Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Running a planet was harder than Ultra Magnus had made it look.  It wasn’t that Sentinel wasn’t up to the task, of course. No, he had this under control.  Hey, within the time of his rule (no matter how temporary the Council insisted on reminding him they thought it was), they’d already managed to capture Megatron and most of his top lieutenants. That was something even Ultra Magnus hadn’t managed to do.

So why were his approval ratings so fragging low?!

Every single solar Alpha Trion sent him all of the information on public opinion he had, as if to rub it into the temporary Magnus’s faceplate that he wasn’t as loved as he would have liked. In fact, in the surveys Trion had created comparing how much the public liked each of their Primes, Sentinel included, he wasn’t even second. No, Optimus was currently holding first place for the most popular Prime. Rodimus was close behind, and that was just unfair! The red and orange perfectionist had just gotten out of the repair ward!  How could his approval ratings be so high?

The blue and yellow mech leaned back in his seat in the Magnus’s Office. He was thinking about how to increase his approval. It wasn’t that he particularly cared what everyone thought of him. No, that most certainly wasn’t it. It would simply make his job a lot easier if the public were behind him. So what did Optimus and Rodimus have that he didn’t?

No, the question was, ‘What did Optimus and Rodimus have that the public would care about more than Sentinel’s position?’

As Sentinel thought on that question, the comm on his desk went off. “Sentinel Magnus,” the secretary outside his door announced. “There’s a medic here to see you. He says he has the reports you asked for about Ultra Magnus’s condition.”

The temporary Magnus grunted, having forgotten he’d asked for those. Still, he pushed a button on his desk and answered, “Send him in.”

The line went dead, and a few kliks later, the door opened.

Into the large office, which was lined with holograms of the previous Magnuses, a minibot entered. He was the same frame-type as Bumblebee, but that was no surprise. It seemed you couldn’t walk five mechanometers in Iacon alone without tripping over a mini with that frame-type.  He was primarily white, with a red helm and matching details. His optics were covered with a wide blue visor, and his faceplate was also covered with white protective plating. It wasn’t uncommon to see medics with such a thing.

The small mech walked carefully, almost timidly, across the metal floor. When he reached the desk at the other end, he fidgeted a bit. “Um… Sentinel Magnus, uh… sir?  I have the report you wanted. About Ultra Magnus… I mean…” he said lightly, holding out a datapad.

“Thank you…” Sentinel said, taking the datapad.  He deliberately trailed off, not knowing who this young medic was.  He’d been expecting Red Alert.

“Oh!  Um, First Aid.  I’m First Aid, sir,” the minibot said quickly, straightening up.  “I only recently graduated from Protohex, under Pharma.  I was working with Red Alert before she went to Earth.”

“I see.  Who are you working under right now?” Sentinel asked absently, setting the datapad aside.

“Ratchet.”

That name made Sentinel go rigid. Of course, he was the medic now working on Magnus while Red Alert was gone. The sun shone out of everyone’s afts who were even associated with Optimus, apparently. “Alright, kid.  You want my approval? I would like to know your thoughts on Ultra Magnus’s condition. Not the medical terms, I want to know what you personally think.”

“M-me?” First Aid asked, startled. He began playing with his servos. “Well, to tell you the truth…”  He vented deeply, looking up at his temporary Magnus. “It’s not looking good. At this point, it’s not a matter of if; it’s a matter of when. Ultra Magnus isn’t going to survive this. We tried everything we could, but all we can really do is make him more comfortable.”

Sentinel’s optic ridges shot up at the news. “Really? That isn’t something I’ve heard from your mentors.”

“Ratchet said…” The white and red medic hesitated a moment, looking at the floor. “He said not to tell you because you’d find a way to use it to your advantage in securing a more permanent position as Magnus. But you are acting Magnus right now. I can’t lie to you. It wouldn’t be right.”

Sentinel swore under his vents, leaning on one arm. “Of course he told you that…” he muttered, looking down the row of holograms to his right. Ultra Magnus’s bust was flickering at the end of the line closest to them. “I don’t know what he thinks I’d do with that kind of information. I don’t want Magnus to go offline. I want to be the next Magnus, don’t get me wrong. But this isn’t how I wanted it.”

First Aid looked back up at him again. “I see…” he said, though he didn’t seem to at all. “Is that all?” He sounded hopeful, as if he couldn’t get out of that office fast enough.

Sentinel looked back at him again. “Yeah, sure,” he ex-vented, waving him off. “Dismissed. Go on back to work.”

“Thank you, Sentinel Magnus, sir,” the medic said in relief, saluting. He then turned on his heelstrut and hurried out.

Sentinel watched him go, shaking his helm. Even this kid, whom he’d only just met, didn’t like spending more time with him than he had to. He really had to figure out what Optimus and Rodimus had that he didn’t.

()()()()()

Ratchet was practically just making circles around his office, sorting and organizing everything. This was the first opportunity he’d really had since they came back to Cybertron, and there was a lot to do. It wasn’t that everything was out of place. It was just that he had a new place for it all since Earth. He’d come up with an entirely new organizational system while he was there, and he had to adjust accordingly.

While he bustled around it, he stopped by a hologram on his desk. There were actually several. The one he brought back of Arcee, who was now mostly recovered and working as a teacher again. One of his days in Protohex, alongside most of his classmates. Next to Arcee’s was one of Omega Supreme.

But the one that caught his attention was Team Optimus.

The Prime himself was standing in the front, holding Sari in one of his hands. He looked so proud. The team was dysfunctional, but it was his team, and despite their roughest patches, he really wouldn’t have traded it for anyone else. It made Ratchet wonder how he was holding up with the new teammates now. Bumblebee stood just next to him, striking what he probably thought was an ‘epic’ pose. Bulkhead stood behind the little yellow bug, simply waving cheerfully. Ratchet was next to Optimus, looking like his usual, grumpy self. Not even Sari’s insistence that he at least try to look like he wanted to be there could break through to him.

Ratchet ex-vented and picked it up as his optics were drawn to the last member of the team, standing on the other side of Bulkhead. Prowl wasn’t even looking in the same direction as the others. He instead turned to the side with his arms folded over his chestplate. Despite the mysterious image it gave him, Ratchet had no doubt Prowl did it on purpose. He may have complained about Bumblebee’s constant need to have a ‘cool’ image, but he practiced hard at his dark and mysterious appearance.

The old medic sat down at the desk in front of the holograms, staring at that image. He turned it, so Prowl was facing him, and covered his faceplate with a hand. “Primus, Prowl…” he muttered. “I just got Arcee back, and then I lose you…” He thought he’d gotten used to losing comrades back during the Great War. It was the risk of being a combat medic. You didn’t always save the lives you worked so hard to.

Ratchet never had to get as close to all of those ‘bots as he did with Team Optimus. He grew to care for them in a way that was far more intimate than just comrades or even friends. They were family.

There was a knock at the door, pulling Ratchet out of his thoughts. It was obvious who it was by the sound. First Aid was so timid that even his knock was lighter than necessary. “Come on in, kid!” Ratchet called, returning the hologram to its original location.

The door slid open, allowing the much younger medic in. It was always strange seeing him, as First Aid was barely out of his younglinghood yet was already working on the medical team in charge of Ultra Magnus. Ratchet himself worked as a consultant for it, but he left it to the medics who were already there.

“How’d your visit to Sentinel go?” Ratchet asked, standing up. He refused to use the word ‘Magnus’ concerning that blue and yellow-plated jerk.

“Paralyzing,” First Aid admitted, fidgeting. “That was the first time I’ve ever had to answer to someone in such a high position.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Ratchet shrugged, walking over and putting a hand on First Aid’s helm. Despite being Bumblebee’s frame-type, First Aid couldn’t be more different from the little yellow bug if he tried. Not just in looks, but his personality was a complete 180 degrees. Where Bumblebee was loud, brash, impatient, and cocky, First Aid was quiet, shy, careful, and modest. It made him blend into the background most of the time, despite his talents, unlike the Earth-bound scout who did everything he could to stand out. “He wasn’t hard on you, was he?”

First Aid looked at him with genuine confusion. “Hard? No. Why would he be?” he asked.

“No real reason, other than it being Sentinel Prime,” Ratchet grumbled, moving past him and opening one of the cabinets nearby. He pulled out a bottle of Engex. “You want a pick-me-up before we finish up the paperwork, and I send you home?”

“No, thank you,” the young medic shook his helm quickly. “I don’t overcharge.” He went to the desk next to Ratchet’s and sat down, pulling the datapad with his patient list for that day to himself. “And should you be speaking that way about Sentinel Magnus? I mean… You still called him a ‘Prime’. I know it’s not official, but he is acting Magnus right now.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” the elder mech huffed, joining him at his own desk.  He poured himself a glass of Engex and downed half of it in one shot. He vented loudly, then continued speaking. “He’ll never be Magnus to me. Sentinel is too much of an aft to take up Ultra Magnus’s reins.”

“Ratchet!” First Aid cried in surprise. He stared at him with a wide visor. “I know he’s not the most popular Prime, but I’ve never heard anyone say anything that disrespectful! Why do you hate him so much?”

“Cause I’ve had to spend time with him,” Ratchet grumbled, pointing at First Aid with the glass. He downed the rest of it, putting the glass to the side and activating his own paperwork. “The only reason you don’t hear anyone talk candidly about him is that you spend most of your time with your helm down. It’s not a terrible way to live if you wanna avoid conflict, but eventually, things are gonna get worse. You’re not gonna be able to keep your optics shuttered and audials off then. You’ll have to make a choice.”

First Aid stared at him for a moment. He looked conflicted for a moment, but then turned his attention back to his paperwork. He had to concentrate if he wanted out of there before the lunar cycle set in.

()()()()()

“So there I am, about to make the biggest arrest of my career.  Everything is going smoothly. The spawn of a glitch is right where I want him.”

Chromia, Lancer, and Greenlight leaned forward, hanging on every word of the white and red femme sitting before them. Maccadam’s wasn’t as busy as usual, being as there weren’t any races and it was early in the lunar cycle. The femmes had purposefully gotten there early for that reason. They wanted to have fun and then leave the bar before the crowd arrived. They’d run into the cop sitting at one of the tables while ordering, deciding to sit down with her and listen to her story of why she was off duty early that solar.

“So I go in for the arrest, the greasy creator-fragger starts reaching for his hip,” she continued. “I dived for him, but he was just lucky enough to pull his blaster before I could get him on the ground. He gets me right in the arm.”  She held up her left arm, showing off the fresh protometal covering the upper half of it. “Naturally, he thought it meant he won. So he goes to take off, but I grab him by the back seams and throw him to the ground with my good arm. He was so surprised he dropped his blaster, and I picked it up. Shoved it in his faceplate and told him, ‘That was a big mistake, afthole. You’re going away for a long time, courtesy of Streetwise.’”

Greenlight made a delighted sound, clapping loudly. “That’s so amazing, Streetwise!” she enthused.

“I thought so,” the cop said proudly, taking a drink of her Metrotitan. “But Depth Charge got mad because I went in on my own. What else was I supposed to do, though? That creep was gonna get away!”

“That tight-aft gets on everyone’s case, from what I hear,” Chromia rolled her optics, taking a sip of her Flat Tire Oil. “Is it true he’s one infraction away from transferring Cheetor out?”

“That’s a vast exaggeration,” Streetwise snorted. “He’d have to… I dunno, destroy two city blocks or something. Even Cheet’s not that reckless. But anyway, he excused me for the orbital cycle. Even suspended my pay.” She paused a moment. “Actually… can one of you cover me on my drink? Just the one, I swear!”

Lancer groaned. “Oh, sure, only the most expensive drink on the menu!” she complained. “What were you going to do if we hadn’t come in?”

“I would have gotten someone to pay for my drink,” Streetwise grinned.

“I can’t even believe you exist sometimes,” Chromia laughed.

“Believe it,” Streetwise grinned at them. “I’m one of a kind.”

“That you are,” Lancer agreed.

“To our one-and-only Streetwise!” Greenlight announced, raising her Latta Collins.

The others raised theirs as well. “Here, here!” the orange and purple femme cheered, holding her Ankmor high.

“She’s too good for her dead-end job!” Chromia added.

“Careful, Chromia!” Streetwise guffawed, careful not to spill her drink. “It’s the only job I’ve got!”

The four femmes laughed, drinking deeply from their glasses. They settled down to continue sharing stories and laughing away the lunar cycle, forgetting their original plans to leave early as they indulged in good company.

()()()()()

Upkeep had an excellent solar.  She spoke to many visitors to the Temple of Light of Primus, and they may find His radiant comfort inside. In fact, for the first time in a long time, the white-painted femme had run out of informational datapads. She returned inside cheerfully, happy for how many people were seeking sanctuary in these trying times with Primus. Her life had been changed by the Circle of Light, and she could only hope that she could return the favor by passing it on.

As she approached the main worship chamber, she slowed to a stop. Out of one of the side doors, in the techno-organic garden to the side of the Temple, was a singular figure. She knew the white, blue, and gold motorcycle anywhere. She turned to greet him.

“Hello, Groove,” Upkeep said gently.

The mech was sitting on a bench, watching the light of the setting sun bend and shine in the crystalline structures of Crystal City. He turned and smiled back, raising a hand in greeting. “Hey, Upkeep. What’s good?”

“Primus,” the femme quipped, chuckling softly and sitting next to him. She wasn’t trying to solicit him, but rather it was a bit of a tradition between them to have that exact exchange every time the pacifist came back to the Temple. “Back in town again, I see.”

“I can’t help it,” Groove admitted. “Much as I like my freedom, the beauty of Crystal City calls me. I’ve been everywhere from the Pious Pools to Kaon and Kallis, all the way out to Alkaline. I’ve gone into Iacon and even visited Metroplex itself. But nowhere, and I mean nowhere, can match Crystal City.”

Upkeep’s smile deepened, looking where he had been and admiring the dancing lights as well. “Are you going to come inside this time?” she asked.

Groove shook his helm. “Nah, femme,” he muttered. “Sorry, but it still hasn’t happened yet.”

Upkeep nodded, her smile not fading, but going solemn. She rarely lost her smile, believing it to be the most crucial thing towards comforting the lost. “When you find it, we’ll be here,” she promised.

“I know.”

Back when Groove showed up at the Temple of Light for the first time, he stood outside the door for what felt like an eternity. Upkeep had been relatively new at the time and unsure how to approach someone who looked so lost. She still remembered their conversation when she finally worked up the courage.

“Excuse me,” Upkeep had said. “Are you okay, sir?  You seem unsure if you should go in or not.”

Groove had looked at her at the time, and her spark sank in sympathy. She knew the kind of lost he was at the time. She had been it once. He had told her, “I don’t think I can.”

“Why not?” Upkeep asked. She knew not to try and push someone towards Primus when they may not want it. It could drive them away.

“Because I don’t know if I believe.”

Those had been the most sparkbreaking words Upkeep had ever heard. She’d reached out and put a comforting hand on his arm, not saying anything else. It was when she learned her smile could be the most comforting thing to those who were lost. It was all she needed to get him to relax. She’d led him there, to the techno-organic garden.  They sat and talked for megacycles about nothing in particular.

Upkeep found out Groove was a traveler, enjoying the freedom of the open road. He didn’t tie himself to anyone or anything, but he wouldn’t tell her why. He had come to Crystal City to pass through like he did everywhere else, but something had drawn him to stop at the Temple of Light. Finally, the one thing he’d opened up about was that he didn’t feel comfortable going into the Temple because he’d gone through something (again, he wouldn’t tell her what) in his life that made him question what he believed. Whatever it was that had happened, it was why he traveled.

Upkeep had told him that whenever Groove found what he believed in, no matter what it was, the Temple of Light’s doors would always be open to him.

In return, Groove had promised that he would finally take his first steps into the Temple whenever that happened.

“Where are you going this time?” the white-painted femme asked.

“Iacon,” the pacifistic Autobot replied. “There’s someone there I haven’t seen in a long time. I think it’s about time I let him know I’m still out here.”

“I’m glad there’s someone you can look forward to,” Upkeep said honestly, standing back up. “I must return to my duties. Good luck finding what you’re looking for.” She clasped her hands and bowed. “May Primus be with you.”

Groove nodded but didn’t return the blessing. She didn’t take offense, as until he found his faith again, he didn’t feel comfortable saying it. She hoped whoever this friend was that he’d be able to help him.

()()()()()

“Get back here, you fragger!”

“Catch me if you can, Autobot!”

Blades narrowed his optics at the Decepticon ‘copter in front of his ship. He leaned into the controls, willing them to move faster. He was one of the best pilots the Autobots had. He couldn’t lose to a lunatic Decepticon.

“Whoa, Blades, I don’t think this is a good idea!” Medix yelped, covering his optics.

“Don’t be a protoform, Meds!” Blades growled. “I’m not letting this rust-licker get away from me!”

The medic whined, peaking between his servos. “We’re going to get offlined if you follow him too far,” he reminded the pilot. “We’re right on the edge of Decepticon territory…”

“I know!” the red and white mech snapped at the white and orange one. “That’s why I can’t let him get that far!  If he gets into ‘Con space, he’s gone for good!”

“We’re just supposed to be on recon, Blades!” Medix tried again. “There aren’t any weapons on this ship! Please, let’s just turn around and-” He cut himself off with his own yipe, removing his hands from his optics to hang on tight to his seat. He didn’t sign up for this kind of thing. He was just supposed to be a rescue ‘bot, helping people who got stranded out in space.

Blades had shut him up by turning the small ship sharply, trying to pass around in front of the Decepticon in front of them. He got up alongside him, at least. That was a start.

“Not giving up yet, Autobots?” the Decepticon mocked over the comm they’d established with him. It’d been to give him his required warning that they would be taking him in (again, against Medix’s protests). Now it existed so Blades and the ‘Con could give each other verbal pot-shots.

“Not until I bring you in, ‘Con!” Blades growled. “I know you’re the one who shot up that exploration ship, the rest of my team is gathering the survivors off of! It couldn’t have happened more than a megacycle ago, and you’re the only living thing close enough to be able to have done it in that time!”

“If you wanted to make me think you could, maybe you should’ve shut your little friend up!” the Decepticon laughed at him. “Because of him, I know you’re not equipped to take on the likes of me!” He put on a burst of speed, and the next thing they knew, he was in front of their ship, transformed into his robot mode. He was primarily grey, with a purple chestplate and sharp red visor. There was a manically malicious look in those optics.

Blades had to turn on the emergency stop, unsure if they could hit the Decepticon without damaging the tiny recon ship. “Frag! Are you insane?” he snapped.

“Please, don’t antagonize him!” Medix begged. He was near hysterics at this point, beyond terrified. “I didn’t come out here for this! I just wanted to help people!”

“You’re not helping right now!” Blades yelled at him. When he looked back at the Decepticon, he froze. Laser blasters on both of the ‘Con’s arms were pointed straight at them.

“Say good lunar, Autobots!”

Blades had to make a decision in a split second, and he made it over the fearful cries of the medic sitting next to him to slam the engines into full-gear again and ram the Decepticon mech. As he did, the ‘Con opened fire on them. Blades didn’t even flinch as lasers ripped through the glass of their cockpit window, even as one of them penetrated his shoulderplating. Another passed so close to his faceplate that he felt the residual laser burn.

A few kliks later, they slammed into the Decepticon with a satisfying crunch. Part of the cockpit caved, and warning signs started flashing all over the controls. There wasn’t any time to pick the ‘Con up for arrest, as they only had one chance to get as far from their position as possible. It was no wonder that the Decepticon had been brave enough to turn and fight.  They’d just passed right into Decepticon territory. Blades did not doubt that sentry drones were sending up warning flags to any nearby Decepticon watch stations.

The red and white pilot flipped switches and turned the ship dangerously sharp, taking off into neutral territory and heading towards their team. Their main ship at least had weapons for defending themselves if any ‘Cons decided to pursue them.

Unfortunately, they were still a good deal away from their team when the ship slowed to a stop, the emergency protocols kicking in to stop them before they could be left drifting in some direction, dead in the middle of empty space.

“Great, the damage drained our power,” Blades muttered, flipping some controls. They were dead, though. At least it'd automatically send a beacon to their team, so they’d come to rescue them. Heatwave was going to have words, though. “Alright, before you say ‘I told you so,’ you were-”

The pilot cut himself off, looking over at the medic. He hadn’t even noticed how suddenly quiet Medix had become. It was no wonder, though. The Decepticon’s wild shooting had put holes in more than just the window.

“Oh, frag!” Blades unbuckled himself from the pilot seat, stumbling out of it despite his own damage. He quickly unbuckled Medix as well, removing him from the seat and lying him on the ground. “Oh, no… no, no, no, no…” the red and white pilot muttered, looking him over.

One of the Decepticon’s lasers had gone straight through Medix’s chestplate. It was so close to the spark chamber that he could see a flickering, clinging blue light through the hole. Another went through his faceplate, just under his optic. It was a miracle his jaw was still attached on that side, as he could very clearly see the joint of it.

“Oh, frag… frag, frag… no, no, no…”  It was all Blades could articulate as he remembered his rescue worker training for checking to make sure a ‘bot wasn’t in mortal danger. It wasn’t looking good. The light of Medix’s spark was dimming in the hole in his chestplate. “Medix… no, don’t do this to me, mech…” he finally managed. This wasn’t Blades' realm of expertise. He was just a pilot; he didn’t know anything about repairs. That was what Medix was for.

What did a mech do when the medic was the one who needed repairs?

“Blades, we have your position,” Heatwave’s vocals reached Blades as he got within comm-range. “Are you two injured?”

Blades covered his faceplate with a hand, covering the hole on Medix’s chestplate with the other as if it would stop the fading light. “Medix is… he’s offlining…” he managed, straining his vocals as he tried to stay articulate through the raging emotions.

“What?!” Heatwave’s gruff snap made the pilot flinch. “What happened?! Are you keeping him stable?!”

“I don’t know how!” Blades said desperately back. “This is all my fault!”

“What do you mean? What happened, Blades?”

“I’m so sorry, Medix…” Blades muttered instead of replying. Despite the sound of his boss yelling at him in his comm, all he could do was break down over Medix’s fading body. “I should have listened to you… Why didn’t I listen…? This is all my fault… I’m so sorry…”

Chapter Text

Hot Spot was more nervous than he’d ever been in his lifecycle. He hadn’t graduated from the Autobot Academy more than five orbital cycles ago and was now standing in Fortress Maximus. Sure, it was just for their first actual performance reviews as members of the Autobot Army, but this was circuit-wracking. Some ‘bots were recommended to the Autobot Elite Guard simply on the virtue of their first performance reviews.

Currently, the white, red, and blue mech was sitting outside the office of the administrator who oversaw all performance inspections, reviews, and reports for the entire Elite Guard and Autobot Army. He wasn’t sure how one mech was able to keep track of so many ‘bots, but he’d heard horror stories of mechs and femmes who left this office feeling as if their spark had shorted out. He was the singular most critical Autobot on the planet, giving infractions for the tiniest of missteps. Hot Spot had never met him, but he sounded like the singular most imposing figure in the universe.

Especially when it felt like Hot Spot’s entire career depended on this one meeting.

“Hot Spot.” The Academy graduate jumped in his seat, standing up quickly. The voice had come from the speaker on the wall next to the large office door labeled Performance Officer. “I am ready for you. Please come in.”

Hot Spot swallowed hard, pressing the button to enter the office. The room was pristine and spotless, as expected from someone in such a position. A few shelves bearing entire collections of reading material on every rule and regulation that ever existed. In the middle of them, propped up as if it were something to be revered, a copy of the most recent edition of the Autobot Elite Guard Code. Before him was a large desk, completely clean of anything unnecessary. A couple of datapads neatly to the side, a plaque bearing the performance officer’s name, and a… was that a desk tidy? Hot Spot didn’t think he’d actually ever seen someone using one.

The mech behind the desk wasn’t nearly as giant as the horror stories made him out to be. He was primarily white and green, with a disapproving gaze, despite not having even started talking to the graduate. That wasn’t encouraging. Under his olfactory sensor was a black, curved metal accessory. Despite his size, his vocals were incredibly deep when he next opened his mouth to speak.

“Please, sit,” the officer instructed, gesturing to the chair on Hot Spot’s side of the desk. He waited until the young mech did as instructed, observing him. Once Hot Spot was settled, he continued. “My name is Minimus Ambus. I am the Autobot Elite Guard Performance Inspector, as you have likely surmised.”

Hot Spot sat a moment, waiting for the following words. When none came, he realized Ambus was waiting for him to introduce himself. “Oh!  Oh, uh, I’m Hot Spot. Sir! I’m Hot Spot, sir!” He mentally slapped himself. Well, that could have gone better.

“Yes, you are,” Minimus Ambus answered, writing something on the datapad directly in front of him. Hot Spot felt his spark drop. He didn’t know if it was worse not knowing what he was writing or being curious about what he was. “I knew Hot Spot Major back during the Great War, you know. He was a great mech. So loyal to his Supreme unit that he tried to go down with it. His own men had to drag him away before it exploded. He offlined four millennia later. No one could tell the exact cause, but there are theories that it was sparkbreak by what happened to Eta Supreme.”

“I heard,” Hot Spot said solemnly. “It was a tragedy that any of it happened.”

 “I was there in Iacon, fighting that day.”

The white, red, and blue graduate closed his mouth. This conversation wasn’t going anywhere he thought it would. Sure, he was used to people asking about his namesake. He didn’t know it’d come up in a performance review, though.

“It was one of the most frightening things you would have ever seen in your lifecycle,” Minimus continued, leaning forward and lacing his servos together. “The sight of a Supreme unit being knocked out of the sky. Crashing into the battlefield. The sound and feel of the explosion that rocked the battlefield when his reactor went critical.” He shook his helm. “None of that compared to the sound that Hot Spot Major made when the battle was finished, and he was allowed to return to Eta Supreme.”

Hot Spot looked at the desk uncomfortably. He wasn’t sure why they were talking about this in the middle of his performance review.

As if sensing his dilemma, Minimus Ambus tapped the datapad before him. “You received average scores in leadership at the Academy. In simulations, you went out of your way to protect those who were injured and needed evacuation. You took everything as seriously as if you were in actual combat situations. You often prioritized the well-being of others over your own.  In most simulations, you ended up sacrificing your own life to save others.”

“I only tried to do what was right,” Hot Spot said modestly.

“That wasn’t a compliment,” Minimus stared coolly across the desk at him. “If you were in an actual combat situation, facing down actual Decepticons, you would be offline now. Plain and simple. Life is not a simulation. When you're offline, that's it for you.”

The graduate shrank under the scrutinizing glare of the diminutive reviewer. “I know that, sir,” Hot Spot defended himself. It didn’t come out as confident as he was hoping, though. Mainly because he was half-paralyzed under Minimus Ambus’s optics. “But as a leader, it’d be my job to make sure everyone survives…”

“As a leader, it is your job to finish a mission with minimal casualties,” Minimus cut him off. “Not to sacrifice yourself as a martyr to the tide of battle. Hot Spot Major was a tragedy, but he was foolish. What would his sacrifice have done if they had allowed him to stay and go offline with Eta Supreme? And what purpose does he serve now?” He shuttered his optics for a moment. “I am aware that I sound sparkless, speaking in such a way about someone who lost a friend and then went offline out of grief. However, we should never ignore the follies of the fallen. We learn from them. And the lesson to be had from Hot Spot Major is that he was a great soldier with more than enough potential to have gone far, even after the Great War. However, all he is now is a name in the history pads, a cautionary tale, and a statistic.”

Hot Spot was taken aback by the way Minimus spoke of his namesake. Almost everyone else who talked about Hot Spot Major had done so with respect. Pity, maybe, but still respect. He and Eta Supreme had been quite successful as a team before the unfortunate loss of Eta at Iacon.

“I will digress, as he is not the one I am giving a performance inspection to,” the small white and green mech said, looking back at the datapad and making another note. “Let’s move on to your performance as a soldier so far. According to your immediate commanding officer, Air Raid, you’re efficient at following commands. However, you have confidence issues. Your work is perfectly acceptable, but not what he feels is the best you can do. If you have aspirations of leadership, you cannot hesitate to do everything in your power to complete any assignment.”

“I know,” Hot Spot said sheepishly.

“Then I suggest you use that knowledge to improve,” Minimus replied, making another note on the datapad. “Now, let’s move on to your attendance and appearance…”

The white and blue soldier swallowed back a groan. This meeting was like torture.

Hopefully, it wouldn’t be too much longer.

()()()()()

Sentinel flipped through the expense reports the Elite Guard High Command had provided for the last few deca-cycles and vented inward. This was the part no one talked about being Magnus. The bureaucracy. The paperwork.

This was also the area where Sentinel excelled. He knew the Council thought he was an idiot. He loved proving them wrong whenever he turned in all of his reports and administration without a single punctuation error out of line. While Optimus had out-rivaled him at the practical application of their lessons in the Autobot Academy (something he hated admitting but couldn’t deny), Sentinel was hics ahead of him in the academic portion. He and Elita-1 were neck and neck in this part.

Sentinel shook his helm. Thinking of Elita wasn’t a good idea. All these orbitals, after encountering Blackarachnea on Earth, he was still reeling from the revelation of who she really was. Or rather, who she used to be. That monster wasn’t Elita anymore.

“Sentinel Magnus,” the temporary Magnus’s secretary announced over the comm on his desk. “Tracks is here to see you, sir.”

“Go ahead and send him in,” Sentinel replied. He checked his internal clock. The sports car was a little early, but that was alright. He was almost done.

The door to his office slid open, and the dark blue, red, and black Elite mech strode in, adjusting the stylish little visor he wore. “Well, well,” he vented softly, looking around the large room. “Look at this, Sentinel. All of that hard work and schmoozing finally paid off, didn’t it?”

“You know me,” the blue and yellow mech grinned, putting the finishing touches on his final expense report and putting it in the Outgoing box on his desk. “I don’t stop fighting for what I want until I get it.”

“Truly inspiring, Magnus,” Tracks purred the last word, leaning on the desk. “I hope you fight just as hard to keep it. My sources tell me you’re one mistake away from the Council holding an inquisition to get you booted.”

“Where in the Pit are these sources of yours?” Sentinel asked, raising an optic ridge. “Are you sure you don’t want to consider a job in Intelligence? I’m sure Cliffjumper would be thrilled to have someone with their audial to Cybertron like you on his payroll.”

“One,” Tracks held up a servo, scoffing, “I don’t reveal my sources. Two, I don’t do Elite Guard grunt work. And three, Cliffjumper doesn’t trust me any more than he trusts Mirage, and you know it.” He turned his servos around and looked at them closely before pulling a cloth out and rubbing whatever smudge he saw from them. “And besides, the fact that the Council doesn’t exactly like you isn’t a secret. They’ve been determined to get you kicked back down to Prime ever since Ultra Magnus was put on the repair table. The public seems to be convinced they’re absolutely right.”

Sentinel ex-vented, standing up and walking around the desk. “You haven’t come to tell me you’re joining the mobs, are you?” he grumbled.

The exterior decorator laughed. “Oh, please! I know you better than any of them could ever dream of,” he said, walking over to stand in front of the temporary Magnus. He reached up and brushed Sentinel’s shoulder plate with the cleaning cloth he was holding before putting it back in his hip compartment. “Having everyone against you only means that you need to work harder at bringing them to your side. Proving your worth. I know you can be a great Magnus, Sentinel. That you can do great things.”

Sentinel felt himself relax at the words. It was something incredible, how quickly Tracks could make him feel like he could do anything. If the entire planet turned against him, somehow, he knew that the dark blue and red exterior decorator was the one mech who would never abandon him.

It actually made him feel bad that he still hadn’t told Tracks about Elita-1 having survived to become a monster. But… no.  He couldn’t do that to Tracks. Elita had been the exterior decorator’s best friend ever since they met in the Autobot Academy.  While he’d been devastated when she was lost on Archa-7, it would completely crush him to learn her actual fate.

“You’re right,” Sentinel said with confidence, gesturing to the door. “Which is why you’re the one I invited for drinks.”

“And I couldn’t be more tickled to have been chosen,” Tracks teased, heading for the door. “Imagine what my circle will think when they find out I’ve been going out with the Magnus of all people.”

“Temporary, but hopefully it’ll be a more permanent position when Ultra Magnus…” Sentinel trailed off, realizing he was saying too much. He hadn’t spread First Aid’s report to anyone.

Tracks stared at him as they left, though, putting the pieces Sentinel didn’t give him in their place.  He vented in sharply, optics widening. He grabbed Sentinel’s arm so he could speak to him in a lower voice as they made their way out of the building. “You’re not telling me that Ultra Magnus is going to…?” He seemed afraid to say it himself.  Sentinel didn’t blame him.

“I’ll tell you more when we’re alone,” Sentinel promised, looking around. He didn’t want anyone else to hear.

()()()

Sentinel’s place was far smaller than Tracks. Still, the exterior decorator insisted that the scandal of his neighbors seeing the Magnus (no matter how temporary) coming over to his place would ruin the blue and yellow mech’s reputation. It didn’t matter that it was no one’s business who he had drinks with. If the ‘common ‘bots’ found out that he was making late-lunar visits to one of the wealthiest mechs on the planet, there would be assumptions and accusations about him favoring the Elite. It would simply add more fuel to the fire of his low approval ratings, which was something Sentinel definitely didn’t need.

Tracks sat down on the couch in Sentinel’s living area, stretching his spinal strut as he settled. The temporary Magnus went to the pantry to get something triple-filtered and pretentious enough that the haughty mech on his couch wouldn’t reject it. When he returned, he found Tracks curled up over the arm of the couch, turning the holo-projectors next to it around. They were all from their Academy solars, which both would agree were the best ones of their lifecycles.

“Nova Cronal for the Elite gentlemech?” Sentinel offered, sitting next to him and holding out the cube.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Tracks accepted it graciously, raising it a bit before tipping the cube back and taking a few good gulps. When Sentinel raised an optic ridge at him for the less refined method of drinking, he chuckled. “Sometimes even I just need to unwind, you know.” He then went serious. “Now, tell me what all of this with Ultra Magnus is.”

Sentinel ex-vented and gulped his fuel down as well.  He felt the buzz from the energon rush through his systems, and his reluctance to talk about this melted away. “I talked to one of the medics working on Ultra Magnus, the other solar. He said it’s a matter of time before Magnus goes offline. There’s nothing they can do about it.”

“Oh, slag,” Tracks said lightly, putting a hand on Sentinel’s shoulderplate. “Are you alright?  I know you looked up to him.”

“Yeah, I will be,” Sentinel muttered, taking another drink. “All my nay-sayers are thinking I wanted this to happen. I just know it.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Tracks scoffed. “Why is everyone so determined to think you’re such a… a villain? And yet they act like the sun shines out of Optimus’s tailpipe.” He spat the Prime’s designation like venom. “If they knew what he did… what he made us lose…”

Sentinel felt his spark clench. Frag, why did Tracks have to bring that up? He still thought Archa-7 and the loss of Elita were Optimus’s fault. Sentinel couldn’t tell him the truth, though. Then he really would lose the only real support he still had.

Tracks emptied his cube faster than was probably healthy for energon consumption. He then put it on the table in front of the couch, turning to Sentinel seriously. “Do you remember when we were in the Academy, and I told Elita that if you ever made it to Magnus, I was going to steal you from her?”

Sentinel looked at him in surprise. “Well… yeah.  But I thought you were just joking.”

“I was… half-joking,” Tracks admitted. “I would never have hurt Elita by stealing her mech. You loved each other so much that I was a bit jealous. But I really…” he hesitated a moment, but then kept going, likely egged on by the energon now coursing its way through him. “I really had feelings for you.  I still do.”

Sentinel stared at him in shock. He honestly had no idea. Tracks was the type of mech who always acted a little bit flirtatious, even with mechs and femmes he wasn’t attracted to. He never even considered the idea that he was serious about any of it. “Well, I… uh…” the temporary Magnus said awkwardly. “I’m technically not Magnus yet.”

“I know,” Tracks said earnestly. “But you’re temporarily right now. And… It’s been so long since Elita went offline, I feel like I don’t have to feel awkward about this anymore. So, I suppose I simply want to ask… give me a chance?”

Sentinel was still stunned. This had come so far out of nowhere that he was inclined to believe that it was just the energon talking, but… no, Tracks looked completely dead serious about this. He thought about it, wondering how he should respond. Was he attracted to Tracks? He never really thought of it before. Sure, the exterior decorator was good-looking. That was primarily attributed to the megacycles of work he put into himself every solar. But was Sentinel personally attracted to him?

The blue and yellow mech glanced back at Tracks, really considering it. His long faceplate, pouted lip components, and sleek chassis. His ornamental wings he insisted he needed because Seekers were ‘the in thing’ that millennium. The blue and red mech’s aqua optics flickered from his faceplate to the ground, probably expecting rejection at this point. That seemed unfair, as Sentinel knew how hard Tracks fought against the expectations of failure he was set up against. That wall he built against anyone he knew could genuinely hurt him.

“Ah, fraggit,” Sentinel finally groaned, downing the rest of his drink. He tossed it onto the table next to Tracks' empty cube and surprised the other mech by pulling him in for a kiss. Tracks made a startled noise but didn’t stop him. After a moment, he raised his arms and wrapped them around Sentinel’s neck.

The temporary Magnus decided that if Tracks was going to be the only support he would have in his ambitions, this wasn’t such a bad next step. Pit, maybe he could help the blue and yellow mech figure out how to take care of his approval problems.

()()()()()

Hot Spot groaned as he pulled up to the building where his apartment was. Minimus Ambus was brutal. How could such a small model be so intimidating? At least it was over, though. He’d find out from Commander Air Raid how bad it truly went the next solar. The white, red, and blue mech took the lift up to his floor and walked to his apartment, stretching his backstrut. He pulled out his passkey and swiped it, but then stopped as it slid open.

The lights were on.

He knew he had turned the lights off before he went to his performance review.

Hot Spot pulled his blaster, taking a tentative step into the apartment.  Everything seemed in order as he looked around. Nothing was out of place. Nothing missing. The only other light besides the entrance that was on was the pantry. He walked over to it, blaster ready. The academy graduate burst into the room, pointing his blaster at the only occupant.

Rather than be afraid or angry, the mech at the counter waved while taking another sip of Engex. “Hey, Hot Spot.”

“Groove!” The larger mech lowered his weapon, putting it away. He took a moment of relief that someone hadn’t broken into his apartment with ill intentions, but then put his hands on his hips. “What in the Pit are you doing here? How’d you get in?”

The motorcycle shrugged, grabbing an energon goody from the bowl next to him and popping it in his mouth. “Wasn’t hard, mech. You still use the same manual override pass-code on your door. You should probably change that.”

Hot Spot ex-vented and walked over, sitting across from the pacifist. He stared at him a few moments before stating, “You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here.”

“Heard you finally graduated,” Groove answered, eating another goody. “I wanted to see how you’re doing.”

“You could have met me at Metroplex.  I was there getting my first performance review,” Hot Spot pointed out, grabbing a handful of the goodies.

“Nah, mech, you know I don’t go near the Elite Guard anymore,” the white and blue motorcycle shook his helm. “It’s been… what? Twenty millennia since I left. I don’t like looking backward.”

“You deserve better,” Hot Spot insisted. “You’re a hero.”

“Not as far as those ‘bots are concerned. Doesn’t bother me, anyway,” Groove pushed the bowl away from himself and leaned back in his seat. “I’m here to see you, not any of them. I liked watching you in the Bootcamp. Kup doesn’t take prisoners when it comes to training, and you never hesitated once you got on the field. That’s the kind of attitude the Autobots need right now. Not washed-up soldiers like me.”

“Minimus Ambus didn’t seem to think so,” Hot Spot muttered. He stood up and grabbed some Engex for himself. He could use it. “I got an audial-full from him. He thinks I’m too self-sacrificial. A ‘martyr’ he called me.”

“Ah, don’t let Ambus bring you down,” Groove finally grinned. “That mech doesn’t like anyone. I’ve never met a single ‘bot who didn’t walk away from their first review feeling like they were gonna get tossed outta the Guard.”

Hot Spot stared at him a moment, unsure. He then finally smiled himself. “Good to know, Groove. Thanks for that.” He raised his cube, and Groove mirrored the gesture, clinking them together before taking a drink. “So,” he changed the subject between gulps. “Do you have a place to stay? My couch is open.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Groove nodded. “Long as I’m not gonna be in the way. I’m only staying a few solars. I’ll be outta your servos in no time.”

“No, take your time,” Hot Spot smiled. “Always nice to have a friendly faceplate around. It feels like everyone is so hostile these days with Sentinel Magnus in office for now.”

“They probably are,” Groove muttered. He leaned on his elbow and looked out the window at the lights of Iacon. “I’ve heard things all around the planet during my travels. Rumors of Decepticon spies are everywhere. There are disappearances on Velocitron. The ‘Cons are on the move, expanding their territory. And the temporary Magnus isn’t doing anything about any of this. He’s more concerned about his image than actually helping anyone. Everything’s a mess, mech.”

“You sure being all alone out there’s a good idea with all this going on?” Hot Spot asked in concern.

“I’m fine,” Groove waved him off, standing up. “I can take care of myself. If you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna take you up on that offer to use your couch for recharge. I traveled a long way to get here, and it’s getting late. Good lunar, Hot Spot.”

“Yeah, good lunar, Groove.”

Hot Spot watched Groove leave the pantry and head to the living room. He finished off his drink and started cleaning up, thinking of everything the pacifist had reported. Dark times were approaching; that much was obvious. Even with Megatron and his top lieutenants in the stockade, the Decepticons were getting bolder. Not to mention all of the unrest on Cybertron and the Autobot territories.

If they weren’t careful, civil war would once again break out. And this time, the Autobots would be fighting each other. If that happened, the Decepticons would definitely take advantage of the chaos to finally win the war.

Chapter Text

Blades stared at the ceiling of the room he was taking up in Iacon Central Repairs. Apparently, he’d sustained more damage than he thought when he went ship-to-face with that insane Decepticon ‘copter. He didn’t need too many repairs, but the medics had insisted on keeping him a bit longer. It wasn’t all bad. The medic assigned to take care of him was friendly and soft-spoken, and the repair ward fuel wasn’t terrible.

But every time he shuttered his optics and tried to get some recharge, he found himself staring at the offline frame of Medix. Primus, what he’d give to go back. To do it again. He’d turn the ship around, let the Decepticon they’d been chasing go. Apologize to Medix for scaring him.

“Blades?”

The pilot onlined an optic, glancing at the door. The medic was standing there, chart in servos, a smile showing through his visor.

“Hey, First Aid. What’s up?” Blades sat up with a grunt. It’d only been a couple of solar cycles, and it already felt like far longer.

“I’m just here for your last checkup,” First Aid replied. He walked over and placed the chart on the berthside table.  “After this, you’ll be clear to leave.”

“Oh, good,” Blades grinned. “I might drive laps around the building after how long I’ve been cooped up in here.”

First Aid chuckled lightly, holding one of his arms up. The medical scanner attached to it popped out, and he began slowly panning it across Blades. “Will you be returning to your rescue team?” he asked casually. They’d spoken extensively about each other’s jobs during his visits. Fortunately, he was polite enough to avoid the subject of the mech that didn’t make it.

“That’s the plan. Heatwave’s probably going to yell at me more when I get back, though. I mean, I deserve it, but so far, every visit he’s had here eventually led to him just… berating me for a few cycles until he leaves. The rest of the team hasn’t even been around. Can’t blame them, though.”

First Aid finished his sweep and turned the scanner off. He sat on the edge of the repair berth, hesitating a moment before placing a hand on Blades’ arm. “It wasn’t your fault, Blades. You know that, right?” he asked gently.

Blades didn’t mean to snap, but he couldn’t stop himself. He slapped the hand away, snarling, “What would you know about it?  You weren’t there!”

The red and white medic looked startled, staring at him with a wide visor. He then looked away, stood up quickly, and grabbed the datapad he had come in with. He typed something into it while saying, “You’re right. I’m sorry. You’re free to go whenever you want. Have a nice solar, Blades.” He then retreated without looking back even once more.

Blades groaned and collapsed back on the berth, slapping his helm. Why did he do that? Why did he say that? First Aid was only trying to help, and he was acting like a jerk.

The pilot hopped off the berth and pursued the young medic, but when he opened the door and looked both directions down the hall, he was gone. He likely had another patient to attend to in one of the nearby rooms. Someone who wouldn’t snap at him and scare him away when he was being nice.

Blades exvented and turned towards the exit. Might as well face the music with his rescue team. Honestly, Heatwave couldn’t make him feel like more of an aft than he already did at this point.

()()()()()

The training room they set up in Fortress Maximus for the twins was state-of-the-art. It was designed entirely by Wheeljack’s personal team. Sentinel never knew what to make of the trio. Wheeljack himself wasn’t too bad, he supposed.  While his experiments usually ended in catastrophic damage to his lab, he could quickly be reeled in anywhere else by the Minister of Science himself. His two apprentices, however, seemed to embody his most destructive traits without the leash.

Ironfist was friendly and enthusiastic, but he tended to get too excited about his inventions. With his unique teal helm, the yellow mech liked to take any weapon he could find and make it ‘better.’ Whether he succeeded was debatable and ultimately depended on whether the weapons survived his experiments. Still, his spark was in the right place.

Brainstorm, though? Sentinel was utterly convinced that mech was insane. He didn’t just like creating weapons and inventions that no one thought of before. No, the blue and white inventor liked pushing the boundaries of science itself. His greatest motivation didn’t seem to be, “Why?” Instead, it was, “Why not?”

Right now, the trio was watching the Jettwins take on their latest challenge, which they had created in the training room. Laser turrets were lining the walls, tracking their movements and firing rapidly. So far, the twins seemed to be handily dodging the laser fire. In fact, from the sounds of laughter, they were immensely enjoying it.

“You three have done an impressive job in here,” Sentinel admitted. They were standing in the observation room just outside the training room. “You’re sure these turrets will last longer than the last ones? I’m getting sick of having to approve funding for rebuilding these things every decacycle.”

“Nah, we each went over the designs ourselves,” Wheeljack assured him. “I even had Perce glance at it before we started building.  We tested them before having them mass-produced for the room as well.  These are nigh-indestructible.”

“Don’t jinx it, boss,” Brainstorm warned him from a computer where he was monitoring some statistics. Sentinel didn’t know what they were about, but they looked important.

“‘Jinxing’ isn’t a real thing, Brainstorm,” Ironfist pointed out, watching the twins perform their aerial acrobatics with fascination. “Perceptor says there’s no scientific basis for such things.”

“I’m sorry; did you or Percy ever weaponize bad luck? Cause I have. So I think I’m a little more of an expert on jinxing.”

“Anyway,” Wheeljack cut over them before they could argue. “When we’re done with these tests, we’ll send you the results. All you gotta do from there is give your seal of approval, and we’ll be able to use it as the standard for all future fliers.”

“Good, we’ll need them if the next batch of fliers is as destructive as these two cogs,” Sentinel muttered. “Alright, I’m heading out. Send me every result when you’re done. I don’t want a single thing going wrong.”

“Whatever you say, Magnus,” Wheeljack mock-saluted before turning back to his teammates.

Sentinel rolled his optics and headed out, while the team of scientists returned to their monitoring. As he opened the door, the blue and yellow mech glanced back. Despite the trio of weaponologists’ bickering, they were a charming bunch in their own respects. It made him think of his old team, back when Magnus was still… well… Magnus.

Sentinel at the helm, Jazz as his right servo, the twins ready and willing as his backup. They weren’t a team very long, but Sentinel felt like they worked well together. But then Jazz up and abandoned him for… honestly, unfathomable reasons. Joined up with Optimus’s crew, which couldn’t have been more of a kick to the helm if he tried.

The temporary Magnus began pondering Optimus’s team as well. What made them so popular? Why did people like them? Even as Prowl was now offline, with Ratchet and Bulkhead staying back on Cybertron, they didn’t seem to be losing any traction with their new configuration.

Maybe… maybe it wasn’t about who was in it. Perhaps it was about how the team functioned as a whole. Prowl was replaced by fellow cyberninja Jazz. Bulkhead lost his position for the time being to Ironhide, who was as strong and as famously easy to get along with. And Red Alert was Ratchet’s replacement, the two of them being equally callous medics. The remaining factors at this point were Optimus and Bumblebee, both of which were the most popular members of the team for some profound reason.

Sentinel began putting together an idea in his helm. He couldn’t form a team around himself at this point; it was simply impossible. But maybe he could put together a team to work for him. One with likable ‘bots that could serve as the face of his term of service as a Magnus.

Yeah, this was a great idea. All he needed was a group of 'bots that played off each other well, each with different areas of expertise. They couldn’t be warriors, though. No, Optimus’s team was well-liked because they were underdogs. Spacebridge repair ‘bots. He wouldn’t make them janitors themselves, but his team had to be something equally peaceful yet hopeful.

This was going to take some thought and work. But Sentinel was starting to have the workings of something great.

()()()()()

Streetwise wasn’t the type to sit still. Even though she was on suspension, she felt like there was so much she could still do. That was why she invited one of her fellow officers over to her apartment under the guise of catching up on the station gossip.

“Street, I’m gonna get in as much trouble as you are in if they catch me doing this.”

The femme rolled her optics and held out her hand. “Then don’t get caught, Cheet,” she snorted at the younger cop. “Just hand over the file.”

“Alright, alright,” Cheetor pulled out a datastick and held it out to her. “This is everything we have right now. I don’t know why you’re even looking into him, though. He hasn’t been seen on-planet for centuries.”

Streetwise turned her other arm over, a dataport opening in her wrist. She plugged the datastick in and opened her palm upwards. A projection of the file and all of its info appeared above her servos. “So this is Swindle, huh?” she muttered, spinning her servos in the air to cycle through the information. “Man, I don’t think even Megs has a sheet this long. All petty crimes, though. Mostly theft and illegal distribution.”

“And that’s just the stuff we have since the war ended,” Cheetor leaned back in his seat and got comfortable, seeing as she wasn’t paying attention to his warnings. “He’s a major war criminal, too. First-rate scumbag. We have a whole different file for that one, but it’s under… like… five hundred encryptions and passwords and slag.”

“For a black market dealer?” Streetwise raised an optic ridge at the yellow, orange, and green mech. “What in the pit did he do?  Blow up a planet?”

“Who knows?” Cheetor shrugged. He picked up the energon cube sitting next to him and took a few gulps. “He’s not the only one. When I looked into his record, I found five mechs all under the same lockdown on their war records. Swindle’s the only one who has a record outside of it, though. At least on Cybertron, anyway. Outside of him, there’s... let’s see… Vortex, Blast Off, Brawl, and Onslaught.”

“Primus,” the white and red femme sitting across from him, went back to going through the file.  “What do you have to do to get your war records classified that hard?” She pulled the datastick from her arm and walked over to the computer in the corner, plugging it in there. “I’m gonna make a copy of this. I want to review it and see what I can figure out. Maybe I can do some digging and see if anyone else remembers these guys.”

“Whatever you wanna do, Street,” Cheetor shrugged. “I guess you don’t have much better to do while you’re on suspension. Thought you’d be spending all your time at the racetracks, honestly.”

“Hey, can’t get all my kicks burning rubber,” Streetwise grinned at him. “Not that you’d understand. I hear you’ve been planning a trip to Velocitron so you can test yourself against some real competition.” She mellowed for a moment, leaning against the wall. “No word from Blurr yet?”

“Nah,” Cheetor exvented, looking solemn for once in his lifecycle. He was usually a passionate and outspoken mech, so seeing him like that was jarring. “It’s like he vanished into the void or something.”

“I’m sure we’ll hear from him,” Streetwise said in what she at least hoped was assurance. She walked over and placed a hand on the high point of his shoulderplate. “He’ll come running into Fortress Maximus and give a 500-word-per-klik report. And then he’ll let us know he’s okay, and we can all go to Velocitron together and enter one of their open-reg races. He’ll kick both our afts at it, but it’ll be fun.”

Cheetor looked at her and then grinned widely, standing up. “You’re right, Street. He promised, right? Soon as all that Earth nonsense was over, he promised he’d come racing with us. And Blurr never breaks his promises.”

“That’s the spirit,” Streetwise smiled back, punching him in the arm. She walked back to the computer and pulled the datastick out, tossing it back to him. “Now get that back to the station before they find it missing. I’m not gonna be responsible for you getting your aft suspended with me.”

“Hey, you’re the one who asked for this.” Cheetor held up his hands and backed towards the door. “Don’t go acting like this was my stupid idea.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the idiot who went through it even though you knew it was stupid,” Streetwise followed him and shoved him lightly out the door as soon as it was open. “I’ll call you if I find out anything.”

“I’ll be waiting for it,” the younger cop gave her a mock salute, turning and running to the street.  He transformed into his race car altmode and zoomed away.

Streetwise shook her helm, smirking as she went back to her computer.  She sat down at it and started going through every word of Swindle’s file. She may not have been working right then, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t at least look at the criminals. Besides, before, she was just looking into the most elusive Decepticon in their forces out of curiosity. Now she was determined to find out what was hidden in his files, even if she had to conduct some independent snooping.

Well, at least it would give her something to do.

()()()()()

Rescue Force Sigma-17 was the most prestigious rescue team among the Autobots. A record-holding amount of open-space missions, rescuing those who were stranded and injured in the middle of nowhere. Anything from small personal vessels to warships ravaged and abandoned by their attackers, there wasn’t a mission too small or too large for Sigma-17. They’d encountered alien species, organic contamination of every variety, Decepticons shooting at them; the list was insanely long.

Medix wasn’t the first team member they’d lost. He wasn’t even the first medic who was offlined by a Decepticon.

However, Medix was the first team member to be offlined because of another teammate rushing off to capture a Decepticon without proper defenses.

“I can’t even believe you’re showing yourself right now,” Quickshadow hissed as Blades walked into the Rescue Forces’ main campus. She was standing on her own, as she usually was. The primarily white femme had the occasional blue detail and a black helm.  Her vocals were thick with an Elite accent. She’d transferred into Rescue from Intelligence, though the reason for it wasn’t shared. Her files were classified, and she didn’t tend to socialize much. She wasn’t unfriendly, though, and got along well with those she did talk to. Well, most of the time, anyway.

“I’m not quitting being a Rescue Bot just because I fragged up, Shadow,” Blades snapped back at her. While he believed she had good reason to be angry at him, it didn’t mean he would stand there and take it.  “I’m sorry for what happened, but the best thing to do to make up for it is to get back out there and save some lives.”

“You think that’s it?” Quickshadow scoffed. “You just waltz back in here like nothing happened, and you’ll get to play hero again?  You have even more audacity than I thought.”

“Look, I don’t-” Blades trailed off when Boulder, one of his most consistent teammates and friends, approached.

“Hey, uh, Blades?” the bulldozer said, not looking at him.  He was a large green mech, one who got along with almost everyone. Friendly, soft-spoken, and kind despite his size. Blades thought he’d get along great with First Aid. “Heatwave wants to talk to you in his office. Now.”

“Sure, thanks, big guy,” the red and white pilot nodded, leaning over a bit to try and get into Boulder’s line of vision. In response, the former construction bot turned away a bit more. He didn’t look angry, which was at least a good thing. Somehow, though, the sadness on his faceplate was worse. “You… wanna get a drink after this, Boulder?” he asked.

“No, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Boulder muttered, shuffling away.

Blades ex-vented and walked down to Heatwave’s office without looking at Quickshadow again. He didn’t blame Boulder for his sudden distance. Medix had been his friend, too. The bulldozer and the medic spent a lot of time doing the quieter activities that Blades didn’t have the patience for. He’d still have Salvage for his creative endeavors, but that was only so much comfort.

The pilot knocked on the door before entering.

Heatwave stood behind his desk instead of sitting. The firefighter seldom sat down. He was a mech of action. He even did his paperwork while on the move. Most of the team joked that if he sat down for more than a megacycle, his CPU would literally explode.

There was nothing funny about the look the Rescue Force commander had right then, though. It wasn’t quite the same disappointed, disapproving glower he had every time he’d visited Blades in the repair bay. There was something else behind it, though it was hard to pinpoint exactly what. “Blades, we need to talk,” he said sharply.

“Yeah. I mean, sure, what’s going on?” Blades asked. His spark felt heavier the longer he stood there under Heatwave’s scrutinizing glare. Nervousness, which he rarely felt, welled up in his tank and threatened to make him nauseous.

“We’ve had several meetings since you were put in repairs. Deciding what to do about the… incident you caused hasn’t been easy.”

Blades' tank clenched particularly hard at that. “Look, boss, I know I messed up. What I did was stupid, and I feel completely-”

“Medix is offline because of you!” Heatwave snapped over him. His faceplate twisted in rage. “Don’t you understand the gravity of this situation?  What were you thinking, flying off in an unarmed ship, trying to capture a Decepticon?!”

Blades cringed, taking a couple of steps back at the force of those words. It felt like he’d been punched by every word. While Heatwave had chastised him in the repair ward, he hadn’t been this forceful. He probably had been trying to be respectful of his environment at the time. But here, in this office, in this building? This was his turf. “I’m sorry,” the pilot said helplessly. “I don’t know why I did it. I just… I saw how much damage he’d done. All the people he’d offlined. I got angry, and I… I wasn’t thinking. That’s the problem.”

“No, you weren’t,” Heatwave snapped. “We all know the risks coming into this job. Every time we go out, there is a chance we might not come back. However, never in the history of my unit has anyone been taken offline due to a teammate’s actions. We sat in this room and went over our options for megacycles at a time. I can’t just let you off with a warning. I need everyone to know that that kind of stupid heroics won’t be tolerated in my squad.”

“I understand,” Blades acknowledged, shoulderplates slumping. He knew some kind of punishment had to follow his actions.

“As of now, you’re dismissed from service.”

Blades' helm snapped up sharply, optics wide. “You mean… you’re firing me from your squad…?” he asked, unable to believe his audials.

“No,” Heatwave said gravely. “I’m firing you from the Rescue Forces altogether.  It was a decision made not only by me but also by the consensus of the Rescue Force commanders as a whole. We will no longer require your services.”

Blades felt like the entire world had been pulled out from under his pedes.

This couldn’t be happening.

The rescue ship pilot had worked his entire lifecycle to get here. His creators had been rescue bots. And their creators before them. It ran in his energon lines. It was a part of his spark.

“Heatwave, sir, I… please, there has to be something…”

“Blades, don’t,” Heatwave snapped. “You have been found to have acted selfishly and in gross misconduct. Your actions cost the life of one of your team members, and you were lucky it didn’t cost you yours. You are dismissed. As of this moment, you are no longer a member of the Rescue Forces.”

Blades stared at Heatwave numbly, trying to think of anything else he could tell his commander. Anything he could say to save his career.

There was nothing, though.

There was nothing he could say, nothing he could do, to take back what he’d done.

“Yes, sir,” the pilot nodded finally, reaching to his chestplate. He hesitated before pulling the metal badge that signified his position as a rescue bot off his sigil. He walked to the desk and put it there. “For what it’s worth, Heatwave… it was an honor to serve in your squad.”

“And for what it’s worth as well,” Heatwave replied, expression and voice softening with the clinking sound of the badge on his desk, “I don’t think you were a bad rescue worker. But there’s no turning back from what you did. Sometimes all it takes is one mistake.”

“I understand,” Blades nodded before saluting one last time. “Thank you for the opportunity you gave me, sir.”

Heatwave straightened and saluted in return. “Good luck, Blades.”

The red and white pilot turned and walked out of the office, helm held high. His fellow rescue workers - no, former fellow rescue workers - who littered the halls he walked down stared and whispered at the now plain Autobot badge on his chestplate. They could say whatever they wanted.

Quickshadow once again did precisely that. “I told you it wouldn’t be that easy,” she said as he passed her on the way out.

“I’m glad someone will get what they wanted out of this,” Blades muttered back, though he didn’t look at her.

“I never wanted this, Blades,” the former intelligence bot corrected him as she watched him go.

“Sure.”

Blades said no more as he left the building, transforming into his altmode and driving off.  He needed a drink after that.

Chapter Text

“Okay, so here’s my idea,” Sentinel said, leaning back on his sofa. He was watching the exterior decorator sketch out some random doodles for new paint details on a datapad. Tracks’ helm lay in his lap, nodding absently as he spoke. “I’m going to put together a team to be the face of my Magnus-hood.”

“You don’t have time to run a team, Sentinel,” Tracks pointed out, hitting the erase function on his datapad and starting over. “You’re running a planet now.”

“No, see, that’s the beauty of it,” the temporary Magnus assured him. “I’m not going to be leading the team. They’re just going to work under me. I send them on missions, but they run independently from me.”

“Really?” Tracks asked, now thoroughly interested. “A team that does what you say, but in their own way. Like a strike force?”

“No, no. See, I’ve been thinking of why people like Optimus and Rodimus so much. And it’s not them; it’s their teams. Optimus is the underdog, leading a team of glorified janitors who just happened to be looking after the same planet Megatron turned up on to get his tailpipe handed to him. Rodimus is the ace with a team of expert Decepticon hunters, going out and getting the glory. I don’t want either of those, but I want something that combines the best of them. I want to make a team of rescue responders.”

“But we have the Rescue Force,” Tracks said, pushing himself into a sitting position and putting the datapad to the side. “They’re the planet’s best first responders.”

“Yeah, but I want my team to be small but prepared for dangers even larger than the Rescue Force.”

“So, a team of aces, like Rodimus’s, but not necessarily combatants, like Optimus’s. Clever,” Tracks admitted, stroking his pointed chin. “Are you going to choose them from the Rescue Force at least?”

“One of them, kind of,” Sentinel said. “I want them to be underdogs like Optimus’s team as well. The public loves underdogs. But I still want them to be experts in their fields. So, I’ve been going through my files for ‘bots that have been short on luck lately.” The blue and grey mech pressed a button on the table in front of them, a keyboard popping out. The television in front of them turned on, but it showed a computer screen instead of entertainment. He plugged a datastick into the keyboard on his sitting table, and many files appeared. “I’ve been narrowing things down, and I know at least three that I absolutely want on my team.”

Tracks scooted in close and watched in curiosity as Sentinel pulled up the three files. “These are files from the Elite Guard central database. Are you allowed to take these home? Are you even allowed to show them to me?” he asked.

“I’m the Magnus. I’d like to see them try to stop me,” Sentinel grinned. “Alright, this is the first one,” he pulled up the first file. A white and red femme appeared before them. “Streetwise. She’s a cop, currently on suspension. Apparently, she made an arrest without waiting for backup against her chief’s orders. She’s got a bit of an authority problem, but the right leader might be able to reel her in.”

“I don’t know; you don’t really like loose cannons,” Tracks muttered.

“No, but I like results. She has a good arrest record, and she got top scores in the Academy on target shooting. We’ll need someone who can fight back in case of danger. According to our Intelligence files on her, she’s also good friends with people in the general public. That’s going to reflect well on the team.” Sentinel pulled up the following file. A mech with the same colors as the femme, but this time reversed, was shown. “This is Blades, as of recently, a former Rescue Force member. His case will be highly controversial, as he got kicked out because his recklessness got a medic on his team offlined.”

“Primus!” Tracks vented in sharply. “Sentinel, that’s… I’m not sure that’s a good idea. It hits a bit too close to home, doesn’t it? After Optimus’s dumb idea got Elita…”

“I know,” Sentinel cut him off before he could finish. He vented slowly. “He was given another chance after it, though. Maybe it’s only fair that this kid gets another chance, too. According to Intelligence, he’s been spending the rest of his time drinking ever since he got fired. He clearly feels… guilty.” He felt his own spark clench. It was part of the reason he couldn’t stop going back to Blades’s file. He reminded Sentinel so much of himself. Of that feeling he had after Elita-1 was left behind on Archa-7.

Tracks watched him for a moment, leaning towards him and kissing his faceplate. “You’re a good mech, Sentinel,” he whispered.

“Thanks,” Sentinel relaxed a bit, turning his helm to kiss him back. He then turned his attention back to the screen. “Anyway, Blades is also a pilot with nearly unrivaled skill. He’s navigated some of the most dangerous terrains and space fields. I can only imagine how he’d do on an active battlefield.”

The exterior decorator came to a realization. “You’re putting together a team that can rescue people during a war,” he vented.

Sentinel nodded. “If war strikes, I want this team to be the ones that can clear civilians and keep people safe. Everyone’s afraid, even though Megatron and his top lieutenants are in the stockade. I don’t completely blame them. I hope this will at least make them feel better.” He pulled up the last file. Another red and white mech, this time much smaller with a wide, blue visor. “Finally, I want First Aid. He’s one of the medics working on Ultra Magnus right now. If what he said was true, though, then he won’t be doing it for long.”

Tracks pointed at the screen. “That’s your appeal member, isn’t it?”

“You’re sharp as always,” Sentinel grinned. “Optimus has Bumblebee, and Rodimus has Hot Shot. They’re both members that the public empathizes with the most because they represent the youngest generation of Cybertronians. More importantly, they represent the ideals that the Elite Guard upholds.”

“And you are smarter than people think,” Tracks smirked. “I know about First Aid. He’s quite famous among the Elite for being both young and skilled as a medic. He’s considered a bit of an idol for how cute and shy he is, too. There’s a line of Elite mechs and femmes who would cut off their own arm just to be worked on by him and get to be alone with him for a while.”

“I didn’t realize exactly how popular he was,” Sentinel raised an optic ridge at him. “I mostly chose him because, according to all of the information I have on him, no one follows the oath closer than he does. He’s a staunch pacifist and has expressed that even if war were to break out again, he’d never harm even a Decepticon.”

“My goodness,” Tracks replied, hand on his chest and optics wide. “I knew he was a pacifist, but that’s extreme idealism even for a medic as young as him.”

“Like I said before, though, I need that idealism. Not only because of what he believes in but because of what he is. His youth, pacifism, and position as a medic make him something the public will want to protect at all costs. That will cause them to rally behind the others.”

“It’s almost scary how much thought you’ve put into this,” the blue and red mech murmured. “But you’ve yet to name a leader.”

“I haven’t chosen one yet,” Sentinel admitted. “I’m going through an insane number of Academy graduates. I want someone fresh-faced, reliable, but personable.”

“I’m sure you’ll find someone who can balance out this… team of misfits,” Tracks chuckled. “Meanwhile, I’m going to contribute the most important part of making a personal team just for the Magnus.”

“What’s that?”

Tracks grabbed his datapad and stylus, winking at the temporary Magnus. “They’ll need a new sigil, just for them. And if there’s anything I’m good at, it’s designing something that makes a statement.”

()()()()()

Streetwise looked at the picture on her datapad, then across Maccadam’s at the mech sitting in the corner. The white and blue motorcycle wasn’t what she expected when looking for a Great War hero. She was expecting someone like Kup, who was absent from the bar that day. Likely monitoring another training camp of hopefuls. While he wasn’t the Autobot Boot Camp sergeant anymore (thank Primus, because she still had nightmares about the transforming drills he put her through), Kup liked to drop by.

The white and red femme vented in deep and went to the corner table, resetting her vocals. “Groove?” she inquired.

The motorcycle looked up at her, lip components quirking up into a bit of a grin. “That’s me.  Who’s asking?”

“My name is Streetwise. I’m with the Cybertron Police Defense Command,” she introduced herself. No need to mention her suspension. “I’m here to ask you some questions about a war criminal I hear you had run-ins with during the Great War.”

Groove’s smile faltered, picking up his Engex and gulping it down deep. “I don’t like hanging around in the past. ‘Specially that particular part of it.”

“I understand that it was a difficult time in history,” Streetwise said as sympathetically as she could. Although she had no firsthand experience with it, being sparked long after the war had ended, it was no secret that both sides suffered significant losses during the Great War. She couldn’t imagine actually being in the thick of it.

“No, femme. You don’t. Particularly if you’re coming to me about a ‘war criminal.’ Only one person you could be talking about, and that’s a certain subject I don’t wanna remember.”

Streetwise vented again, keeping her calm. She didn’t want to lose her patience with someone who obviously found this subject difficult. “I’m guessing you know exactly who I’m talking about, then,” she guessed. She opened her palm and projected the image of Swindle.

Groove looked, venting as well. “Swindle.  That dirty…” He swore under his vents, something she could tell was unusual for him even after this brief time together. He pointed sharply at the projection. “I don’t know why a beat cop is looking into this slimy creep, but you should stay far away. He’s badder than bad news.”

“What makes you think I’m a beat cop?” Streetwise asked, surprised.

“Intuition. It also tells me you’re not supposed to be here. What’d you do to get suspended?”

The femme’s jaw dropped, optics widening in shock. “I… how…?”

“Thought so. I’m not gonna tell you how to live your lifecycle. But someone without support or backup should stay far away from mechs like Swindle. He’s more than just a black-market crook. That mech will take you offline and steal every part of you worth selling as soon as he looks at you,” the white and blue mech warned.

“Look, I’m just trying to find out what I can about him,” Streetwise said. “I’m not going after him alone, I promise. I just figure that while I’ve got the free time, maybe I can gather what info I can on this dirtbag.  That way, when we inevitably catch up with him, I’ll have everything I need to make his collar easy.”

Groove looked at her again before exventing. “You’re not leaving until I answer your questions, are you?” he asked, though the slightest smile betrayed his exasperation.

“Nope. If you want, you can leave out anything that makes you uncomfortable to talk about,” Streetwise offered. “I just need to know about how he operates.”

“Alright, alright. Ask away.”

()()()()()

First Aid clicked through the medical file on Ultra Magnus as he stood beside the repair slab on which he was being kept. Not that it was any good for actual repairing at this point. He looked at the Magnus and felt his spark clench. As much as everyone talked about how he was the ‘future of Cybertronian repairs,’ he didn’t feel like it there. He felt like a helpless youngling standing next to the offlining Magnus.

“First Aid.”

The young medic looked up at the mechanical vocals. The Minister of Science, Perceptor, was standing at the door. “Ah, Perceptor,” he greeted. Despite how important the red, green, and black Council member was, First Aid was oddly unintimidated by him. Perhaps it was because of all the time he spent in that room with him.

Perceptor was a constant since Ultra Magnus was put on the repair slab. Even Ratchet couldn’t tell him why. But every moment that Perceptor wasn’t working on whatever secret projects he had in the Ministry of Science, he spent there in the repair ward. He usually simply sat next to the repair berth, a pile of datapads with various odd bits of work he had to complete at his pedes. He would get through it and then simply watch them monitor the offlining Magnus.

“I do not have much time this solar,” Perceptor said, looking from First Aid to the irreparably damaged Magnus. “I wished to come by to…” He trailed off, an odd air of sadness overtaking him. Most of Cybertron didn’t think he had the capacity for such emotion, let alone any at all. There were rumors that he’d even deleted his own personality protocols, but those were ridiculous. First Aid had realized that he suffered from nothing more than a mix of a lack of a vocal modulator and an air of cold indifference outside of his job within the first few visits. The young medic suspected some form of PTSD, likely brought about by the Great War. Everyone who was involved had some form or another.

“Would you like me to leave you alone for a few cycles?” First Aid asked gently.

Perceptor looked like he was about to object, but then stopped himself. “Yes, thank you,” he finally said. “I would like that very much.”

First Aid nodded and walked over to the observation window, dimming it to give him some privacy. The security cameras would still monitor them, so there wasn’t a chance he could do anything shady. Not that First Aid thought the Minister intended it as he left the room and closed the door.

No, those first visits told a story that First Aid was conflicted about. He wanted to ask, but knew it was none of his business, especially with the highly private Minister of Science. Perceptor had done all of his own scans on the damage Ultra Magnus had sustained, taking them back to his office and shutting himself away. Red Alert had told First Aid to allow Perceptor to do what he wished, as he was simply dealing with what had happened in his own way. He trusted her, as the femme medic was one of Perceptor’s closest colleagues.

It was during the red and green scientist’s fourth visit that First Aid realized what she meant. He had stood there in front of Red Alert, looking so defeated. Something First Aid had never thought he’d see with the calm, collected, and confident Minister. After a moment, his mechanical vocals managed, “There is nothing I can do, Red Alert.” There had been so much pain behind those vocals, even without the proper modulation to convey emotion.

“I know, Perceptor,” Red Alert had replied. She’d placed a hand on his shoulder and nodded to the other medics to leave the room. She then dimmed the observation window and joined them. That was the first time they’d let Perceptor have the privacy of being alone with the Magnus. The first time of many.

It broke First Aid’s spark thinking back to all of the time the scientist spent alone with the broken and offlining Magnus, knowing that it wouldn’t be long before he would never be able to do so again.

“Hey, kid,” Ratchet greeted, walking up. “Perceptor in there?”

“Yes,” First Aid nodded lightly. He watched Ratchet lean against the wall on the opposite side of the door. After a moment, he said, “I was talking to Pharma the other solar. He thinks we should disconnect him. We’re just making him suffer by keeping him online this long.”

“That’s not our decision,” Ratchet shook his helm. “That’s a Council decision. And as long as they flip-flop over what they should do about a successor, they’re not gonna approve it. Either Magnus is going to go offline on his own, or they’ll finally come to a decision and let us put him down peacefully.”

First Aid nibbled on his bottom lip component behind his mask. He didn’t know which one was the right choice, honestly. He didn’t like the idea of one of his patients being forced to go through a long offlining with no hope of getting better. But the idea of offlining someone himself made him squeamish.

After a moment, the door opened, and Perceptor walked out, as dignified as when he came in. “I am done. Thank you, First Aid. I must attend a Council meeting now.” He nodded at First Aid. “Good solar, First Aid.  Ratchet.” He gave the gesture to the older medic as well. He then walked down the hall, disappearing around a corner.

Ratchet and First Aid watched him before going back into the repair room. Even though Ultra Magnus was offlining, that didn’t mean they didn’t have a job to do.

As hard as that job was in this room.

()()()()()

“Hot Spot!”

The graduate jumped to attention, saluting as Commander Air Raid approached. The blue, white, and red mech was an expert pilot during the Great War, earning himself a commanding rank within the Elite Guard. Unlike most people in the Guard, he only wore the standard Autobot badge. There were a lot of questions and rumors about it, but the truth he openly admitted. He believed wearing the badge supported some of the shadier things the Elite Guard conducted under Ultra Magnus. While he’d admit that they had gained a definite advantage through things like Project Omega and Project Safeguard, he was very much against these displays of moral and ethical travesties.

“Yes, Commander?” Hot Spot asked as the pilot marched up to him. He’d been speaking to one of his fellow recent graduates, Side Burn. He wasn’t too torn up about it, as the blue, white, and gold soldier mainly was rambling on about a cute red minibot he’d scored a date with.

Air Raid stopped in front of him and returned the salute. “You’re a lucky mech,” he announced. “You were on the list of graduates that are being called in to see Sentinel Magnus.” Despite his words, Air Raid didn’t seem particularly thrilled with this development. He didn’t seem to have any more faith in the temporary Magnus than he did in the last one.

“Do you know what for?” Hot Spot asked in surprise. The news made him nervous, especially after his recent less-than-stellar performance review.

“We’ve not been told. It’s no one’s business but yours and the Magnus’s. You’ll be expected to see him tomorrow,” the commander said.

“Yes, sir,” Hot Spot saluted, trying to ignore the twisting of his fuel tank.

As soon as Air Raid had walked away, Side Burn punched Hot Spot on the arm. “Look at you, moving up in the universe right out of the Academy!” he teased, grinning.

“You don’t know that,” Hot Spot argued, trying not to show how anxious this turn of events made him. Sentinel Magnus wouldn’t call on just anyone, would he? There had to be a reason he was being called there. Did he do something wrong? Was his performance review so bad that the Magnus himself was going to kick him out of the Autobot Army?

“Cybertron to Hot Spot!” Side Burn got his attention, waving a hand in front of the taller mech’s optics. “Come in, Hot Spot! Do you copy?”

“Yeah, sorry, I’m here,” Hot Spot reset his optics, shaking his helm. “I… need to go clear my CPU. I’ll talk to you later. And… uh… congratulations on that date.”

Before Side Burn could object, Hot Spot started walking quickly down the hall. He wasn’t lying. He really needed to get out and keep himself in check. He felt like he was about to have a panic attack, which wouldn’t be ideal in the middle of the base.

Honestly, he’d impressed himself so far. Hot Spot hadn’t had a single panic attack since he joined the Autobot Academy.

At least, not where anyone could see him. The white and blue soldier was an expert at managing to duck away whenever he felt himself starting to lose it. He needed to schedule another appointment with Rung. Needed to get a better hold on these episodes. What would happen if he had one in the middle of a mission? In the middle of a battle? He could get his entire squad killed if he froze up because his spark wouldn’t pulse correctly. He wouldn’t just be a failure; he’d be responsible for losing the lives of several bots.

Okay, this wasn’t helping. Hot Spot needed to remember what Rung had already taught him.

He ducked out the back of the building, looking around before leaning against the wall and venting deeply.

‘When you feel yourself starting to lose yourself, focus on something in your vicinity. It can be something small, something insignificant. A crack in the ground, the color of the sky, someone going about their solar. Just make sure you’re thinking only of it and count backward. Start from twenty, nineteen, eighteen…’

“Seventeen… sixteen… fifteen…” Hot Spot counted slowly as he stared at the wall across from him. There was nothing else to look at back here. Still, as he concentrated on it and counted, he felt his joints start to relax. His vents calm. He no longer felt like he was going to overheat just from thinking.

“Ten… nine… eight…”

Okay. Things were going to be okay. He didn’t know for sure that what Sentinel Magnus wanted was negative. Maybe he wanted to congratulate him for… something. Unlikely, but it could happen just as well as anything else.

“Seven… six… five…”

Hey, if nothing else, Hot Spot could talk to Groove about it when he got back to his place. Yeah, Groove was always chill, always trying to look at things in a positive light. Perhaps he could help think of some positive outcomes that could result from this.

“Three… two…”

Hot Spot vented deeply one last time as he reached the end of his counting. It was slow and smooth this time. He leaned his helm back against the wall and relaxed. Okay, he felt a lot better now.

Still, he really needed to figure out a way to control this. His anxiety was going to be the end of his career. And he’d barely even started it.