pulled Two Zero from stasis. The specimen’s optics lit up, blue light stark in a pale grey face framed by white and gold. The second successful Infinite, Two Zero had the same frame as his brother, the Infinite they’d picked up from Troja Major, but there were differences that had developed during the operation that preceded his awakening. Malleable as he’d been at the time, still new and developing, Two Zero’s features were softer than the first Infinite’s, armor rounding where his predecessor’s spiked.

Scorponok had posed the idea that it was due to the transplant, the core influencing Two Zero in a way they’d not expected. Flame was concerned now that, if the transplant may have influenced the malleable form of Two Zero’s frame, perhaps there would be other influences. His concerns had been waved off, but Flame continued to muse and keep careful watch over Two Zero’s development.

“Two Zero, I have another test for you,” Scorponok spoke, moving to stand in front of the Infinite. Two Zero looked to the Grand Architect, waiting for orders. “We are going to take you to a populated planet, where you are to use your many forms to blend in. Find Cybertronians and join them. Report to me when you’ve succeeded and I will give you further instructions.”

Two Zero nodded his understanding. Flame kept a studied gaze on the Infinite, watching for any sign of dissent or resistance from the specimen. If there was any, Flame could not see it.  Two Zero made no move, said nothing, did nothing; he would do nothing until given directions, as he was programmed. The first Infinite had been given free will and it had nearly escaped, having fled from Mengel and almost slipped out of their reach. They’d made sure to program Two Zero so that he would not have the will to run away from them.

No mistakes this time, Scorponok had insisted.

“Flame, have Locke set the coordinates to Haydon IV,” Scorponok ordered. He moved back to the console where he kept the data files on Two Zero, typing in commands and codes only he knew. “We’ll drop Two Zero there.”

“Yes, sir.” Flame gave an informal bow and set to task. Turning on his heel, he headed to the door, pausing briefly to look back over his shoulder at the gold and white statue of an Infinite.

Soon, he reminded himself.

* * * * *

Chariclo’s was a small, quiet bar in the city of Everes, outside of which the Lost Light rested, a few miles from the city’s boundaries. Thunderclash had suggested it for their place of drink, citing the spirituality of the bar’s atmosphere and claiming that the music, composed of traditional hymns and ancient instruments unique to the Tiresian Union, would be calming to tired minds. Most of the crew taking a break had chosen to go to more exciting bars, which suited Thunderclash just fine.

His suggestion had been more to deter eavesdroppers, truth be told. He, Perceptor, and Bluestreak were the only ones going to the bar, where they could speak a bit more freely than they could aboard the ship.

Thunderclash sat with Perceptor in the corner of Chariclo’s, stretched out over cushioned sofas as a live band played for a trio of dancers entertaining the crowd on the other side of the bar. Bluestreak joined them with drinks, setting glasses down on a table between the other mechs before laying on a third sofa. He took a drink from his own glass and reached for one of the crystal chips they’d ordered to go with their drinks.

“I know we’re not here for the spirituality and neoclassical music,” Bluestreak spoke up. He turned to Thunderclash. “What are we really here for, Thunderclash?”

Thunderclash brought his gaze to his companions, looking to the two of them in turn as he held his glass in hand, but didn’t drink from it. “It’s about the mutiny. I know none of us feel right about it. Perceptor has been my insight to Getaway’s command meetings and from what he’s told me, things are not going as well as our new captain would have us believe.”

“We’re making progress on the quest.”

“Yes, we are,” Perceptor agreed. He hadn’t touched his drink and he didn’t appear to be interested in drinking at all. “But at what cost? We left seventeen of our own behind on that planet. Seventeen of us. Regardless of what they believed, we left all of them behind. Beyond that, we left them there to die, Bluestreak. You saw those videos.”

Bluestreak flinched. “Y-yeah, I did.”

Although Getaway had commanded communications to be shut down, Bluestreak still had a direct line for streaming and downloading new movies and it was through that line that the most disturbing messages had come through – goodbye videos from the stranded crew, many of whom were terribly wounded and distraught, giving their last wishes and instructions for burial; intermutual, Neoprimalist, no funeral, “put beyond use.”

It had been horrifying to watch and, knowing he couldn’t bring it to Getaway without being punished for having an illicit line, Bluestreak had taken it to the next most authoritative Autobot on board – Thunderclash.

“There may be survivors.” Thunderclash set his glass on the table, still not imbibing of the drink. The drinks were mostly for show at this point, the subject of discussion too solemn for intoxicants. “I believe we should call for aid. Contact the Vis Vitalis and send them on a rescue mission. Firestar would gladly take to the task. Nautica and Velocity are her friends, after all.”

“Getaway would never allow it.” Perceptor finally reached for his drink and took a sip, slow and purposeful as he mused. “Communications have been closed since we left the others. The only reason we saw those videos was because Bluestreak had that open line in the bar.”

“We could use it to send a message to the Vis Vitalis,” Bluestreak suggested.

Perceptor shook his head. “Blaster would intercept it. Any outgoing messages would have to be done off-ship.” He looked from Bluestreak to Thunderclash. “This would be a good time to make a call if we’re serious about getting help to the others, if there are survivors. I don’t hold much hope at this point. Nightbeat said six hours. It’s been over three weeks.”

“We must make the effort,” Thunderclash insisted. “We do not abandon our own, regardless of what the motive is, or how smoothly the mastermind behind the mutiny speaks. It’s not the Autobot way, as you would well understand, Perceptor.”

There was a moment where Perceptor tensed up, frame rigid and lips pressed into a thin, firm line. Bluestreak had heard the story of Perceptor’s near-death experience while he was with the Wreckers, how it was only Drift who’d gone back for him. Thunderclash might have struck a nerve, but it was one that led Perceptor to nod in agreement.

“It’ll be risky, even off the ship, but we can encode the message and send it from a local comms station to reduce risk.” Perceptor reached for his glass again and took another thoughtful sip. It was clear by the furrow in his brow that he was already calculating how risky it would be. After a moment, he looked to Bluestreak. “You’ll have to be the one to send it. I don’t doubt that Getaway’s got an eye on both Thunderclash and myself, but you may slip under the radar.”

Bluestreak nodded. “I’ll take the risk. Just tell me what to send.”

Moving closer to the table, Perceptor brought forth a datapad from a compartment in his chest and started to compose the message. It needed to be straight to the point and yet, they had to encode it in a way that, if Blaster were to intercept it, it wouldn’t be easy for him to descramble and trace it back to them.

Thunderclash leaned over, reading the message for a moment. “If I may make a suggestion?”

“Of course.”

“Use a Camien encryption. With Nautica and Velocity both part of the marooned crew, Getaway won’t be able to decode it.”

“A brilliant suggestion, but I’m afraid I know of none such encryptions,” Perceptor pointed out. “I always meant to have Nautica teach me what she uses to encode her notes, but we never seemed to have the time.”

“Leave the encryption to me, then. I asked Proxima to teach me the Clytotechnian Encryption before I fell ill.”

Bluestreak let Perceptor and Thunderclash handle the matter of the message. He turned his attention to his drink, sipping at it while thinking about the goodbye videos he’d intercepted. It was strange, in retrospect - Swerve hadn’t left a message at all. Bluestreak hadn’t gone through all the messages, skipping through many of them, but he’d caught glimpses of each of the abandoned crew members as he’d forwarded through the videos; he’d never seen Swerve.

He hadn’t liked the idea of sending Swerve away, after everything that had happened on Swearth - Bluestreak still got chills from the discovery that the Swerve who’d given him the bartending job, that he’d introduced to Community, had been a holomatter avatar the whole time. He’d grown fond of Swerve, thought he was a pretty okay boss, and then he’d been approached to help rescue Swerve. Seeing the minibot on the medical berth, dying from an unknown cause, had scared Bluestreak and he’d been glad to help.

Watching the comms as Getaway revealed the real reason the “Rod Squad” had been sent away, Bluestreak, in the crowd behind him, had seen the hurt on Swerve’s face. Just when he’d been realizing that people actually cared about him enough to save his life, Swerve had seen one of those same people in the crowd that had abandoned him.

It had hurt deeply and Bluestreak had been regretting the mutiny since. He’d regretted it as Getaway told the rest of the crew an elaborate lie about Rodimus and his squad abandoning them, cutting ties to search for the Knights on their own. He only regretted it more when the goodbye video came through his stream and he’d seen so much despair, all of the others terrified and giving up any shred of hope.

And Swerve, for once, hadn’t seemed to say anything.

Dwelling on these thoughts, Bluestreak didn’t realize how tightly he’d been gripping his drink until the glass shattered in his hand. Shards dug into the seams of his palm as his drink spilled over his frame and the sofa. Perceptor and Thunderclash stopped their work on the message and looked at him in concern.

“Sorry, I’m fine.” Bluestreak rose from the sofa to get one of the wait staff so he could get a towel. “Be right back.”

He headed away, picking glass shards out of his palm, and took advantage of the washroom at the bar to get the sticky remnants of his drink off his frame.

While he was there, Bluestreak took a moment to compose a message of his own, not bothering to encrypt it. He wasn’t sure if it would reach the recipient and, if he was going to be honest, he didn’t give a damn if Blaster intercepted it. He was going to apologize to Swerve and frag the lot of Getaway’s own squad.

Once he’d sent it off, he returned to Thunderclash and Perceptor to pick up the message they wanted to send.

* * * * *

Blaster had, in fact, intercepted Bluestreak’s message, but it really wasn’t the reason he was calling Getaway to come to the bridge. Although it broke the rule of no contact and Bluestreak would probably pay for it later, there was something much more pressing at hand and Getaway needed to get to the bridge A.S.A.P.

The Lost Light had been on complete radio silence under Getaway’s order since the mutiny. Getaway had told the crew it was to keep them undetected by the Black Block Consortia, who was known to roam the sector of space they’d been heading through, but the real reason was so that no one could find out about the mutiny and try to bring them in for it. Blaster was to intercept all messages and relay them to Getaway, but responses had been so few that most of the messages were never replied to in the end.

A message from the Necroworld had been ignored, as had several comms from Optimus Prime on Earth, Windblade on Cybertron, and Firestar on the Vis Vitalis.

Blaster was certain that Getaway would not want to ignore the one they’d just received.

The door to the bridge opened and an irritated Getaway walked in. “What? What’s so important I have to see it?”

Blaster pulled up the message on the screen. He and Getaway were the only ones on the bridge, so they were the only ones to see the message. The video cut in dramatically, lighting intense for a moment, then Rodimus’ frame was brought into focus – Rodimus in a dark frame, with solemn black and violet replacing the red and gold that had been so pretentious and flashy. His Autobot badge had been painted black as well, a sign of mourning.

“Surprise, bitch,” Rodimus greeted in the video feed. “I bet you thought you’d seen the last of me.”

Getaway gave a livid growl. “Where did this come from?”

“I wasn’t able to trace it,” Blaster replied, shaking his head. “There’s more.”

Indeed, the video message continued. Rodimus was no longer the only one on the screen. Nearly everyone that had been left behind on the Necrobot’s planet was in the feed – Megatron was gone, Getaway noted with glee, as was Ravage. He looked at the others on the screen and saw the damage they’d all taken. Every one of the abandoned crew members in the video wore their badges in black and it struck Getaway as odd, as even though they’d been left behind for their sympathy towards Megatron, none of them would be likely to mourn him in such an intimate way.

Then he realized –

Skids.

As though expecting Getaway to make the realization at the same time he spoke, Rodimus glared at the camera. “Skids is dead. An innocent mech died because of you. I’m coming back for my ship, Getaway. When I do, you’re going to pay for his death.”

Chapter Text

Even with a bare minimum crew, it wasn't an easy trip from the Necrobot’s world to a port where they could pick up a new ship. The problem with using forced mass displacement to turn a corpse into a ship was that, eventually, it would fall apart. Skip, useful as he’d been, had already had a few pieces fall off as Rodimus’ crew left Troja Major and their search for a suitable ship had turned up empty so far.

Rodimus remained optimistic, as far as anyone could tell. He worked with Drift and Ultra Magnus to help keep the crew together and figure out their next course, called Anode and Lug in for help, asking them for advice for where to go next, since they were fairly familiar with the section of space they’d been traveling through. He reassured the crew that they were making progress, soon to find a decent space port to search for a bigger, more reliable ship. He rushed here and there, addressing problems, looking for answers, and surprising everyone with how involved he was.

Many chalked it up to Rodimus’ desire for vengeance against Getaway, as reflected by the colors of his new paintjob, but those who knew him more intimately knew better – Drift knew better. Rodimus wanted revenge, yes, but his goal was much bigger, much more personal than revenge. The Lost Light had been Rodimus’ home and Drift knew, as only one who knew Rodimus intimately would, that home was the one thing Rodimus had fought for most of his life; not simply the Autobot cause. Rodimus was haunted by the ghosts of a city he’d watched burn, of innocent lives he’d been forced to take so that a corrupt government couldn’t exploit them.

Rodimus had lost too many homes – Nyon, Cybertron, the Lost Light.

“No more.” That was what Rodimus had told Drift as they discussed his new paintjob, his conversion to Spectralism. “I won’t let anyone take this away from me again.”

Drift kept a close watch on his friend as Rodimus planned and discussed the next move. The optimism and high energy he displayed was one of Rodimus’ many masks; few knew the way to tell Rodimus’ true feelings past his masks, but Drift could see the little signs, the subtle tells and slips that gave away how tired and downtrodden Rodimus really was, under all that optimism.

Drift worried. There was much that he could not control, especially with Rodimus - he knew better than to try, the other mech as resistant to control as the flames that burned from his very spark. He could try to talk Rodimus into resting, but it would be a futile endeavor; Rodimus would not rest until his ragged crew was back into safer space, in a ship that could be better relied upon than the cold corpse of a Decepticon.

The bull-headedness his friend displayed reminded Drift quite a bit of another and his mind slipped into thoughts of one of the mechs he’d left behind when he’d taken the fall for Overlord’s presence on the Lost Light. Perceptor was as stubborn and resistant as Rodimus, determined to see his goal achieved, even at the expense of his own well-being. Before he’d left, there had been nights when it had taken all of his charms to get Perceptor to agree to put his project aside and recharge before he collapsed.

Thinking of Perceptor had Drift’s spark aching. He’d lost contact with the other mech long ago, shortly after he’d taken the shuttle from the Lost Light. They had not parted on good terms, with Perceptor angry at him for Overlord’s attack and demanding an explanation, but Drift had known that if he’d told Perceptor the truth, it would only make things worse.

And then the line of communication between the ships had cut out - he’d found out later it was because of the journey to chase Ultra Magnus through a portal to Luna 1. Drift had not been able to reconnect with Perceptor afterwards.

He’d assumed – and accepted the assumption – that Perceptor was done with him and, frankly, he wouldn’t have been surprised if that had been the case. Their relationship had always been a tumultuous one, as one might expect of two Wreckers who were trying to find their place among the team. There had been occasions where they wouldn’t see each other for months, one of them on a mission and the other on a different mission. There’d been more than one time that Drift had left without saying good-bye and, well, there were only so many times Perceptor would forgive him.

Knowing that Perceptor was on the Lost Light, following Getaway, Drift wondered if he’d used up all the times he’d get forgiveness.

“Drift.” Rodimus cut into his friend’s thoughts as he touched a warm hand to Drift’s arm. Drift turned his head to see a serious look on Rodimus’ face. “I need to speak with you and Minimus. Privately.”

Privacy was little to be found on Skip. Aside from the spacious cabin where most of their rather small crew sat around, there was only one other cabin, where Minimus was controlling their flight; however, there was no divider between the cabins, so there was still almost no privacy. They’d just have to keep their voices down to keep the rest of the crew from eavesdropping. Drift followed Rodimus to this smaller cabin and stood between the chairs as Rodimus took the co-pilot’s seat, hooking a leg over the arm and sprawling back, hands folded over his torso.

“So, we need a plan,” Rodimus announced. “We need to be prepared to take back the Lost Light.”

“I thought the plan was go back to Cybertron and get reinforcements?” Drift folded his arms and leaned against the back of Rodimus’ chair. “What happened to that plan?”

“If we go back to Cybertron, we’ll never catch up with the Lost Light,” Rodimus pointed out. “Getaway has my map. He could be half-way to Cyberutopia by now. We’ll send a message to Iacon and send someone after the rest of the crew. We need to catch up to the Lost Light, get back my command, and launch Getaway into the nearest sun.”

Minimus gave a frown. “We are not launching him into a sun. He will be held for trial.”

“Held for trial?” Rodimus frowned right back at Minimus, sitting upright and bringing one hand up, as though to stop the other mech from speaking. “He hardly held us for trial! He took my ship, turned my crew against us, and sent us to die by the DJD’s hands! Skids is dead because of Getaway! Ravage was killed, we all almost died, and now we’re flying around in a dead Decepticon that’s falling apart on us and it’s all because of Getaway! No trial needed, it’s all on him and I won’t let him pull a fast one on us again by letting him get to the Knights of Cybertron first, so he can manipulate them into celebrating him as a hero!”

“I agree with Rodimus.” Drift knew only the bare details of the things that Getaway had done, as it’d all happened long after he’d left the Lost Light, but his visions had always placed Rodimus at the command of the ship, as being the one to the find the Knights. He knew Getaway had done terrible things, was responsible for the entire situation their ragtag crew was in, and that was enough. “Getaway is guilty and we all know it. We need to get back the Lost Light and see to it that Getaway gets what he deserves, whether that’s a one-way ticket into a sun or if it’s justice by the hands of the Knights. Either way, we need the Lost Light.”

“Which means we need a plan, as I was saying.” Rodimus sprawled again, a circle of thin cabling looped in his fingers. He fidgeted with it, creating patterns woven between his hands. “We need to find a way to contact the ship, get someone on the inside, get them back on our side.”

Minimus tugged at his facial piece with one hand for a moment, clearly displeased with this. Drift had picked up quickly that the tugging was a sign of Minimus’ inner struggles and he was certain that the smaller mech was conflicted about Getaway. What his thoughts were, though, Minimus didn’t vocalize. He didn’t argue with either Rodimus or Drift, so what was there to do but continue planning.

“Who can we be sure that we can get a line to without them reporting to Getaway?” Rodimus asked.

“Perceptor.” Drift’s answer was immediate. Yes, there were times that Perceptor had quietly complained about Rodimus to Drift, before their separation when he’d left the ship, but most of his complaints were almost affectionate, as though Perceptor were speaking of an irritating younger brother. “Let me contact Perceptor. He’ll give me a chance. He doesn’t know I’m with you. I can get a message through to him.”

“Make it count. He could be our one chance.”

* * * * *

Haydon IV was a fairly quiet rest stop as First Aid and the others tried to catch up with the Lost Light – they’d been gone far longer than intended and catching up was harder than they’d thought it would be, as it seemed as though the crew was in a sudden hurry to get across the entire universe, compared to the leisure pace the ship had been taking. The shuttle First Aid, his new gestalt team, and Mirage were flying couldn’t possibly catch up without making the occasional stop to refuel, so they’d had to make stops as they followed the Lost Light’s trail.

The opportunity to leave the shuttle for a while and stretch out, transform to work out the kinks in their frames, helped keep everyone sane, after so long in the shuttle. Mirage and Rook had chosen to stay with the shuttle while they refueled, while the rest of the Protectobots headed to the town near where they’d landed. The town was a small trading post, where goods came from across the galaxy. First Aid had made a beeline for a market stall with Autobot sigils hung on the awning, attracted by the sight of a couple of sigils with the telltale mark of Agent 113’s messages.

“How much for these three?” First Aid asked, pointing out the sigils.

“5,000 standard units,” came the reply from the bored seller, seated behind the counter of the stall. “Each.”

“That’s robbery!”

The merchant smiled at First Aid, all smugness and broken dentae. “That’s business, zanmi.”

First Aid looked between the two sigils, visor flickering as he internally debated whether to buy or walk away. Ten thousand units was a lot, especially for sigils, but they had Agent 113’s mark and would add to his collection…but on the other hand, it was ten thousand units. That was way out of his price range. Even one would be a big dent into his savings.

Disappointed, First Aid ex-vented. “I’ll pass today.”

He started to turn away from the booth when another mech reached for the same two sigils he’d been looking at. First Aid watched in despair as the mech wordlessly set the sigils on the booth counter and hand over a currency card. That same despair turned into flustered surprise when, after paying, the other mech offered the sigils to First Aid with a gentle smile.

“Oh! I couldn’t!” First Aid tried to protest, waving his hands in front of him with a shake of his head. Ten thousand units was too much for a stranger to gift him.

The other mech continued to offer the sigils, gesturing with one hand to his throat, mouth moving to form the shadow of words. Please, it’s no trouble.

Not wanting to make a scene, First Aid took the sigils, inspecting them for a brief moment – the mark of Agent 113’s shots were genuine, the holes matching the bullet size that he’d been told to watch for, in case one of the messages came past him. First Aid had seen more than one fake, with the holes drilled or shot with too large a bullet. He wondered what kind of messages had been sent with the bullets that had struck these two sigils, but he’d never know; he didn’t have the clearance for that and never would.

“Thank you. You didn’t have to purchase these for me, but I do appreciate it.”

The other mech shook his head, then raised his hands and flexing his fingers in a gesture that meant that he used chirolinguistics to ‘speak’. Tucking the sigils away in the satchel he carried, First Aid raised his hands in return. “I’m a little rusty with chirolinguistics, but go ahead.”

The other mech moved his fingers in subtle, gentle motions as he introduced himself and asked First Aid for a trade – a ride off Haydon IV, in exchange for the sigils.

* * * * *

Ever since she’d returned to the ship from Troja Major, Nautica had been a point of concern for those closest to her. While most of the crew aboard Skip was concerned with the increasingly tight squeeze as the ship shrank and lost pieces, the remaining four of Nautica’s amicae were more concerned for their friend’s well-being. Velocity had told them of Nautica’s attempt to resurrect Skids, the removal of her grief, and the consequent loss of her feelings for the mech who’d been her second-closest friend.

All of them felt the loss of Skids since the mech’s death and the gaping hole left behind by the removal of Nautica’s grief and feelings only made the loss heavier on their sparks. Seeing Nautica so casual when she’d been in so much pain only days ago was so jarring, it had shocked even Nightbeat, whose own grief had been so suppressed by Velocity’s grief-shots that it had snapped at last.

Rung had just spent a couple of hours working with Nightbeat to get him out of the breakdown he’d been thrown into, calming him down and helping him ease back to a stable state. It hadn’t been easy – Nightbeat was, at best, closed off when it came to his own emotions and, at worst, chaotically avoidant, desperate to evade acknowledging there was something wrong. His breakdown had been hard, overwhelming him so quickly that he hadn’t known what to do, especially in such a small space, with too many people to see him so unstable. Roller had pulled him aside to get him at least some elbow room and fetched Rung to talk him down.

Eventually, Nightbeat’s mind calmed down, he was able to get a grasp on reality again, and his emotions plateaued, leaving him exhausted. Rung suggested letting him recharge and went to take care of the trigger that had caused Nightbeat’s downward spiral. Moving across the ship was a journey on its own, with everyone mostly crowded together. There weren’t many seats and everyone who didn’t have a seat was on the floor, legs crossed under themselves or stretched out in front of them. Nautica sat by one of the windows, legs curled against her frame as she watched the stars outside.

“Do you mind?” Rung asked, already taking the spot on the floor next to her.

Nautica smiled at him, gesturing with one hand that he was more than welcome, then directing his attention to the streaks of light they flew through. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s always a lovely sight,” Rung agreed.

“I never really appreciated it before.” Nautica turned her attention back to the window. “When we left Caminus, I was too busy reading up on Cybertronian history to pay attention and, even on the Lost Light, I was always doing something else, too caught up in new experiences to watch the stars.”

“You had the chance to really make friends on the Lost Light,” Rung pointed out. He remembered when Nautica had first come on board, how excited she’d been to find scientists and scholars, ever-curious minds and adventurers, much like herself. “No one could blame you for getting caught up.

Nautica’s smile brightened. “I did make some really great friends. You, Nightbeat, Brainstorm, and Velocity mean the world to me.”

Rung’s spark pulsed in his chest and the light of his optics dimmed sadly. “And Skids?”

A slight frown tugged Nautica’s smile away. “What about him?”

“He was one of your amicae, same as the others and I.”

Nautica tilted her head, her frown deepening. “What are you talking about?”

“Surely you remember?” Rung prompted, surprised by her reaction. Velocity had told him the grief-removal had erased all the feelings that Nautica had for Skids, but her confusion now concerned him. “You declared him your amicae for his kindness, as well as his dancing.”

“Rung, I couldn’t have declared him an amica,” Nautica told him, turning to face her friend. “He wasn’t even there. I never invited him to the amica ceremony.”

The surprise that Rung felt previously seemed small compared to the shock that he felt now. How could Nautica think that? Rung could recall the ceremony so clearly in his mind that he could practically be standing there in the warm glow of Nautica’s spark once more, with Skids across from him, hand in Nautica’s with his other hand gripping to Nightbeat’s. He could envision the smile on Skids’ face, illuminated in the soft blue light of their friend’s spark as he looked to Nautica and recited the promise they’d all made –

“Today, tomorrow, and always.”

Rung could almost hear Skids’ voice forming the words in his mind, echoing over his own and the voices of Brainstorm, Nightbeat, and Velocity. His spark pulsed painfully in his chest at the memory of his lost friend and the realization of just how lost Skids was to Nautica – whom Skids had once claimed as his best friend, even as teasing as it had been that night in the bar. If she didn’t remember him being there, claimed that she’d never claimed him as one of her amicae, she’d lost him all over again.

And she didn’t even acknowledge the loss, because of the grief she’d had removed.

“Do you really not remember how much he meant to you?” Rung asked, his voice quiet.

He blamed himself, in many ways, for this – if he’d been more thorough with Skids, helped him ease into his memories, perhaps the shock would not have killed Skids. If he’d sat down with Nautica afterwards, talked with her, and consoled her, perhaps she would not have gone to such great lengths to get him back. Had Rung done more, for either of his friends, how much would have changed? Would Skids be on this decaying ship with them, offering smiles and distractions as tensions rose, with Nautica smiling and laughing along with him?

Rung knew plenty about survivor’s guilt and knew the weight of Skids’ death was heavy on everyone who had been boosted by his spark. He was not alone in bearing the guilt, but it felt as though he had let Skids down and, in turn, let Nautica down. It was irrational to think so – the circumstances were out of his control and he could save Skids no more than he could turn back time, but feeling that grief, the guilt, and the loss gripped him in a tight hold that refused to yield to rational thought.

Nautica gave a sigh, standing up from her spot. “I don’t know why you and Velocity think Skids was that close to me. He was just a guy I knew.”

Rung opened his mouth to counter that claim, but another mech beat him to the punch as Swerve, nearby, shot upright.

“How could you say that about him??” Swerve demanded, pointing an accusatory finger at Nautica, his visor bright with anger. Rung noted that Swerve’s finger was shaking as he pointed, his entire frame trembling. “‘Just a guy’?? That’s the cheapest slag I’ve ever heard and I’m a fraggin’ bartender! He was your friend, Nautica! You were the last person he spent time with and you don’t care anymore!”

Nautica looked to Swerve with shock in her optics, clearly not expecting him to speak up. She, like Rung, hadn’t realized that he had heard their conversation. Nautica attempted to calm the situation, raising her hands defensively. “Swerve, it wasn’t – ”

“You don’t care!” Swerve’s voice rose and Rung caught sight of more than one of the others turning their heads to see who’d snapped this time. Rung knew that Swerve, for all his flaws, low self-esteem, and self-depreciation, was not an easy mech to break – he kept his shield of humor and nonchalance strong, polished and primed, but when the dam broke, it broke hard. “You were his best friend! He spent his last day alive with you! And you’d turn around and call him ‘just a guy’? That’s such complete slag! You got to declare him your amica endura before he died, and I didn’t even get to tell him I loved him!”

The silence in the ship that met Swerve’s words was almost deafening. Everyone that had been talking in hushed tones previously, whether they heard Swerve initially or not, had gone quiet. As heavy as the air in the ship had been with tension lately, this newest breakdown and revelation had cut into the tension.

Nautica was at a loss for how to react to Swerve’s words and Rung, likewise, didn’t know how to react, except to keep a watchful optic on him. The moment Swerve realized what he’d admitted, another dam would break and there was no guarantee that anyone would be able to fix it. Swerve didn’t seem to realize anything yet, clearly waiting for some kind of defense from Nautica, but she wasn’t responding. It wasn’t until Anode cleared her throat from the other side of the cabin that Swerve was pulled out of the focus he’d had on Nautica.

Only then, did he notice the others staring at him, in surprise and intrigue, no small amount of pity, and even a bit of sympathy. Swerve tensed and slunk down, wanting out of view, but there was really nowhere to go – the only other cabin was where Rodimus, Minimus, and Drift were discussing the next step of the plan. Swerve headed for one of the corners of the cabin, vaulting over stretched out legs and ducking under a console station. From where he stood, Rung could see Swerve tucking his legs against his chest, folding his arms, and hiding his face.

“I…don’t understand what that was about,” Nautica told Rung, as the others on the ship went back to their mutterings. She gave a concerned frown, one hand coming up to her chest. “Did…was what he said true?”

“We’ll discuss it later,” Rung replied. He stood and ushered Nautica as far from where Swerve had chosen to hide. “Too many of us have hit a breaking point today.”

Too many of his friends were hurting and Rung couldn’t do anything to help, not in the state any of them were in. The small crew was falling apart faster than the ship was and if they didn’t find another ship soon, more of them would snap. Rung feared what would happen to them then.

* * * * *

Scorponok looked up from where he was studying the Magnificence, pondering and curious about the endless possibilities that the device promised. Across the room, his console beeped as a light flashed, indicating an incoming transmission on a secure line that he’d set up for one reason alone. A smile crossed his lips.

He activated his log. “Phase one has been completed. I await further reports.”